Cf^ X- 
 
 ' Hop wood
 
 Portrait of Tsar Nicholas I 
 
 Engraved on steel by Hopwood
 
 dIUitstralPii Hthmry lEbttton 
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS 
 STORIES 
 
 By 
 LEV N. TOLSTOY 
 
 Edited by DR. HAGBERG WRIGHT 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 COLONIAL PRESS COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS
 
 Copyright, igi2 
 By Dodi', Mead & Company
 
 
 oc|^1^MHS^1 
 
 FATHER SERGIUS
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Father Sergius 9 
 
 The Wisdom of Childrex 97 
 
 The Posthumous Papers of the Hermit, Fedor 
 
 KusMicH 189 
 
 Memoirs of a Lunatic 227 
 
 Two Wayfarers 253 
 
 Khodinka: an incident of the Coronation of 
 
 Nicholas II 261 
 
 Introduction to " A Mother " 279 
 
 The Memoirs of A Mother 293 
 
 Father Vasily: A Fragment 307
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Portrait of Nicholas I Frontispiece 
 
 Russian Pope 22 
 
 Alexander I 190 
 
 Tolstoy as an Officer 15 
 
 Russian Peasant 211
 
 FATHER SERGIUS
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 I 
 
 There happened in St. Petersburg during the 
 forties an event which startled society. 
 
 A handsome youth, a prince, an officer in the 
 Cuirassiers for whom every one had predicted the 
 rank of aide-de-camp and a brilliant career at- 
 tached to the person of Emperor Nicholas I., 
 quitted the service. He broke with his beautiful 
 fiancee, a lady-in-waiting, and a favourite of the 
 empress, just a fortnight before the wedding-day, 
 and giving his small estate to his sister, retired to 
 a monastery to become a monk. 
 
 To those who were ignorant of the hidden 
 motives, this was an extraordinary and unaccount- 
 able step; but as regards Prince Stephen Kasatsky 
 himself, it was such a natural move that he could 
 not conceive an alternative. 
 
 His father, a retired colonel of the Guards, 
 died when the son was twelve. Although it was 
 hard for his mother to let him go from her, she 
 would not act in defiance of the wishes of her late
 
 10 FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 husband, who had expressed the desire that in the 
 event of his death the boy should be sent away 
 and educated as a cadet. So she secureci his ad- 
 mission to the corps. 
 
 The widow herself with her daughter Varvara 
 moved to St. Petersburg in order to be in the 
 same town with the boy and to take him home 
 for his holidays. He showed brilliant capacity 
 and extraordinary ambition, and came out first in 
 military drill, in riding, and in his studies, — 
 mathematics especially — for which he had a par- 
 ticular liking. 
 
 In spite of his abnormal height he was a hand- 
 some, graceful lad, and had it not been for his 
 violent temper he would have been an altogether 
 exemplary cadet. He never drank or indulged 
 in any sort of dissipation, and he was particu- 
 larly truthful. The fits of fury which maddened 
 him from time to time, when he lost all control 
 over himself and raged like a wild animal, were 
 the only faults in his character. Once, when a 
 cadet ragged him because of his collection of min- 
 erals, he almost threw the boy out of the win- 
 dow. On another occasion he rushed at an offi- 
 cer and struck him, it was said, for having bro- 
 ken his word and told a direct lie. 
 
 For this he would surely have been degraded 
 to the rank of a common soldier, if it had not
 
 FATHER SERGIUS ii 
 
 been for the head of the school, who hushed up 
 the matter and dismissed the officer. 
 
 At eighteen Kasatsky left with the rank of lieu- 
 tenant and entered an aristocratic Guard regiment. 
 The Emperor Nicholas had known him while he 
 was in the cadet corps, and had shown him favour 
 while in the regiment. It was on this account 
 that people prophesied that he would become an 
 aide-de-camp. Kasatsky desired it greatly, al- 
 though less from ambition than from passionate 
 love for the emperor whom he had cherished since 
 his cadet days. Each time the emperor visited 
 the school — and he visited it very often — as 
 Kasatsky saw the tall figure, the broad chest, the 
 aquiline nose above the moustache, and the close- 
 cropped side whiskers, the military uniform, and 
 the brisk, firm step, and heard him greeting the 
 cadets in his strident voice, he experienced the mo- 
 mentary ecstasy of one who sees his well-beloved. 
 But his passionate adoration of the emperor was 
 even more intense. He desired to give up some- 
 thing, everything, even himself, to show his in- 
 finite devotion. The Emperor Nicholas knew 
 that he inspired such admiration, and deliberately 
 provoked it. He played with the cadets, made 
 them surround him, and treated them sometimes 
 with childish simplicity, sometimes as a friend, 
 and then again with an air of solemn grandeur.
 
 12 FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 After the incident with the officer, the emperor, 
 who did not allude to it, waved Kasatsky theat- 
 rically aside when the latter approached him. 
 Then, when he was leaving, he frowned and shook 
 his finger at the boy, saying, "Be assured that 
 everything is known to me; but there are things 
 I do not wish to know. Nevertheless tbey are 
 here," and he pointed to his heart. 
 
 When the cadets were formally received by the 
 emperor on leaving the school, he did not remind 
 Kasatsky of his insubordination, but told them all, 
 as was his custom, that they could turn to him in 
 need, that they were to serve him and their coun- 
 try with loyalty, and that he would ever remain 
 their best friend. All were touched — as usual 
 — and Kasatsky, remembering the past, shed 
 tears and made a vow to serve his beloved Tsar 
 with all his might. 
 
 When Kasatsky entered the regiment, his 
 mother and sister left St. Petersburg, going first 
 to Moscow and then to their estate in the coun- 
 try. Kasatsky gave half his fortune to his sister. 
 What remained was quite sufficient to support him 
 in the expensive regiment which he had joined. 
 
 Viewed from outside, Kasatsky seemed like an 
 ordinary brilliant young officer of the Guards 
 making a career for himself. But within his 
 soul there were intense and complex strivings.
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 13 
 
 Although this striving, which had been going on 
 ever since his childhood, seemed to vary in its na- 
 ture, it was essentially one and the same, and had 
 for its object that absolute perfection in every un- 
 dertaking which would give him the applause and 
 admiration of the world. Whatever it might be, 
 accomplishments or learning, he worked to merit 
 praise, and to stand as an example to the rest. 
 Mastering one subject he took up another, and so 
 obtained first place in his studies. For example, 
 while he was still in the corps, conscious of a lack 
 of fluency in his French, he contrived to master 
 the language so that he knew it like his own. 
 Then again, when he became interested in chess 
 while still in the corps, he worked at the game till 
 he acquired proficiency. 
 
 Apart from the chief end of life, which was in 
 his eyes the service of the Tsar and his country, he 
 had always some self-appointed aim, and, how- 
 ever unimportant it might be, he pursued this with 
 his whole soul, and lived for it until it was ac- 
 complished. But the moment It was attained an- 
 other arose in its place. This passion for distin- 
 guishing himself and for pursuing one object in 
 order to distinguish himself filled his life. So it 
 was that after entering upon his career he set him- 
 self to acquire the utmost perfection in the knowl- 
 edge of the service, and, except for his uncon-
 
 14 FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 trollabic temper, which was sometimes the occa- 
 sion of actions that were inimical to his success, 
 he soon became a model officer. 
 
 Once, during a conversation in society, he real- 
 ised the need of a more general education. So 
 setting himself to work to read books, he soon at- 
 tained what he desired. Then he wanted to hold 
 a brilliant position in aristocratic society. He 
 learned to dance beautifully, and was presently 
 invited to all the balls and parties in the best cir- 
 cles. But he was not satisfied with this. He was 
 accustomed to being first in everything, and in 
 this instance he was very far from that. Society 
 at that time consisted, as I suppose it has done in 
 every time and place, of four kinds of people — 
 rich people who are received at court; people who 
 are not rich, but are born and brought up in court 
 circles; rich people who ape the court; and peo- 
 ple, neither rich nor of the court, who copy both. 
 
 Kasatsky did not belong to the first two, but 
 was gladly received in the last two sets. On en- 
 tering society his first Idea was that he must have 
 a Unison with a society lady; and quite unexpect- 
 edly it soon came about. Presently, however, he 
 realised that the circle In which he moved was not 
 the most exclusive, and that there were higher 
 spheres, and that, notwithstanding he was re- 
 ceived there, he was a stranger in their midst.
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 15 
 
 They were polite to him, but their manner made 
 it plain that they had their own intimates, and 
 that he was not one of them. Kasatsky longed 
 to be one of them. To attain this end he must 
 become an aide-de-camp — which he expected to 
 be — or else he must marry into the set. He re- 
 solved upon this latter course. His choice fell 
 upon a young girl, a beauty, belonging to the 
 court, and not merely belonging to the circle he 
 wished to move in, whose society was coveted by 
 the most distinguished and the most firmly rooted 
 in this circle. This was the Countess Korotkova. 
 Kasatsky began to pay court to her purely for the 
 sake of his career; she was uncommonly attractive, 
 and he very soon fell in love with her. She was 
 noticeably cool towards him at first, and then sud- 
 denly everything changed. She treated him gra- 
 ciously, and her mother continually invited him 
 to the house. 
 
 Kasatsky proposed, and was accepted. He 
 was rather astonisheci at the facility with which 
 he gained his happiness, and he noticed something 
 strange in the behaviour towards him of both 
 mother and daughter. He was deeply in love, 
 and love had made him blind, so he failed to 
 realise what nearly the whole town knew — that 
 the previous year his fiancee had been the favour- 
 ite of the Emperor Nicholas.
 
 i6 FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 Two weeks before the day arranged for the 
 wedding Kasatsky was at Tsarskoye Selo, at the 
 country place of his fiancee. It was a hot day in 
 May. The lovers had had a walk in the garden, 
 and were sitting on a bench in the shade of the 
 lindens. Mary looked exceedingly pretty in her 
 white muslin dress. She seemed the personifica- 
 tion of love and innocence — now bending her 
 head, now gazing at her handsome young lover, 
 who was talking to her with great tenderness and 
 self-restraint, as though he feared by look or ges- 
 ture to offend her angelic purity. Kasatsky be- 
 longed to those men of the 'forties, who do not 
 exist nowadays, who deliberately, while condon- 
 ing impurity in themselves, require in their wives 
 the most ideal and seraphic innocence. Being 
 prepared to find this purity in every girl of their 
 set, they behaved accordingly. This theory, in 
 so far as it concerned the laxity which the men per- 
 mitted themselves, was certainly altogether wrong 
 and harmful; but in its relation to the women I 
 think, compared with the notion of the modern 
 young man who sees in every girl nothing but a 
 mate or a female, there was much to be said for 
 it. The girls, perceiving such adoration, en- 
 deavoured with more or less success to be god- 
 desses. 
 
 Kasatsky held the views of his time, and looked
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 17 
 
 with such eyes upon his sweetheart. That day 
 he was more in love than ever, but there was 
 nothing sensual in his feelings towards his 
 fiancee. On the contrary he regarded her with 
 the tender adoration of something unattainable. 
 He rose and stood at his full height before her, 
 leaning with both hands on his sabre. 
 
 " Now for the first time I know what happi- 
 ness is. And it is you — darling — who have 
 given me that happiness," he said, smiling shyly. 
 
 He was still at that stage where endearments 
 are not yet a habit, and it made him gasp to think 
 of using them to such an angel. 
 
 " It is you who have made me see myself 
 clearly. You have shown me that I am better 
 than I thought," he added. 
 
 "I knew it long ago. That is what made me 
 begin to love you." 
 
 The nightingales were beginning their song 
 somewhere near, and the young leaves moved in 
 the sudden gusts of wind. He raised her hand 
 to his lips and there were tears In his eyes. 
 
 She understood that he was thanking her for 
 having said that she loved him. He took a few 
 steps backwards and forwards, remaining silent, 
 then approached her again, and sat beside her. 
 
 " You know, when I began to make love to 
 you, it was not disinterested on my part. I
 
 1 8 FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 wanted to get Into society. And then, when I 
 came to know you better, how little all that mat- 
 tered, compared to you ! Are you angry with me 
 for that?" 
 
 She did not answer, but touched his hand. He 
 understood that it meant " I am not angry." 
 
 " Well, you said — " he stopped. It seemed 
 too bold to say what he intended. " You said 
 
 — that you — began to love me — forgive me 
 
 — I quite believe it — but there is something 
 that troubles you and stands in the way of your 
 feelings. What is it? " 
 
 "Yes — now or never," she thought. "He 
 will know it anyhow. But now he will not for- 
 sake me because of it. Oh, If he should, how 
 dreadful!" And she gazed with deep affection 
 upon that tall, noble, powerful figure. She loved 
 him now more than the Tsar, and were It not for 
 Nicholas being an emperor, her choice between 
 them would rest on Kasatsky. 
 
 " Listen," she said, " I cannot deceive you. I 
 must tell you everything. You asked me what 
 stood In the way. It is that ' I have loved be- 
 fore." 
 
 She again laid her hand on his with an implor- 
 ing gesture. 
 
 He was silent.
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 19 
 
 " Do you want to know who it was? The em- 
 peror." 
 
 "We all loved him. I can imagine you, a 
 school-girl in the institute — " 
 
 " No. After that. It was only a passing in- 
 fatuation, but I must tell you — " 
 
 "Well — what?" 
 
 "No; it was not simply — " She covered her 
 face with her hands. 
 
 " What! You gave yourself to him? " 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 " His m.istress? " 
 
 Still she did not answer. 
 
 He sprang to his feet, and pale as death, with 
 his teeth chattering, stood before her. He now 
 remembered how the emperor, meeting him on 
 the Nevsky, had congratulated him. 
 
 " Oh, my God, what have I done ! Stephen ! " 
 
 "Don't touch me — don't touch me I Oh, 
 how terrible ! " 
 
 He turned and went to the house. 
 
 There he met her mother. 
 
 "What's the matter with you, prince?" she 
 stopped, seeing his face. The blood rushed sud- 
 denly to his head. 
 
 "'You knew it! And you wanted me to shield 
 them! Oh, if you weren't a woman — " he
 
 20 FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 shouted, raising his large fist. Then he turned 
 and ran away. 
 
 Had the lover of his fiancee been a private 
 lndi^•idual he would have killed him. But It was 
 his beloved Tsar. 
 
 The next day he asked for furlough, and then 
 for his discharge. Feigning illness, he refused to 
 see any one, and went away to the country. 
 
 There he spent the summer putting his affairs 
 in order. When summer was over he did not 
 return to St. Petersburg, but entered a monastery 
 with the intention of becoming a monk. 
 
 His mother wrote to dissuade him from this 
 momentous step. He answered that he felt a 
 vocation for God which was above all other con- 
 siderations. It was only his sister, who was as 
 proud and ambitious as himself, who understood 
 him. 
 
 She was quite right in her estimate of his mo- 
 tives. His becoming a monk was only to show 
 his contempt for all that seemed most important 
 to the rest of the world, and had seemed so to 
 himself while he was still an officer. He climbed 
 to a pinnacle from which he could look down on 
 those he had previously envieti. However, con- 
 trary to his sister's opinion, this was not the only 
 guiding motive. Mingled with his pride and his 
 passion for ascendancy, there was also a genuine
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 21 
 
 religious sentiment which Varvara did not know 
 he possessed. His sense of injury and his disap- 
 pointment in Mary, whom he had thought such 
 an angel, were so poignant that they led him to 
 despair. His despair led where? To God, to 
 faith, to a childish faith which had never been 
 destroyed.
 
 II 
 
 On the feast of the Intercession of the Virgin, 
 Kasatsky entered the monastery to show his su- 
 periority over all those who fancied themselves 
 above him. 
 
 The abbot was a nobleman by birth, a learned 
 man, and a writer. He belonged to that monas- 
 tic order which hails from Walachia, the mem- 
 bers of which choose, and in their turn are chosen, 
 leaders to be followed unswervingly and implic- 
 itly obeyed. 
 
 This abbot was the disciple of the famous Am- 
 brosius, disciple of Makardix of the Leonidas, 
 disciple of Paissy Velichkovsky. 
 
 To this abbot Kasatsky submitted himself as to 
 the superior of his choice. 
 
 Beside the feeling of ascendancy over others, 
 which Kasatsky felt in the monastery as he had 
 felt it in the world, he found here the joy of at- 
 taining perfection in the highest degree Inwardly 
 as well as outwardly. As in the regiment, he had 
 rejoiced in being more than an irreproachable 
 officer, even exceeding his duties;' so as a monk 
 his endeavour was to be perfect, Industrious, ab- 
 
 22
 
 Russian Pope.
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 23 
 
 stemious, meek, and humble : and, above all, 
 pure, not only in deed but In thought; and obe- 
 dient. This last quality made his life there far 
 easier. In that much-frequented monastery there 
 were many conditions objectionable to him, but 
 through obedience he became reconciled to them 
 all. 
 
 " It is not for me to reason. I have but to 
 obey, whatever the command." On guard be- 
 fore the sacred relics, singing in the choir, or add- 
 ing up accounts in the hostelry, all possibility of 
 doubt was silenced by obedience to his superior. 
 Had it not been for that, the monotony and 
 length of the church service, the intrusion of vis- 
 itors and the inferiority of the other monks, 
 would have been extremely distasteful to him. 
 But as it was he bore it all perfectly and found 
 it even a solace and a support. 
 
 " I don't know," he thought, " why I ought to 
 hear the same prayers many times a day, but I 
 know that it is necessary, and knowing this I 
 rejoice." His superior had told him that as food 
 is necessary for the life of the body, so is spir- 
 itual food, such as prayers in church, necessary 
 for maintaining the life of the spirit. He be- 
 lieved it, and though he found the service for 
 which he had to rise at a very early hour a diffi- 
 culty, it brought him indubitable comfort and joy.
 
 24 FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 This was the result of humility and the certainty 
 that anything done in obedience to the superior 
 was right. 
 
 The aim of his life was neither the gradual at- 
 tainment of utter subjugation of his will, nor the 
 attainment of greater and greater humility; but 
 the achievement of all those Christian virtues 
 which seemed in the beginning so easy of posses- 
 sion. 
 
 Being not in the least half hearted, he gave 
 what fortune remained to him to the monastery 
 without regret. 
 
 Humility before his inferiors, far from being 
 difficult, was a delight to him. Even the victory 
 over the sins of greed and lust were easy for him. 
 The superior had especially warned him against 
 this latter sin, but Kasatsky was glad to feel im- 
 munity from it. He was only tortured by the 
 thought of his fiancee. It was not only the 
 thought of what had been; but the vivid picture 
 of what might have been. He could not resist 
 recalling to himself the image of the famous mis- 
 tress of the emperor who afterwards married and 
 became a good wife and mother. Her husband 
 had a high position, influence, and esteem, and a 
 good and penitent wife. 
 
 In his better hours Kasatsky was not distressed 
 by this thought. At such times he rejoiced that
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 25 
 
 these temptations were past. But there were mo- 
 ments when all that went to make up his present 
 life grew dark before his mind; moments when, 
 if he did not actually cease to believe in the foun- 
 dation of his present life, he was at least unable 
 to perceive it; when he could not discover the ob- 
 ject of his present life; when he was overcome 
 with recollections of the past, and terrible to say, 
 with regret at having abandoned the world. His 
 only salvation in that state of mind was obedience 
 and work, and prayers the whole day long. He 
 went through his usual forms at prayers, he even 
 prayed more than was his wont, but it was lip- 
 service, and his soul took no part. This condi- 
 tion would sometimes last a day or two days, and 
 would then pass away. But these days were hid- 
 eous. Kasatsky felt that he was neither in his 
 own hands nor God's, but subject to some outside 
 will. All he could do at those times was to fol- 
 low the advice of his superior and undertake noth- 
 ing, but simply wait. 
 
 On the whole, Kasatsky lived then, not accord- 
 ing to his own will but in complete obedience to 
 his superior; and in that obedience he found 
 peace. 
 
 Such was Kasatsky's life In his first monastery, 
 which lasted seven years. At the end of the 
 third year he was ordained to the priesthood and
 
 26 FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 was given the name of Sergius. The ordination 
 was a momentous event in his inner life. He had 
 previously experienced great comfort and spirit- 
 ual uplifting at holy communions. At first, when 
 he was himself celebrating mass, at the moment 
 of the oblation, his soul was filled with exaltation. 
 But gradually this sense became dulled; and when 
 on one occasion he had to celebrate mass in an 
 hour of depression as he sometimes had, he felt 
 that this exaltation could not endure. The emo- 
 tion eventually paled until only the habit was left. 
 
 On the whole, in the seven years of his life in 
 the monastery, Sergius began to grow weary. All 
 that he had to learn, all that he had to attain 
 was done, and he had nothing more to do. 
 
 But his stupefaction only increased. During 
 that time he heard of his mother's death and of 
 Mary's marriage. Both events were matters of 
 indifference to him, as all his attention and all his 
 interest were concentrated on his inner life. 
 
 In the fourth year of his monastic experience, 
 during which the bishop had shown him marked 
 kindness, his superior told him that in the event 
 of high honours being offered to him he should 
 not decline. Just then monastic ambition, pre- 
 cisely that quality which was so disgusting to him 
 in all the other monks, arose within him. He 
 was sent to a monastery close to the capital. He
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 27 
 
 would have been glad to refuse, but his superior 
 ordered him to accept, so he obeyed, and taking 
 leave of his superior, left for the other monastery. 
 
 This transfer to the monastery near the me- 
 tropolis was an important event in Sergius's life. 
 There he encountered many temptations, and his 
 whole will power was concentrated on the strug- 
 gle they entailed. In the first monastery women 
 were no trial to him, but In the second instance 
 this special temptation assumed grave dimensions 
 and even took definite shape. 
 
 There was a lady known for her frivolous be- 
 haviour, who began to seek his favour. She 
 talked to him and asked him to call upon her. 
 Sergius refused with severity, but was horrified 
 at the definiteness of his desire. He was so 
 alarmed that he wrote to his superior. More- 
 over, for the sake of humiliation, he called a 
 young novice and, conquering his shame, con- 
 fessed his weakness. He begged him to keep an 
 eye on him and not let him go anywhere but to 
 service and to do penance. 
 
 Besides that, Sergius suffered severely on ac- 
 count of his great antipathy to the abbot of this 
 monastery, a worldly man and clever In worldly 
 ways who was making a career for himself within 
 the church. In spite of his most earnest en- 
 deavours, Sergius could not overcome his dislike
 
 28 FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 for him. He was submissive to him, but in his 
 heart he criticised him unceasingly. At last, 
 when he had been there nearly two years, his real 
 sentiments burst forth. 
 
 On the feast of the Intercession of the Virgin, 
 the vesper service was being celebrated in the 
 church proper. There were many visitors from 
 the neighbourhood, and the service was con- 
 ducted by the abbot himself. Father Sergius was 
 standing in his usual place, and was praying; that 
 is to say, he was engaged in that inner combat 
 which always occupied him during service, espe- 
 cially in this second monastery. 
 
 The conflict was caused by his irritation at the 
 presence of all the fine folk and especially the 
 ladies. He tried not to notice what was going 
 on around him. He could not help, however, 
 seeing a soldier who while conducting the better 
 dressed people pushed the common crowd aside, 
 and noticing the ladies who pointed out the 
 monks, often himself and another monk as well, 
 who was noted for his good looks. He tried to 
 concentrate his mind, to see nothing but the light 
 of the candles on the ikonostasis, the sacred im- 
 ages, and the priests. He tried to hear nothing 
 but the prayers which were spoken and chanted; 
 to feel nothing but self-oblivion in the fulfilment 
 of his duty. This was a feeling he always ex-
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 29 
 
 perienced when he Hstened to prayers and antici- 
 pated the word in the prayers he had so often 
 heard. 
 
 So he stood, crossing himself, prostrating him- 
 self, struggling with himself, now indulging in 
 quiet condemnation, and now giv^ing himself up 
 to that obliteration of thought and feeling which 
 he voluntarily induced in himself. 
 
 When the treasurer, Father Nicodemus (also 
 a great stumbling-block in Father Sergius's way 
 — that Father Nicodemus I), whom, he couldn't 
 help censuring for flattering and fawning on the 
 abbot, approached him, and saluting him with a 
 low bow that nearly bent him in two, said that the 
 abbot requested his presence behind the holy 
 gates, Father Sergius straightened his cassock, 
 covered his head, and went circumspectly through 
 the crowd, 
 
 " Lise, regardes a droite — c'est liii," he heard 
 a woman's voice say. 
 
 " Oil, oh? II n'est pas tellement bean! " 
 
 He knew they were referring to him. As his 
 habit was when he was tempted, he repeated, 
 " Lead us not into temptation." Dropping his 
 eyes and bowing his head, he walked past the 
 lectern and the canons, who at that moment were 
 passing in front of the ikonostasis; and went be- 
 hind the holy gates by the north portal. Ac-
 
 30 FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 cording to custom, he crossed himself, bending 
 double before the ikon. Then he raised his head 
 and looked at the abbot, whom, together with 
 some one standing beside him in brilliant array, 
 he had already seen out of the corner of his eye. 
 
 The abbot stood against the wall in his vest- 
 ments, taking his short fat hands from beneath 
 his chasuble and folding them on his fat stom- 
 ach. Fingering the braid on his chasuble, he 
 smiled as he talked to a man wearing the uniform 
 of a general in the emperor's suite, with insignia 
 and epaulettes, which Father Sergius at once rec- 
 ognised with his experienced military eye. This 
 general was a former colonel in command of his 
 regiment, who now evidently held a very high 
 position. Father Sergius at once noticed that the 
 abbot was fully aware of this, and was so pleased 
 that his fat red face and his bald head gleamed 
 with satisfaction. Father Sergius was grieved 
 and disgusted, and all the more so when he heard 
 from the abbot that he had only sent for him to 
 satisfy the curiosity of the general, who wanted 
 to see his famous " colleague," as he put it. 
 
 " I am so glad to see you in your angelic guise," 
 said the general, holding out his hand. " I hope 
 you have not forgotten your old comrade." 
 
 The whole thing — the abbot's red and smiling 
 face above his white beard in evident approval of
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 31 
 
 the general's words; the well-scrubbed face of 
 the general with his self-satisfied smile, the smell 
 of wine from the general's breath, and the 
 smell of cigars from his whiskers — made Sergius 
 boil. 
 
 He bowed once more before the abbot, and 
 said, " Your grace deigned to call me — " and he 
 stopped, asking by the very expression of his face 
 and eyes, " What for? " 
 
 The abbot said, " Yes, to meet the general." 
 
 " Your grace, I left the world to save myself 
 from temptation," he said, pale and with quiver- 
 ing lips; " why, then, do you expose me to it dur- 
 ing prayers in the house of God? " 
 
 " Go! go! " said the abbot, frowning and grow- 
 ing angry. 
 
 Next day Father Sergius asked forgiveness of 
 the abbot and of the brethren for his pride. But 
 at the same time, after a night spent in prayer, 
 he decided that his only possible course was to 
 leave this monastery; so he wrote a letter to his 
 superior imploring him to grant him leave to re- 
 turn to his monastery. He wrote that he felt 
 his weakness and the impossibility of struggling 
 alone against temptation without his help. He did 
 penance for his sin of pride. The next post 
 brought him a letter from the superior, who wrote 
 that the sole cause of all his trouble was pride.
 
 32 FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 The old man explained to him that his fits of an- 
 ger were due to the fact that in refusing all clerical 
 honour he humiliated himself not for the sake of 
 God, but for the sake of his pride; merely for the 
 sake of saying to himself: "Now, am I not a 
 splendid fellow not to desire anything?" That 
 was why he could not tolerate the abbot's action. 
 " I have renounced everything for the glory of 
 God, and here I am exhibited like a wild beast! " 
 " If you would just give up vanity for God's glory 
 you would be able to bear it," wrote the old man; 
 " worldly pride is not yet dead in you. I have 
 thought often of you, Sergius, my son. I 
 have prayed also, and this Is God's message 
 with regard to you: Go on as you are, and sub- 
 
 mit." 
 
 At that moment tidings came that the recluse 
 Hilary, a man of saintly life, had died In the 
 hermitage. He had lived there for eighteen 
 years. The abbot of that hermitage Inquired 
 whether there was not a brother who would take 
 his place. 
 
 " Now with regard to that letter of yours," 
 wrote the superior, "go to Father Pai'ssy, of the 
 
 T Monastery. I have written to him about 
 
 you, and asked him to take you Into Hilary's cell. 
 I do not say you could replace Hilary, but you
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 33 
 
 want solitude to stifle your pride. And may God 
 bless you in your undertaking." 
 
 Sergius obeyed his superior, showed his letter 
 to the abbot, and, asking his permission, gave up 
 his cell, handed all his belongings over to the 
 monastery, and departed for the hermitage at 
 T . 
 
 The abbot of that hermitage, a former mer- 
 chant, received Sergius calmly and quietly, and 
 left him alone in his cell. This cell was a cave 
 dug in a mountain, and Hilary was burled there. 
 In a niche at the back was Hilary's grave, and in 
 front was a place to sleep, a small table, and a 
 shelf with ikons and books. At the entrance 
 door, which could be closed, was another shelf. 
 Upon that shelf food was placed once a day by a 
 brother from the monastery. 
 
 So Father Sergius became a hermit
 
 Ill 
 
 During the Carnival in Sergius's second year of 
 seclusion a merry company of rich people, ladies 
 and gentlemen from the neighbouring town, made 
 up a troika party after a meal of carnival pan- 
 cakes and wine. The company was composed of 
 two lawyers, a wealthy landowner, an officer, and 
 four ladies. One of the ladies was the wife of the 
 officer; another was the wife of the landowner; 
 the third was his sister, a young girl; the fourth 
 was a divorcee, beautiful, rich, a little mad, whose 
 ways gave rise to amazement and indignation in 
 the town. 
 
 The night was fir?".; the roads smooth as a floor. 
 They drove ten miles out of town, and then held 
 a consultation as to whether they should turn back 
 or go on. 
 
 "But where does this road lead?" asked 
 Madame Makovkin, the beautiful divorcee. 
 
 " To T , twelve miles further on," said the 
 
 lawyer who was having a flirtation with Madame 
 Makovkin. 
 
 "And beyond?" 
 
 34
 
 FATHER SERGTUS 35 
 
 " Then to L , past the monastery." 
 
 " Oh, the one where Father Sergius is? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " The handsome hermit — Kasatsky." 
 Yes. 
 
 " Oh — messieurs et mesdames ! — let us go in 
 
 and see Kasatsky. We can rest at T and 
 
 have a bite." 
 
 " But we shan't get home to-night? " 
 
 " We'll just spend the night at Kasatsky's 
 then." 
 
 " Of course. There is a hostelry at the mon- 
 astery, and a very good one. When I was de- 
 fending Makine I stopped there." 
 
 " No, I shall spend the night at Kasatsky's ! " 
 
 " Even your great power, dear lady, could not 
 make that possible." 
 . "Not possible? ril bet you!" 
 
 " Good! If you spend the night at Kasatsky's 
 I'll pay you whatever you like." 
 
 "A discretion! '' 
 
 " And you the same, remember." 
 
 "Agreed! Let's start." 
 
 They gave the driver some wine, and they 
 opened a basket of pies, cakes, and wines for 
 themselves. The ladies drew their white furs 
 round about them. The postillions broke into a 
 dispute as to which should go ahead, and the
 
 36 FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 younger one, turning sharply round, lifted his 
 whip-handle high up and shouted at the horses; 
 the bells tinkled, and the runners creaked beneath 
 the sledge. The sledge swayed and rocked a lit- 
 tle; the outer horses trotted smoothly and briskly, 
 with their tightly-bound tails under the gaily dec- 
 orated breech-bands. The slippery road faded 
 away rapidly. The driver held the reins 
 tightly. 
 
 The lawyer and the officer who sat on the back 
 seat talked nonsense to Madame Makovkin's 
 neighbour, and she herself, huddled in her furs, 
 sat motionless and in thought. 
 
 " Eternally the same old things! The ugliness 
 of it. Shiny red faces reeking with liquor and 
 with tobacco, the same words, the same thoughts, 
 for ever the same abomination; and they are all 
 content and satisfied that it should be so, and thus 
 they will go on till they die. But I can't — it 
 bores me. I want something to happen that will 
 upset and shatter the whole thing. We might at 
 least be frozen to death as they were at Saratov. 
 What would these people do? How would they 
 behave? Execrably, I suppose. Everybody 
 would think of nothing but himself, and I no less 
 than the rest. But I have beauty — that's some- 
 thing. They know it. Well — and that monk 
 1 — I wonder if he really is indifferent to beauty.
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 37 
 
 No, they all care for it, just like that cadet last 
 autumn. And what a fool he was ! " 
 
 " Ivan Nicolaievich," she said. 
 
 He answered, "Yes?" 
 
 "How old is he?" 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 " Why, Kasatsky." 
 
 " Over forty, I should think." 
 
 " Does he receive visitors? Does he see every- 
 body?" 
 
 " Everybody, yes; but not always." 
 
 "Cover up my feet. Not that way — how 
 clumsy you are? Yes, like that. But you 
 needn't squeeze them." 
 
 Thus they came to the forest where the cell 
 was. 
 
 She stepped out of the sledge and bade them 
 drive on. They tried to dissuade her, but she 
 grew irritable, and commanded them to go on. 
 
 Father Sergius was now forty-nine years old. 
 His life in solitude was very hard: not because 
 of fasting and prayers. He endured those easily. 
 But it was the inner struggle which he had not 
 anticipated. There were two reasons for this 
 struggle: his religious doubts and the temptations 
 of desire. He thought these were two different 
 fiends. But they were one and the same. When 
 his doubts were gone lust was gone. But think-
 
 38 FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 ing these were two different devils, he fought them 
 separately. They, however, always attacked him 
 together. 
 
 "O my God, my God," he cried, " why dost 
 Thou not give me faith? There is lust of course, 
 but even St. Anthony and the rest had to fight 
 that; but faith — they had that! There are mo- 
 ments and hours and days when I do not possess 
 it. Why does the world exist with all its charm, 
 if it is sinful and we must renounce it? Why hast 
 Thou created this temptation? Temptation? 
 But Isn't this temptation to renounce the joys of 
 the world and to prepare for the life beyond, 
 where there is nothing and where there can be 
 nothing?" Saying this to himself, he became 
 horrified and filled with disgust at himself. 
 
 "You vile thing! And you think of being a 
 saint! " he said. 
 
 He rose to pray. But when he began praying 
 he saw himself as he appeared at the monastery 
 In his vestments and all his grandeur, and he 
 shook his head. 
 
 " No, that is not so. It Is a lie. I may de- 
 ceive all the world, but not myself, and not God. 
 I am Insignificant. I am pitiable." And he 
 pushed back the skirts of his cassock, and gazed 
 at his thin legs in their underclothing. 
 
 Then he dropped his robe again, and began to
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 39 
 
 repeat his prayers, making the sign of the cross 
 and prostrating himself. 
 
 "Will that couch be my bier?" he read; and, 
 as if a demon whispered to him, he heard: "The 
 solitary couch is also the cofiin." 
 
 " It is a lie ! " and he saw in Imagination the 
 shoulders of a widow who had been his mistress. 
 He shook himself and went on reading. After 
 having read the precepts he took up the Gospels. 
 He opened the book at a passage that he had 
 often repeated and knew by heart. 
 
 " Lord, I believe. Help thou my unbelief." 
 
 He stifled the doubts that arose. Just as one 
 replaces an object without disturbing Its balance, 
 he carefully put his faith back into its position 
 while It trembled at Its base, and stepped back 
 cautiously so as neither to touch it nor upset it. 
 He again pulled himself together and regained his ' 
 peace of mind and repeating his childish prayer: 
 " O Lord, take me, take me ! " felt not only at 
 ease, but glad and thrilled. He crossed himself 
 and lay down to sleep on his narrow bench, put- 
 ting his light summer garment under his head. 
 He dropped off to sleep at once. In his light 
 slumber he heard small tinkling bells. He did 
 not know whether he was dreaming or waking. 
 But a knock at the door aroused him. He sat up 
 on his couch, not trusting his senses. The knock
 
 40 FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 came again. Yes, it was nearer, it was at his own 
 door, and after it came the sound of a woman's 
 
 voice. 
 
 My God ! is it true that the devil takes the 
 form of a woman, as I have read in the lives of 
 the saints? Yes — it is a woman's voice! So 
 timid — so sweet — so tender ! " And he spat to 
 exorcise the devil. " No ! It was only imagina- 
 tion ! " and he went to the corner where the lec- 
 tern stood and fell on his knees, his regular and 
 habitual motion that of itself gave him comfort 
 and pleasure. He bowed low, his hair falling 
 forward on his face, and pressed his bare fore- 
 head to the damp, cold floor. There was a 
 draught from the floor. He read a psalm which, 
 as old Father Piman had told him, would ward off 
 the assaults of the devil. His light, slender 
 frame started up upon its strong limbs, and he 
 meant to go on reading his prayers. But he did 
 not read. He involuntarily inclined his head to 
 listen. He wanted to hear more. 
 
 All was silent. From the corner of the roof 
 the same regular drops fell into the tub below. 
 Without was a mist, a fog that swallowed up the 
 snow. It was still, very still. There was a sud- 
 den rustle at the window, and a distinct voice, the 
 same tender, timid voice, a voice that could only 
 belong to a charming woman.
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 41 
 
 " Let me in, for Christ's salce." 
 
 All the blood rushed to his heart and settled 
 there. He could not even sigh. 
 
 " May the Lord appear and his enemies be con- 
 founded." 
 
 " But I am not the devil! " 
 
 He could not hear that the words were spoken 
 by smiling lips. " I am not the devil. I am just 
 a wicked woman that's lost her way, literally and 
 figuratively." (She laughed.) "I am frozen, 
 and I beg for shelter." 
 
 He put his face close to the window. The 
 little ikon lamp was reflected in the glass. He 
 put his hands up to his face and peered between 
 them. Fog, mist, darkness, a tree, and — at the 
 right — She herself, a woman in thick white furs, 
 in a fur cap with a lovely, lovely, gentle, fright- 
 ened face, two inches away, leaning towards him. 
 Their eyes met and they recognised each other — 
 not because they had ever seen each other before. 
 They had never met. But in the look they 
 exchanged they felt — and he particularly — 
 that they knew each other; that they under- 
 stood. 
 
 After that glance which they exchanged how 
 could he entertain any further doubt that this was 
 the devil instead of just a sweet, timid, fright- 
 ened woman?
 
 42 FATHER SERGIUS . 
 
 "Who are you? Why have you come?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " Open the door, I say," she said with a whim- 
 sical authority. " I tell you I've lost my way." 
 
 "But I am a monk — a hermit." 
 
 " Open that door all the same. Do you want 
 me to freeze while you say your prayers?" 
 
 "But how—" 
 
 " I won't eat you. Let me in for God's sake. 
 , I'm quite frozen." 
 
 She began to be really frightened and spoke 
 almost tearfully. 
 
 He stepped back into the room, looked at the 
 ikon representing the Saviour with His crown of 
 thorns. 
 
 " God help me — help me, O God! " he said, 
 crossing himself and bowing low. Then he went 
 to the door which opened into the little porch, 
 and feeling for the latch tried to unhook it. He 
 heard steps outside. She was going from the win- 
 dow to the door. 
 
 " Oh ! " he heard her exclaim, and he knew she 
 had stepped into a puddle made by the dripping 
 rain. His hands trembled, and he could not move 
 the hook which stuck a little. 
 
 " Well, can't you let me in? I'm quite soaked, 
 and I'm frozen. You are only bent on saving 
 your own soul while I freeze to death."
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 43 
 
 He jerked the door towards him in order to 
 raise the latch, and then, unable to measure his 
 movements, pushed it open with such violence 
 that it struck her, 
 
 "Oh — pardon!" he said suddenly, reverting 
 to his former tone with ladies. 
 
 She smiled, hearing that " pardon." " Oh, 
 well, he's not so dreadful," she thought. " Never 
 mind; it is you who must pardon me," she said, 
 passing by him. " I would never have ventured, 
 but such an extraordinary circumstance — " 
 
 " If you please," he said, making way for her. 
 
 He was struck by the fragrance of fine perfume 
 that he had not smelt for many a long day. 
 
 She went through the porch into the chamber. 
 He shut the outer door without latching It and 
 passed into the room after her. Not only in his 
 heart but involuntarily moving his lips he repeated 
 unceasingly, " O Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, 
 have mercy on me, a sinner, have mercy on me, a 
 
 sinner." 
 
 " If you please," he said to her again. 
 
 She stood in the middle of the room, dripping, 
 and examined him closely. Her eyes smiled. 
 
 " Forgive me for disturbing your solitude," she 
 said, " but you must see what a position I am 
 placed in. It all came about by our coming out 
 for a drive from town. I made a wager that I
 
 44 FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 would walk by myself from Vorobievka to town. 
 But I lost my way. That's how I happened to 
 find your cell." Her lies now began. 
 
 But his face confused her so that she could not 
 proceed, so she stopped. She expected him to be 
 quite different from the man she saw. He was 
 not as handsome as she had imagined, but he was 
 beautiful to her. His grey hair and beard, 
 slightly curling, his fine, regular features and his 
 eyes like burning coals when he looked straight 
 at her, impressed her profoundly. He saw that 
 she was lying. 
 
 "Yes; very well," he said, looking at her and 
 dropping his eyes. " Now I will go in there, and 
 this place is at your disposal." 
 
 He took the burning lamp down from before 
 the ikon, lit a candle, and making a low bow went 
 out to the little niche on the other side of the par- 
 tition, and she heard him begin to move some- 
 thing there. 
 
 " He is probably trying to shut himself up away 
 from me," she thought, smiling. Taking off her 
 white fur, she tried to remove her cap, but it 
 caught in her hair and in the knitted shawl she 
 was wearing underneath it. She had not got wet 
 at all standing outside at the window. She said 
 so only as a pretext to be admitted. But she had 
 really stepped into a puddle at the door, and her
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 45 
 
 left foot was wet to the ankle, and one shoe was 
 full of water. She sat down on his bed, a bench 
 only covered with a carpet, and began to take her 
 shoes off. The little cell pleased her. It was 
 about nine feet by twelve, and as clean as glass. 
 There was nothing in it save the bench on which 
 she sat, the book-shelf above it, and the lectern in 
 the corner. On the door were nails where his fur 
 coat and his cassock hung. Beside the lantern 
 was the image of Christ with His crown of thorns, 
 and the lamp. The room smelt strangely of oil 
 and of earth. She liked everything, even that 
 smell. Her wet feet were uncomfortable, the left 
 one especially, and she took off her shoes and 
 stockings, never ceasing to smile. She was happy 
 not only in having achieved her object, but be- 
 cause she perceived that he was troubled by her 
 presence. He, the charming, striking, strange, 
 attractive man ! 
 
 " Well, if he wasn't responsive, it doesn't mat- 
 ter," she said to herself. "Father Sergius! 
 Father Sergius! — or what am I to call 
 you ! 
 
 " What do you want? " answered a low voice. 
 
 " Please forgive me for disturbing your soli- 
 tude, but really I couldn't help it. I would have 
 fallen ill. And even now I don't know if I shan't. 
 I'm quite wet and my feet are like ice."
 
 46 FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 " Pardon me," answered the quiet voice. " I 
 cannot be of any assistance to you." 
 
 " 1 would not have come if I could have helped 
 it. I shall only stop till dawn." 
 
 He did not answer. She heard him muttering 
 something, probably his prayers. 
 
 " I hope you will not come in here," she said, 
 smiling, " for I must undress to get dry." 
 
 He did not answer, continuing to read his pray- 
 ers in a steady voice. 
 
 " That is a man," she thought, as she attempted 
 to remove her wet shoe. She tugged at it in vain 
 and felt like laughing. Almost inaudibly, she did 
 laugh; then, knowing that he would hear, and 
 would be moved by it just as she wanted him to 
 be, she laughed louder. The kind, cheerful, nat- 
 ural laughter did indeed affect him just as she had 
 wished. 
 
 " T could love a man like that. Such eyes; and 
 his simple, noble face, passionate in spite of all 
 the prayers it mutteis. There's no fooling us 
 women in that. The instant he put his face 
 against the window-pane and saw me, he knew me 
 and understood me. The glimmer of it was in 
 his eyes and a seal was set upon it for ever. That 
 instant he began to love me and to want me. 
 Yes — he wants me," she said, finally getting off 
 her shoe and fumbling at her stocking.
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 47 
 
 To remove those long stockings fastened with 
 elastic, she had to raise her skirts. She felt em- 
 barrassed and said, " Don't come in." But there 
 was no answer from the other side and she heard 
 the same monotonous murmurs and movements. 
 
 " I suppose he's bowing down to the ground," 
 she thought, " but that won't help him. He's 
 thinking about me just as I'm thinking about 
 him. He's thinking about these very feet of 
 mine," she said, taking off the wet stockings and 
 sitting up on the couch barefooted, with her hands 
 clasped about her knees. She sat awhile like 
 this, gazing pensively before her. 
 
 " It's a perfect desert here. Nobody would 
 ever know — " 
 
 She got down, took her stockings over to the 
 stove and hung them on the damper. It was 
 such a quaint damper! She turned it, and then 
 slipping quietly over to the couch she sat up there 
 again with her feet upon It. There was absolute 
 silence on the other side of the partition. She 
 looked at the little watch hanging round her neck. 
 Two o'clock. " My people will return about 
 three." She had more than an hour before her. 
 
 " Well ! Am I going to sit here by myself the 
 whole time? Nonsense! I don't like that. I'll 
 call him at once. Father Serglus ! Father Ser- 
 glus ! Sergei Dimltrlevich ! Prince Kasatsky!"
 
 48 FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 No answer. 
 
 " I say ! That's cruel. I wouldn't call you if 
 I didn't need you. I'm ill. I don't know what's 
 the matter," she said in a tone of suffering. 
 " Oh ! oh ! " she groaned, falling back on the 
 couch, and, strange to say, she really felt that she 
 was getting faint, that everything ached, that she 
 was trembling as if with fever. 
 
 "Here, listen! Help me! I don't know 
 what's the matter with. Oh ! oh ! " 
 
 She opened her dress, uncovering her breast, 
 and raised her arms, bare to the elbows, above iier 
 head. "Oh, oh!" 
 
 All this time he stood on the other side of the 
 door and prayed. 
 
 Having finished all the evening prayers, he 
 stood motionless, fixing his eyes on the end of his 
 nose, and praying in his heart he repeated with all 
 his soul: "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have 
 mercy on me ! " 
 
 He had heard everything. He had heard how 
 the silk rustled when she took off her dress; how 
 she stepped on the floor with her bare feet. He 
 heard how she rubbed her hands and feet. He 
 felt himself getting weak, and thought he might 
 be lost at any moment. That was why he prayed 
 unceasingly. His feelings must have been some- 
 what like those of the hero in the fairy tale who
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 49 
 
 had to go on and on without ever turning back. 
 Sergius heard and felt that the danger was there 
 just above his head, around him, and that the only 
 way to escape it was not to look round on it for an 
 instant. Then suddenly the desire to see her came 
 upon him, and at that very instant she exclaimed, 
 "Now this is monstrous! I may die." 
 
 " Yes, I will cojne. But I will go like that 
 saint who laid one hand upon the adulteress but 
 put the other upon burning coals." 
 
 But there were no burning coals. He looked 
 round. The lamp ! The lamp ! 
 
 He put a finger over the flame and frowned, 
 ready to endure. In the beginning it seemed to 
 him that there was no sensation. But then of a 
 sudden, before he had decided whether it hurt 
 him or how much it hurt him, his face writhed, 
 and he jerked his hand away, shaking it in the 
 air. 
 
 " No, that I can't do." 
 
 " For God's sake, come to me. I am dying. 
 Oh!" 
 
 "Must I be lost? No! I'll come to you 
 presently," he said, opening the door. And with- 
 out looking at her he passed through the room to 
 the porch where he used to chop wood. He felt 
 about to find the block and the axe which were 
 leaning against the wall.
 
 50 FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 " Presently! " he said, and taking the axe in his 
 right hand, he laid the forefinger of his left hand 
 upon the block. He raised the axe and struck at 
 the finger below the second joint. The finger 
 flew off more lightly than wood, and bounding 
 up, turned over on the edge of the block and 
 then on to the fioor. Sergius heard that sound 
 before he realised the pain, but ere he could re- 
 cover his senses he felt a burning pain and the 
 warmth of the flowing blood. He hastily pressed 
 the end of his cassock to the maimed finger, 
 pressed it to his hip, and going back into her 
 room stood before the woman. 
 
 "What do you want?" he asked her in a low 
 voice. 
 
 She looked at his pale face with its trembling 
 cheeks and felt ashamed. She jumped up, 
 grasped her fur, and throwing it around her shoul- 
 ders tucked herself up in it. 
 
 "I was in pain — I've taken cold — I — 
 Father Sergius — I — " 
 
 He turned his eyes, which were shining with the 
 quiet light of joy upon her, and said, — 
 
 " Dear sister, why have you desired to lose 
 your immortal soul? Temptation must come into 
 the world, but woe to him by whom temptation 
 cometh. Pray that God may forgive us both." 
 
 She listened and looked at him. Suddenly she
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 51 
 
 heard the sound of something dripping. She 
 looked closely and saw that blood was dropping 
 from his hand on to his cassock. 
 
 " What have you done to your hand? " 
 
 She remembered the sound she had heard, and 
 seizing the little ikon lamp ran out to the porch; 
 there on the floor she saw the bloody finger. 
 
 She returned with her face paler than his, and 
 wanted to say something. But he went silently 
 to his little apartment and shut the door. 
 
 " Forgive me," she said. " How can I atone 
 for my sin? " 
 
 " Go." 
 
 " Let me bind your wound." 
 
 "Go hence." 
 
 She dressed hurriedly and silently and sat in 
 her furs waiting. 
 
 The sound of little bells reached her from out- 
 side. 
 
 " Father Sergius, forgive me." 
 
 " Go — God will forgive you." 
 
 " Father Sergius, I will change my life. Do 
 not forsake me." 
 
 LfO. 
 
 " Forgive — and bless me ! " 
 
 " In the name of the Father and of the Son and 
 of the Holy Ghost," she heard from behind the 
 door. " Go."
 
 52 FATHER SKRGIUS 
 
 She sobbed and went out from the cell. 
 
 The lawyer came forward to meet her. 
 
 " Well," he said, " I see I have lost. There's 
 no help for it. Where will you sit?" 
 
 " I don't care." 
 
 She took a seat in the sledge and did not speak 
 a word till they reached home. 
 
 A year later she entered a convent as a novice 
 and led a life of severe discipline under the guid- 
 ance of hermit R who wrote her letters at 
 
 long intervals.
 
 IV 
 
 Another seven years Father Sergius lived as a 
 hermit. In the beginning he accepted a great 
 part of what people used to bring him — tea, 
 sugar, white bread, milk, clothes, and wood. 
 
 But as time went on he led a life of ever greater 
 austerity. Refusing anything that could be 
 thought superfluous, he finally accepted nothing 
 but rye bread once a week. All that was brought 
 to him he gave to the poor who visited him. 
 
 His entire time was spent in his cell in prayer 
 or in conversation with visitors whose number 
 continually increased. 
 
 Father Sergius appeared in church only three 
 times a year, and when it was necessary he went 
 out to fetch water and wood. 
 
 After the episode with Madame Makovkin, the 
 change he effected in her life, and her taking the 
 veil, the fame of Father Sergius increased. Vis- 
 itors came in greater and greater numbers, and 
 monks came to live in his neighbourhood. A 
 church was built there, and a hostelry. Fame, as 
 usual, exaggerated his feats. People came from 
 
 53
 
 54 FATHFR SERGIUS 
 
 a great distance and began bringing Invalids to 
 him In the belief that he could heal them. 
 
 His first cure happened in the eighth year of 
 his seclusion. He actually healed a boy of four- 
 teen brought to him by his mother who Insisted 
 on Father Sergius putting his hand on the child's 
 head. The idea had never occurred to him that 
 he could heal the sick. He would have regarded 
 such a thought as a great sin of pride. 
 
 But the mother who brought the boy never 
 ceased Imploring him, on her knees. 
 
 " Why wouldn't he help her son when he 
 healed other people?" she asked, and again be- 
 sought him in the name of Christ. 
 
 When Father Sergius replied that only God 
 could heal, she said she wanted him only to lay 
 his hands on his head and pray. 
 
 Father Sergius refused and went back to his 
 cell. But next morning — for this happened In 
 the autumn and the nights were already cold — 
 coming out of his cell to fetch water, he saw the 
 same mother with her child, the same boy of 
 fourteen, and heard the same petitions. 
 
 Father Sergius remembered the parable of the 
 righteous judge, and contrary to his first instinct 
 that he must Indubitably refuse, he began to pray, 
 and prayed until a resolve formed itself In his 
 soul. This decision was that he must accede to
 
 FATHER SERGIUS SS 
 
 the woman's request, and that her faith was suffi- 
 cient to save her child. As for him, Father Ser- 
 gius, he would be in that case but the worthless 
 instrument chosen by God. 
 
 Returning to the mother. Father Sergius yielded 
 to her request, put his hand on the boy's head and 
 prayed. 
 
 The mother left with her son. In a month the 
 boy was cured, and the fame of the holy healing 
 power of " old Father Sergius," as he was called 
 then, spread abroad. From that time not a week 
 passed without sick people coming to Father Ser- 
 gius. 
 
 Complying with the requests of some, he could 
 not refuse the rest; he laid his hands on them and 
 prayed. Many were healed and his fame be- 
 came more and more widespread. 
 
 Having thus passed seven years in the monas- 
 tery and many years in the hermitage, he looked 
 now like an old man. He had a long grey beard, 
 and his hair had grown thin.
 
 v 
 
 Now Father Sergius had for weeks been haunted 
 by one relentless thought, whether it was right for 
 him to have acquiesced in a state of things not so 
 much created by himself as by the archimandrite 
 and the abbot. 
 
 This state of things had begun after the heal- 
 ing of the boy of fourteen. Since that time Ser- 
 gius felt that each passing month, each week and 
 each day, his inner life had somehow been de- 
 stroyed and a merely external life had been sub- 
 stituted for it. It was as if he had been turned 
 inside out. Sergius saw that he was a means of 
 attracting visitors and patrons to the monastery, 
 and that, therefore, the authorities of the monas- 
 tery tried to arrange matters in such a way that he 
 might be most profitable to them. For instance, 
 he had no chance of doing any work. Everything 
 was provided that he could require, and the only 
 thing they asked was that he should not refuse 
 his blessing to the visitors who came to seek it. 
 For his convenience days were appointed on which 
 he should receive them. A reception room was 
 arranged for -men; and a place was also enclosed 
 
 56
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 57 
 
 by railings in order that the crowds of women 
 who came to him should not ov^erwhelm him, a 
 place where he could bestow his blessing upon 
 those who came. 
 
 When he was told that he was necessary to 
 men, and that if he would follow the rule of 
 Christ's love, he could not refuse them when 
 they desired to see him, and that his holding aloof 
 from them would be cruel, he could not but agree. 
 
 But the more he gave himself up to such an 
 existence the more he felt his inner life trans- 
 formed into an external one. He felt the fount 
 of living water drying up within him; and that 
 everything he did now was performed more and 
 more for man and less for God. Whatever he 
 did, whether admonishing or simply blessing, or 
 praying for the sick, or giving advice on the con- 
 duct of life, or listening to expressions of grati- 
 tude from those he had helped, or healed (as they 
 say) or instructed or advised, he could not help 
 feeling a certain pleasure when they expressed 
 their gratitude to him. Neither could he be In- 
 different to the results of his activity, nor to his 
 influence. He now thought himself a shining 
 light. But the more he harboured that idea, the 
 more he was conscious of the fact that the divine 
 light of truth which had previously burned within 
 him was flickering and dying.
 
 58 FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 " How much of what I do is done for God and 
 how much for man?" That was the question 
 that tormented him. Not that he could not find 
 an answer to it, but he dared not give an answer. 
 He felt deep down in his soul that the devil had 
 somehow changed all his work for God into work 
 for man. Because just as it had formerly been 
 hard for him to be torn from solitude, now soli- 
 tude itself was hard. He was often wearied with 
 visitors, but in the bottom of his heart he en- 
 joyed their presence and rejoiced in the praise 
 which was heaped on him. 
 
 There came a time when he made up his mind 
 to go away, to hide. He even thought out a 
 plan. He got ready a peasant shirt and peasant 
 trousers, a coat and a cap. He explained that 
 he wanted them to give to the poor, and he kept 
 these clothes in his cell, thinking how he would 
 one day put them on and cut his hair, and go 
 away. First he would take a train and travel for 
 about three hundred miles. Then he would get 
 out and walk from village to village. He asked 
 an old soldier how he tramped; if people gave 
 alms, and whether they admitted wayfarers into 
 their houses. The soldier told him where peo- 
 ple were most charitable, and where they would 
 take a wanderer in for the night, and Father Ser- 
 gius decided to act on his advice. One night, he
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 59 
 
 even put on those clothes and was about to go. 
 But he did not know which was best, to remain 
 or to run away. For a time he was undecided. 
 Then the state of indecision passed. He grew ac- 
 customed to the devil and yielded to him; and the 
 peasant clothes only served to remind him of 
 thoughts and feelings that were no more. 
 
 Crowds flocked to him increasingly from day to 
 day, and he had less and less time for prayers and 
 for renewing his spiritual strength. Sometimes, 
 in his brighter moments, he thought he was like 
 a place where a brook had once been. There 
 had been a quiet stream of living water which 
 flowed out of him and through him, he thought. 
 That had been real life, the time when she had 
 tempted him. He always thought with ecstasy 
 of that night and of her who was now Mother 
 Agnes. She had tasted of that pure water. 
 Since then the water had hardly been given time 
 to collect before those who were thirsty arrived 
 in crowds, pushing one another aside, and they 
 had trodden down the little brook until nothing 
 but mud was left. So he thought in his clearer 
 moments; but his ordinary state of mind was 
 weariness and a sort of tenderness for himself 
 because of that weariness. 
 
 It was spring, the eve of a festal day. Father 
 Sergius celebrated Vespers in the church in the
 
 6o FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 cave. There were as many people as the place 
 could hold — about twenty altogether. They all 
 belonged to the better classes, rich merchants and 
 such like. Father Sergius admitted every one to 
 his church, but a selection was made by the monk 
 appointed to serve him and by a man on duty 
 who was sent to the hermitage every day from the 
 monastery. A crowd of about eighty pilgrims, 
 chiefly women, stood outside, waiting for Father 
 Sergius to come out and bless them. In that part 
 of the service, when he went to the tomb of his 
 predecessor to bless it, he felt faint, and stag- 
 gered, and would have fallen had it not been for 
 a merchant who served as deacon who caught 
 him. 
 
 "What is the matter with you? Father Ser- 
 gius, dear Father Sergius! O God!" exclaimed 
 a woman's voice. " He is as white as a sheet! " 
 
 But Father Sergius pulled himself together and 
 though still very pale, pushed aside the deacon 
 and the merchant and resumed the prayers. 
 Father Serafian, the deacon, and the acolytes and 
 a lady, Sophia Ivanovna, who always lived 
 close by the hermitage to attend on Father 
 Sergius, begged him to bring the service to an 
 end. 
 
 " No, there's nothing the matter," said Father 
 Sergius, faintly smiling from beneath his mous-
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 6i 
 
 tache and continuing his prayers. " Ah, that is 
 the way of saints," he thought. 
 
 "A holy man — an angel of God," he heard 
 Sophia Ivanovna and the merchant who had sup- 
 ported him a moment before murmur. He did 
 not heed their entreaties, but went on with the 
 service. Crowding one another as before, they 
 all filed through narrow passages back into the 
 little church where Father Sergius completed ves- 
 pers, merely curtailing the service a little. Di- 
 rectly after this, having pronounced the benedic- 
 tion on those present, he sat down outside on a 
 little bench beneath an elm tree at the entrance to 
 the cave. He wanted to rest; to breathe fresh 
 air. He felt the need of it; but the moment he 
 appeared, a crowd of people rushed to him so- 
 liciting his blessing, his advice, and his help. In 
 the crowd was a number of women, pilgrims going 
 from one holy place to another, from one holy 
 man to another, ever in ecstasy before each sanc- 
 tuary and before each saint. 
 
 Father Sergius knew this common, cold, irre- 
 ligious, unemotional type. As for the men in the 
 crowd, they were for the most part retired sol- 
 diers, long unaccustomed to a settled life, and 
 most of them were poor, drunken old men who 
 tramped from monastery to monastery merely for 
 a living. The dull peasantry also flocked there,
 
 6i FATHKR SERCIUS 
 
 men and women, with their selfish requirements 
 seeking heahng or advice in their little daily in- 
 terests; how their daughters should be married, 
 or a shop hired, or land bought, or how a woman 
 could atone for a child she had lain over in sleep 
 and killed, or for a child she had borne out of 
 wedlock. 
 
 All this was an old story to Father Sergius and 
 did not interest him. He knew he would hear 
 nothing new from them. The spectacle of their 
 faces could not arouse any religious emotion in 
 him. But he liked to look at them as a crowd 
 which was in need of his benediction and revered 
 his words. This made him like the crowd, al- 
 though he found them fatiguing and tiresome. 
 
 Father Serafian began to disperse the people 
 saying that Father Sergius was weary. But 
 Father Sergius recollected the words of the Gos- 
 pel, " Suffer the little children to come unto me 
 and forbid them not," and touched at his recol- 
 lection oi the passage he permitted them to ap- 
 proach. He rose, walked to the little railing be- 
 yond which the crowd had gathered, and began to 
 bless them, but his answers to their questions were 
 so faint that he was moved at hearing himself. 
 
 Despite his wish to receive them all, it was 
 too much for him. Everything grew dark again 
 before his eyes, and he staggered and grasped the
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 63 
 
 railings. He felt the blood rushing to his head, 
 and grew pale and then scarlet. 
 
 " I must leave the rest till to-morrow, I can do 
 no more now," he said, and pronouncing a gen- 
 eral benediction, returned to the bench. 
 
 The merchant supported him again, and taking 
 him by the arm assisted him to be seated. Voices 
 exclaimed in the crowd, — 
 
 " Father, dear father, don't forsake us. We 
 are lost without you." 
 
 The merchant, having helped Father Sergius 
 to the bench under the elm tree, took upon him- 
 self the duties of policeman and began energet- 
 ically to disperse the crowd. It was true he spoke 
 in a low voice so that Father Sergius could not 
 overhear, but he spoke very decidedly and in an 
 angry tone. 
 
 " Get away, get away, I say! He has blessed 
 you. What else do you want? Get along! or 
 you'll catch it. Move on there ! Get along 
 there, old woman, with your dirty rags. Go on! 
 Where do you think you're going; I told you it 
 was finished. To-morrow's coming, but to-day 
 he's done, I tell you! " 
 
 "Dear father! I only want to look on his 
 dear face with my own little eyes," said an old 
 woman. 
 
 " Little eyes indeed! You don't get in here! "
 
 64 FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 Father Serglus noticed that the merchant was 
 doing it rather too thoroughly, and spoke to his 
 attendant saying the crowd was not to be turned 
 away. He knew perfectly well that the crowd 
 w^ould be dispersed all the same, and he desired 
 to remain alone and rest, but he sent his attendant 
 with the order merely to make an impression. 
 
 "Well — well — Fm not turning them away; 
 Fm only talking to them," answered the merchant. 
 " They'll drive the man to death. They have no 
 mercy. They're only thinking of themselves. 
 No, I say! Get away! To-morrow!" and he 
 drove them all away. 
 
 The merchant took all this trouble because he 
 loved order and liked to turn people away and 
 abuse them; but more because he wanted to have 
 Father Sergius to himself. He was a widower 
 and had an only daughter, an invalid and unmar- 
 ried. He had brought her fourteen hundred 
 miles to Father Sergius to be healed. During the 
 two years of the girl's illness he had taken her to 
 various cures. First to the university clinic in 
 the principal town of the province, but this was 
 not of much use; then to a peasant in the prov- 
 ince of Samara, who did her a little good. After- 
 wards he took her to a doctor in Moscow and 
 paid him a huge fee; but this did not help at all. 
 Then he was told that Father Sergius wrought
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 65 
 
 cures, so he brought her to him. Consequently 
 when he had scattered the crowd he approached 
 Father Sergius, and falHng upon his Icnees with- 
 out any warning, he said in a loud voice, — 
 
 "Holy Father! Bless my afflicted child and 
 heal her of her sufferings. I venture to pros- 
 trate myself at your holy feet," and he put one 
 hand on another, palms up, cup-wise. All this 
 he did as if it were something distinctly and rig- 
 idly appointed by law and usage; as if it were 
 the sole and precise method by which a man 
 should request the healing of his daughter. He 
 did it with such conviction that even Sergius felt 
 for the moment that that was just the right way. 
 However he bade him rise from his knees and 
 tell him what the trouble was. The merchant 
 said that his daughter, a girl of twenty-two, had 
 fallen ill two years before, afler the sudden death 
 of her mother. She just said "Ah! " as he put 
 it, and went out of her mind. He had brought 
 her fourteen hundred miles, and she was waiting 
 in the hostelry till Father Sergius could receive 
 her. She never went out by day, being afraid 
 of the sunlight, but only after dusk. 
 
 " Is she very weak? " asked Father Sergius. 
 
 " No, she has no special weakness, but she's 
 rather stout, and the doctor says she's neuras- 
 thenic. If you will just let me fetch her, Father
 
 66 FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 Serglus, I'll be back with her in a minute. Re- 
 vive, O holy father, the heart of a parent, restore 
 his line, and save my afHIcted offspring with your 
 prayers ! " and the merchant fell down on his 
 knees again and bending sideways with his head 
 over his palms, which appeared to hold little heaps 
 of something, remained like a figure in stone. 
 Father Sergius again told him to get up, and 
 thinking once more how trying his work was, and 
 how patiently he bore it in spite of everything, 
 sighed heavily. After a few moments' silence, 
 he said: 
 
 " Well, bring her to-night. I will pray over 
 her. But now I am weary," and he closed his 
 eyes. " i will send for you." 
 
 The merchant went away, stepping on tiptoe, 
 which made his boots creak still louder, and 
 Father Sergius remained alone. 
 
 Father Sergius's life was filled with church 
 services and with visitors; but this day was par- 
 ticularly difficult. In the morning an important 
 official had come to hold a long conference with 
 him. Then a lady came with her son. The son 
 was a young professor, an unbeliever, and his 
 mother, who was ardently religious and devoted 
 to Father Sergius, brought him to Father Sergius 
 that he might talk to him. The talk was very 
 trying. The young man evidently did not wish
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 67 
 
 to have a discussion with the monk, and just 
 agreed with him in everything, as with an in- 
 ferior. Father Sergius saw that the youth was 
 an infidel, but that he had nevertheless a clear and 
 tranquil conscience. The memory of the conver- 
 sation was now unpleasant to him. 
 
 "Won't you eat something. Father Sergius?" 
 aske'd the attendant. 
 
 "Very well — bring me something." 
 
 The attendant went to a little hut built ten 
 paces from the cave, and Father Sergius remained 
 alone. 
 
 The time was long past when Father Sergius 
 lived alone, doing everything for himself and 
 having but a holy wafer and bread for nourish- 
 ment. He had been warned long ago that he 
 had no right to be careless of his health and he 
 was given wholesome meals, although of Lenten 
 quality. He did not eat much, but more than he 
 had done; and sometimes he even felt a pleasure 
 in eating; the disgust and the sense of sin he had 
 experienced before was gone. 
 
 He took some gruel and had a cup of tea with 
 half a roll of white bread. The attendant went 
 away while he remained alone on the bench under 
 the elm-tree. It was a beautiful evening in May. 
 The leaves of the birches, the aspens, the elms, 
 the alder bushes, and the oaks were just beginning
 
 68 FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 to blossom. The alder bushes behind the elms 
 were still in full bloom. A nightingale was sing- 
 ing near at hand, and two or three more in the 
 bushes down by the river trilled and warbled. 
 From the river came the songs of working-men, 
 perhaps on their way home from their labour. 
 The sun was setting behind the forest and was 
 throwing little broken rays of light among the 
 leaves. This side was bright green and the other 
 side was dark. Beetles were flying about and, 
 colliding together, were falling to the ground. 
 After supper Father Sergius began to repeat a 
 prayer mentally: 
 
 " O Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have 
 mercy on us," and then he read a psalm. Sud- 
 denly, in the middle of the psalm a sparrow flew 
 out from a bush on the ground, and hopping 
 along, came to him; then it flew away frightened. 
 He was reading a prayer that bore upon renun- 
 ciation of the world and hastened to get to the 
 end of it in order that he might send for the mer- 
 chant and his daughter. He was interested in 
 the daughter because she offered a sort of diver- 
 sion, and also because she and her father thought 
 him a saint, a saint whose prayer was eflicacious. 
 He repudiated the idea, but in the depths of his 
 soul he nevertheless concurred. He often won-
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 69 
 
 dered how he, Sergius Kasatsky, had contrived to 
 become such an extraordinary saint and worker of 
 miracles, but that it was a fact he did not doubt. 
 He could not fail to believe in the miracles he 
 saw with his own eyes, beginning with the sick boy 
 and ending with this last old woman who had re- 
 covered her sight through his prayers. Strange 
 as it was, it was a fact. Accordingly the mer- 
 chant's daughter interested him as a new individ- 
 ual that had faith in him, and besides, as an 
 occasion of bearing witness to his healing power 
 and to his fame. 
 
 " People come thousands of miles. Papers 
 talk about it. The emperor knows. All Europe 
 knows — all godless Europe." And then he felt 
 ashamed of his vanity and began to pray: 
 
 " God, King of Heaven, Comforter, True Soul, 
 come into — inspire me — and cleanse me from 
 all sin, and save, O All-merciful, my soul. 
 Cleanse me from the sin of worldly vanity that 
 has overtaken me," he said, remembering how 
 often he had made that prayer and how vain it 
 had been. His prayers worked miracles for 
 others, but as for himself God had not granted 
 him strength to conquer this petty passion. He 
 remembered his prayers at the commencement of 
 his seclusion when he asked for the grace of pur-
 
 70 FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 Ity, humility, and love, and how it seemed to 
 him at that time that God heard his prayers. He 
 had retained his purity and had hewn off his fin- 
 ger. He raised the stump of the finger with folds 
 of skin on it to his lips, and kissed it. It seemed 
 to him now, that at that time when he had been 
 filled with disgust at his own sinfulness, he had 
 been humble; and that he had also possessed love. 
 He recalled also the tender feelings with which 
 he had received the old drunken soldier who had 
 come to ask alms of him; and how he had received 
 her. And now; he asked himself whether he 
 loved anybody; whether he loved Sophia Ivan- 
 ovna or Father Serafian; whether he had any feel- 
 ing of love for those who had come to him that 
 day. He asked himself if he had felt any love 
 toward the learned young man with whom he had 
 held that instructive discussion with the object 
 only of showing off his own intelligence and prov- 
 ing that he had not fallen behind in knowledge. 
 
 He wanted love from them, and rejoiced in it; 
 but felt no love himself for them. Now he had 
 neither love nor humility. He was pleased to 
 hear that the merchant's daughter was twenty- 
 two, and was anxious to know if she was good- 
 looking. When he Inquired if she was weak, he 
 only wanted to know if she had feminine charm. 
 "Is it true that I have fallen so low?" he
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 71 
 
 thought. " God help me ! Restore my strength 
 — restore me, O God my Saviour!" and he 
 clasped his hands and began to pray. 
 
 The nightingales sang, a beetle flew at him and 
 crept along the back of his neck. He brushed it 
 away. 
 
 " But does He exist? What if I am knocking 
 at a house which is locked from without. The bar 
 is on the door, and we can see it. Nightingales, 
 beetles, nature are the bar to our understanding. 
 That young man was perhaps right." He began 
 to pray aloud, and prayed long, till all these 
 thoughts disappeared and he became calm and 
 firm in the faith. He rang the bell, and told the 
 attendant to say that the merchant might now 
 come with his daughter. 
 
 The merchant came, leading his daughter by 
 the arm, and brought her to the cell, where he 
 left her. 
 
 The daughter was pale, with fair hair. She 
 was very short, and had a frightened, childish 
 face and full figure. Father Sergius remained 
 seated on the bench at the entrance. When the 
 girl passed him and stood near him he blessed 
 her, feeling aghast because of the way in which 
 he looked at her figure. As she passed by him, 
 he felt a sting. He saw by her face that she was 
 sensual and feeble minded. He rose and entered
 
 72 FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 his cell. She was sitting on a stool waiting for 
 him, and when he entered she rose. 
 
 '** I want to go back to my papa," she said. 
 
 " Do not be afraid," he said. " Where do you 
 feel pain? " 
 
 " I feel pain all over," she answered, and sud- 
 denly her face brightened with a smile. 
 
 " You will regain your health," he said. 
 " Pray." 
 
 "What's the use? I've prayed. It doesn't 
 help," and she continued smiling. " I wish you 
 would pray and lay your hands on me. I saw 
 you In a dream." 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 " I saw you put your hand on my chest." 
 
 She took his hand and pressed it to her breast. 
 
 " Here." 
 
 He yielded his right hand to her. 
 
 "What is your name?" he asked, his whole 
 body shaking, and feeling that he was overcome 
 and could not control his instinct. 
 
 "Marie, why?" 
 
 She took his hand and kissed it, and then 
 put her arm around his waist and pressed 
 him. 
 
 " Marie, what are you doing? " he said. 
 " You are a devil, Marie ! " 
 
 " Oh, perhaps. Never mind."
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 73 
 
 And embracing him, she sat down at his side 
 on the bed. 
 
 At dawn he went out of the door. Had all 
 this really happened? Her father would come. 
 She would tell. '' She's a devil. But what have 
 / done? Oh, there is the axe which I used to 
 chop oft my finger." 
 
 He took the axe and went back to the cell. 
 
 The attendant came toward him. " Do you 
 want some wood cut? Give me the axe." 
 
 He gave him the axe, and entered the cell. 
 She lay asleep. He looked on her with horror. 
 Going back into the cell he put on the peasant 
 clothes, seized the scissors, cut his hair, and then, 
 issuing forth, took the path down the hill to the 
 river, where he had not been for four years. 
 
 The road ran along the river. He went by it, 
 walking till noon. Then he went into a cornfield 
 and lay among the corn. Toward evening he ap- 
 proached a village, but did not enter it. He 
 went again to the river, to a cliff. 
 
 It was early morning, half an hour before sun- 
 rise. All was grey and mournful around him, 
 and a cold, early morning wind blew from the 
 west. 
 
 " I must end it all. There is no God. How 
 can I do it? Throw myself in! I can swim;
 
 74 FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 I should not drown. Hang myself? Yes; just 
 with this belt, to a branch." 
 
 This seemed so feasible and so easy that he 
 wanted to pray, as he always did in moments of 
 distress. But there was nothing to pray to. God 
 was not. He dropped down on his elbow, and 
 such a longing for sleep instantly overcame him 
 that he couldn't hold his head up with his arm 
 any longer. Stretching out his arm, he laid his 
 head upon it and went to sleep. But this sleep 
 lasted only a moment. He woke at once, and 
 Avhat followed was half dream and half recol- 
 lecdon. 
 
 He saw himself as a child in the house of his 
 mother in the country. A carriage was approach- 
 ing, and out of it stepped Uncle Nicholas Sergei- 
 vlch, with a long black beard like a spade, and 
 with him a slender girl, Pashinka, with large soft 
 eyes and a timid, pathetic little face. This girl 
 was taken to the place where the boys were play- 
 ing, and they were forced to play with her, which 
 was very tedious indeed. She was a silly little 
 girl, and it ended in their making fun of her, and 
 making her show them how she swam. She lay 
 down on the floor and went through the motions. 
 They laughed and turned her into ridicule; which, 
 when she became aware of it, made her blush in 
 patches. She looked so piteous that his con-
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 75 
 
 science pricked him, and he could never forget 
 her kind, submissive, tremulous smile. Sergius 
 remembered how he had seen her since then. A 
 long time ago, just before he became a monk, she 
 had married a landowner who had squandered all 
 her fortune, and who beat her. She had two chil- 
 dren, a son and a daughter; but the son died when 
 he was little, and Sergius remembered seeing her 
 very wretched after that, and then again at the 
 monastery, when she was a widow. She was still 
 just the same, not exactly stupid, but insipid, in- 
 significant, and piteous. She had come with her 
 daughter and her daughter's fiance. They were 
 poor at that time, and later on he heard that she 
 was living in a little provincial town and was al- 
 most destitute. 
 
 "Why does she come into my head?" he 
 asked himself, but still he could not help thinking 
 about her. "Where is she? What has become 
 of her? Is she as unhappy as she was when she 
 had to show us how she swam on the floor? But 
 what's the use of my thinking of her now? My 
 business is to put an end to myself." 
 
 Again he was afraid, and again, in order to 
 spare himself, he began to think about her. Thus 
 he lay a long time, thinking now of his extraor- 
 dinary end, now of Pashinka. She seemed some- 
 how the means of his salvation. At last he fell
 
 76 FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 asleep, and in his dream he saw an angel, who 
 came to him and said: — 
 
 " Go to Pashinka. Find out what you have to 
 do, and what your sin is, and what is your way 
 of salvation." 
 
 He awoke, convinced that this was a vision 
 from on high. He rejoiced, and resolved to do 
 as he was told in the dream. He knew the town 
 where she lived, three hundred miles away, so he 
 walked to that place.
 
 VI 
 
 Pashinka was no longer Pashinka. She had be- 
 come Praskovia Mikhailovna, old, wrinkled, and 
 shrivelled, the mother-in-law of a drunken offi- 
 cial, Mavrikiev — a failure. She lived in the lit- 
 tle provincial town where he had occupied his last 
 position, and had supported the family: a daugh- 
 ter, a nervous, ailing husband, and five grand- 
 children. Her sole means of supporting them 
 was by giving music lessons to the daughters of 
 merchants for fifty kopeks an hour. She had 
 sometimes four, sometimes five lessons a day, and 
 earned about sixty roubles a month. They all 
 lived for the moment on that in expectation of an- 
 other situation. She had sent letters to all her 
 friends and relations, asking for a post for her 
 son-in-law, and had also written to Sergius, but 
 the letter had never reached him. 
 
 It was Saturday, and Praskovia Mikhailovna 
 was kneading dough for currant bread such as the 
 cook, a serf on her father's estate, used to make, 
 for she wanted to give her grandchildren a treat 
 on Sunday. 
 
 77
 
 78 FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 Her daughter Masha M'as looking after her 
 youngest child, and the eldest boy and girl were 
 at school. As for her husband, he had not slept 
 that night, and was now asleep. Praskovia Mik- 
 hailovna had not slept well either, trying to ap- 
 pease her daughter's anger against her hus- 
 band. 
 
 She saw that her son-in-law, being a weak 
 character, could not talk or act differently, and 
 she perceived that the reproaches of his wife 
 availed nothing. All her energies were employed 
 in softening these reproaches. She did not want 
 harsh feelings and resentment to exist. Physi- 
 cally she could not stand a condition of ill-will. 
 It was clear to her that bitter feelings did not 
 mend matters, but simply made them worse. She 
 did not think about it. Seeing anger made her 
 suffer precisely as a bad odour or a shrill sound or 
 a blow. 
 
 She was just showing Lucarla, the servant, how 
 to mix the dough when her grandson, Misha, a 
 boy six years old, with little crooked legs in darned 
 stockings, ran into the kitchen looking frightened. 
 
 " Grandmother, a dreadful old man wants to 
 see you ! " 
 
 Lucaria looked out of the door. 
 
 " Oh, ma'am, it's a pilgrim." 
 
 Praskovia Mikhailovna wiped her thin elbows
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 79 
 
 with her hands, and then her hands on her apron, 
 and was about to go into the room to get five 
 kopeks out of her purse, when she remembered 
 that she had only a ten kopek piece, so, deciding 
 to give bread instead, she turned to the cupboard. 
 But then she blushed at the thought of having 
 grudged him alms, and ordering Lucaria to cut a 
 slice of bread, went to fetch the ten kopeks. 
 " That serves you right," she said to herself. 
 " Now you must give twice as much." 
 
 She gave both bread and money to the pilgrim 
 with apologies, and in doing so she was not at all 
 proud of her generosity. On the contrary, she 
 was ashamed of having given so little. The man 
 had such an imposing appearance. 
 
 In spite of having tramped three hundred miles, 
 begging in the name of Christ, and being nearly 
 in rags; in spite of having grown thin and weath- 
 er-beaten, and having his hair cut, and wearing 
 a peasant cap and boots; in spite, also, of his bow- 
 ing with gr^at humility, Sergius had the same im- 
 pressive appearance v/hich had attracted every one 
 to him. Praskovia Mikhailovna did not recog- 
 nise him. How could she, not having seen him 
 for many years? 
 
 " Excuse this humble gift, father. Wouldn't 
 you like something to eat? " 
 
 He took the bread and money, and Praskovia
 
 8o FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 MIkhailovna was astonished that he did not go, 
 but stood looking at her. 
 
 " Pashinka, I have come to you. Won't you 
 take me in? " 
 
 His beautiful black eyes looked at her intently, 
 imploringly, and shone, tears starting; and his 
 lips quivered painfully under the grey moustache. 
 
 Praskovia Mikhailovna pressed her hand to her 
 shrivelled breast, opened her mouth, and stared at 
 the pilgrim with dilated eyes. 
 
 "It can't be possible! Steph — Sergius — 
 Father Sergius ! " 
 
 " Yes, it is I," said Sergius in a low voice. 
 *' But no longer Sergius or Father Sergius, but a 
 great sinner, Stephen Kasatsky — a great sinner, 
 a lost sinner. Take me in — help me." 
 
 "No, it can't be possible! Such great humil- 
 ity! Come?" She stretched out her hand, but 
 he did not take it. He only followed her. 
 
 But where could she lead him? They had very 
 little space. She had a tiny little room for her- 
 self, hardly more than a closet, but even that 
 she had given up to her daughter, and now 
 Masha was sitting there rocking the baby to 
 sleep. 
 
 " Please, be seated here," she said to Sergius, 
 pointing to a bench in the kitchen. He sat down 
 at once, and took off, with an evidently accustomed
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 8i 
 
 action, the straps of his wallet first from one shoul- 
 der and then from the other. 
 
 "Heavens! What humility! What an hon- 
 our, and now — " 
 
 Sergius did not answer, but smiled meekly, lay- 
 ing his wallet on one side. 
 
 " Masha, do you know who this is?" And 
 Praskovia Mikhailovna told her daughter in a 
 whisper. They took the bed and the cradle out 
 of the little room, and made it ready for Sergius. 
 
 Praskovia Mikhailovna led him in. 
 
 " Now have a rest. Excuse this humble room. 
 I must go." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 " I have lessons. I'm ashamed to say 1 teach 
 
 music." 
 
 " Music ! That is well. But just one thing, 
 Praskovia Mikhailovna. I came to you with an 
 object. Could I have a talk with you? " 
 
 "I shall be happy. Will this evening do?" 
 " It will. One thing more. Do not say who I 
 am. I have only revealed myself to you. No 
 one knows where I went, and no one need 
 know." 
 
 " Oh, but I told my daughter — " 
 " Well, ask her not to tell any one." 
 Sergius took off his boots and slept after a 
 sleepless night and a forty-mile, tramp.
 
 82 FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 When Praskovia Mikhailovna returned Sergius 
 was sitting in the little room waiting for her. 
 He had not come out for dinner, but had some 
 soup and gruel which Lucaria brought in to him. 
 
 " Why did you return earlier than you said? " 
 asked Father Sergius. " May I speak to you 
 now? " 
 
 " What have I done to deserve the happiness 
 of having such a guest! I only missed one les- 
 son. That can wait. I have dreamed for a long 
 time of going to see you. I wrote to you. And 
 now this good fortune ! " 
 
 " Pashinka, please — listen to what I am going 
 to tell you, as if it were a confession; as if it were 
 something I should say to God in the hour of 
 death. Pashinka, I am not a holy man. I am 
 a vile and loathsome sinner. I have gone 
 astray through pride, and I am the vilest of the 
 vile." 
 
 Pashinka stared at him. She believed what he 
 said. Then, when she had quite taken it in, she 
 touched his hand and smijed sadly, and said, — 
 
 " Stevie, perhaps you exaggerate." 
 
 " No, Pashinka, I am an adulterer, a murderer, 
 a blasphemer, a cheat." 
 
 "My God, what does he mean?" she mut- 
 tered. 
 
 " But I must go on living. I, who thought I
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 83 
 
 knew everything, who taught others how to live, 
 I know nothing. I ask you to teach me." 
 
 "O Stevie! You are laughing at me. Why 
 do you always laugh at me? " 
 
 "Very well; have it as you will that I am 
 laughing at you. Still, tell me how you live, and 
 how you have lived your life." 
 
 "I? But I've lived a very bad life, the worst 
 life possible. Now God Is punishing me, and I 
 deserve it. And I am so miserable now — so 
 miserable ! " 
 
 " And your marriage — how did you get on? " 
 
 " It was all bad. I married because I fell in 
 love from low motives. Father didn't want me 
 to, but I wouldn't listen to anything. I just mar- 
 ried. And then, instead of helping my husband, 
 I made him wretched by my jealousy, which I 
 couldn't overcome." 
 
 " He drank, I heard." 
 
 " Well, but I didn't give him any peace. I re- 
 proached him. That's a disease. He couldn't 
 stop it. I remember now how I took his drink 
 away from him. We had such frightful scenes! " 
 She looked at Kasatsky with pain in her beauti- 
 ful eyes at the recollection. 
 
 Kasatsky called to mind that he had been told 
 that her husband beat Pashlnka, and looking at 
 her thin withered neck with veins standing out
 
 84 FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 behind her ears, the thin coil of hair, half grey, 
 half auburn, he saw it all just as it happened. 
 
 " Then I was left alone with two children, and 
 with no means." 
 
 " But you had an estate! " 
 
 " Oh, that was sold when Vasily was alive. 
 And the money was — spent. We had to live, 
 and I didn't know how to work — like all the 
 young ladies of that time. I was worse than the 
 rest — quite helpless. So we spent everything we 
 had. I taught the children. Masha had learnt 
 something. Then Misha fell ill when he was in 
 the fourth class in the school, and God took him. 
 Masha fell in love with Vania, my son-in-law. 
 He's a good man but very unfortunate. He's 
 ill." 
 
 " Mother," interrupted her daughter, " take 
 Misha. I can't be everywhere." 
 
 Praskovia Mikhailovna started, rose, and step- 
 ping quickly in her worn shoes, went out of the 
 room and came back with a boy of two in her 
 arms. The child was throwing himself back- 
 wards and grabbing at her shawl. 
 
 "Where was I? Yes — he had a very good 
 post here, and such a good chief, too. But poor 
 Vania couldn't go on, and he had to give up his 
 position." 
 
 " What is the matter with him? "
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 85 
 
 " Neurasthenia. It's such a horrid ilhiess. 
 We have been to the doctor, but he ought to go 
 away, and we can't afford it. Still, 1 hope it will 
 pass. He doesn't suffer much pain, but — " 
 
 "Lucaria!" said a feeble and angry voice. 
 '' She's always sent out when I need her. 
 Mother!" 
 
 " I'm coming," said Praskovia Mikhailovna, 
 again interrupting her conversation. "" You see, 
 he hasn't had his dinner yet. He can't eat with 
 
 us." 
 
 She went out and arranged something, and 
 came back, wiping her thin, dark hands. 
 
 '' Well, this is the way 1 live. I complain, and 
 I'm not satisfied, but, thank God, all my grand- 
 children are such nice healthy children, and life is 
 quite bearable. But why am I talking about my- 
 self?" 
 
 " What do you live on? " 
 
 "Why, I earn a little. How I used to hate 
 music ! and now it's so useful to me ! " 
 
 Her small hand lay on the chest of drawers that 
 stood beside her where she was sitting, and she 
 drummed exercises with her thin fingers. 
 
 " How much are you paid for your lessons? " 
 
 " Sometimes a rouble, sometimes fifty kopeks, 
 and sometimes thirty. They are all so kind to 
 
 me.
 
 86 FATHI:R SKRGIUS 
 
 " Anci do your pupils get on well?" asked 
 Kasatsky, smiling faintly with his eyes. 
 
 Praskovia Mikhailovna did not believe at first 
 that he was asking 'jer seriously, and looked in- 
 quiringly into his eyes. 
 
 " Some of them do," she said. " I have one 
 very nice pupil — the butcher's daughter. Such 
 a good, kind girl. It I were a clever woman I 
 could surely use my lather's influence and get a 
 position for my son-in-law. But it is my fault 
 they are so badly oft. 1 brought them to it." 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Kasatsky, dropping his head. 
 " Well, Pashinka, and what about your attitude to 
 the church? " 
 
 " Oh, don't speak of It! Pm so bad that way. 
 I have neglected it so ! When the children have 
 to go, I fast and go to communion with them, but 
 as for the rest of the time I often do not go for a 
 month. I just send them." 
 
 " And why don't you go? " 
 
 " Well, to tell the truth — " she blushed — " Pm 
 ashamed for Masha's sake and the children's to 
 go in my old clothes. And I haven't anything 
 else. Besides, Pm just lazy." 
 
 " And do you pray at home? " 
 
 " I do, but it's just a mechanical sort of praying. 
 I know it's wrong, but I have no real religious 
 feeling. I only know Pm wicked — that's all."
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 87 
 
 "Yes, yes. That's right, that's right 1" said 
 Kasatsky, as if in approval. 
 
 "I'm coming — I'm coming!" she called, in 
 answer to her son-in-law, and, tidying her hair, 
 went to the other room. 
 
 This time she was absent a long while. When 
 she returned, Kasatsky was sitting in the same 
 position, his elbow on his knee and his head down. 
 But his wallet was ready strapped on his back. 
 
 When she came in with a little tin lamp \yithout 
 a shade, he raised his beautiful, weary eyes, and 
 sighed deeply. 
 
 " I didn't tell them who you were," she began 
 shyly. " I just said you were a pilgrim — a no- 
 bleman — and that I used to know you. Won't 
 you come into the dining-room and have tea? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Then I'll bring some in to you here." 
 
 "No; I don't want anything. God bless you, 
 Pashinka. I am going now. If you have any 
 pity for me, don't tell any one you have seen me. 
 For the love of God, tell no one. I thank you. 
 I would kneel down before you, but I know it 
 would only make you feel awkward. Forgive me, 
 for Christ's sake." 
 
 " Give me your blessing." 
 
 " God bless you. Forgive me, for Christ's 
 sake."
 
 88 FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 He rose to go, but she restrained him and 
 brought him some bread and butter, which he took 
 and departed. 
 
 It was dark, and he had hardly passed the 
 second house when he was lost to sight, and she 
 only knew he was there because the dog at the 
 priest's house was barking. 
 
 " That was the meaning of my vision. Pa- 
 shinka is what I should have been, and was not. I 
 lived for man, on the pretext of living for God; 
 and she lives for God, imagining she lives for 
 man ! Yes ; one good deed — a cup of cold water 
 given without expectation of reward — is worth 
 far more than all the benefits I thought I was be- 
 stowing on the world. But was there not, after 
 all, one grain of sincere desire to serve God? " he 
 asked himself. And the answer came: "Yes, 
 there was; but it was so soiled, so overgrown with 
 desire for the world's praise. No; there is no 
 God for the man who lives for the praise of the 
 world. I must now seek Him," 
 
 He walked on, just as he had made his way 
 to Pashinka, from village to village, meeting and 
 parting with other pilgrims, and asking for bread 
 and a night's rest in the name of Christ, Some- 
 times an angry housekeeper would abuse him, 
 sometimes a drunken peasant would revile him;
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 89 
 
 but for the most part he was given food and 
 drink, and often something to take with him. 
 Many were favourably disposed towards him on 
 account of his noble bearing. Some, on the other 
 hand, seemed to enjoy the sight of a gentleman so 
 reduced to poverty. But his gentleness van- 
 quished all hearts. 
 
 He often found a Bible in a house where he 
 was staying. He would read it aloud, and the 
 people always listened to him, touched by what 
 he read them, and wondering, as if it were some- 
 thing new, although so familiar. 
 
 If he succeeded in helping people by his advice 
 or by knowing how to read and write, or by set- 
 tling a dispute, he did not afterwards wait to see 
 their gratitude, for he went away directly. And 
 little by little God began to reveal Himself within 
 him. 
 
 One day he was walking along the road with 
 two women and a soldier. They were stopped 
 by a party consisting of a lady and gentleman in 
 a trap drawn by a trotter, and another gentleman 
 and lady riding. The gentleman beside the lady 
 in the trap was evidently a traveller — a French- 
 man — while her husband was on horseback with 
 his daughter. 
 
 The party stopped to show the Frenchman the 
 pilgrims, who, according to a superstition of the
 
 90 FATHER SERGIUS 
 
 Russian peasantry, show their superiority by 
 tramping instead of working. They spoke French, 
 thinking they would not be understood. 
 
 " Demandez-leur'' asked the Frenchman, " s'ils 
 sont bien siires de ce que leur pelerinage est agrea- 
 ble aDieuf" 
 
 The old woman answered, — 
 
 " Just as God wills it. Our feet have arrived at 
 the holy places, but we can't tell about our hearts." 
 
 They asked the soldier. He answered that he 
 was alone in the world, and belonged nowhere. 
 
 They asked Kasatsky who he was. 
 
 "A servant of God." 
 
 " Ou'est-ce-qii'il dilf II ne re pond pas? " 
 
 " // dit quil est tin serviteur de D'leii." 
 
 " II doit etre tin fils de prelre. II a de la race. 
 Avez-vous de la petite montiaief " 
 
 The Frenchman had some change, and gave 
 each of them twenty kopeks. 
 
 '' Mais dites-leiir que ce nest pas pour Ics 
 cierges que je leur donne, mais pour qu'ils se rega- 
 lent du the. Tea — tea," he said, with a smile. 
 " Pour vous, mon vieux." And he patted Kasat- 
 sky on the shoulder with his gloved hand. 
 
 " Christ save you," said Kasatsky, and without 
 putting on his hat, bent his bald head. 
 
 Kasatsky rejoiced particularly in this incident, 
 because he had shown contempt for the world's
 
 FATHER SERGIUS 91 
 
 opinion, and had done something quite trifling 
 and easy. He accepted twenty kopeks, and gave 
 them afterwards to a blind beggar who was a 
 friend of his. 
 
 The less he cared for the opinion of the world 
 the more he felt that God was with him. 
 
 For eight months Kasatsky tramped in this 
 fashion, until at last he was arrested in a provin- 
 cial town in a night-shelter where he passed the 
 night with other pilgrims. Having no passport to 
 show, he was taken to the police-station. When 
 he was asked for documents to prove his identity 
 he said he had none; that he was a servant of 
 God. He was numbered among the tramps and 
 sent to Siberia. 
 
 There he settled down on the estate of a rich 
 peasant, where he still lives. He works in the 
 vegetable garden, teaches the children to read and 
 write, and nurses the sick.
 
 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
 
 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 
 
 1. ON RELIGION. 
 
 2. ON WAR. 
 
 3. ON STATE AND FATHERLAND. 
 
 4. ON TAXES. 
 
 5. ON JUDGING. 
 
 6. ON KINDNESS. 
 
 7. ON REMUNERATION OF LABOUR. 
 
 8. ON DRINK. 
 
 9. ON CAPITAL PUNISHMENT. 
 
 10. ON PRISONS. 
 
 11. ON WEALTH. 
 
 12. ON THOSE WHO OFFEND YOU. 
 
 13. ON THE PRESS. 
 
 14. ON REPENTANCE. 
 
 15. ON ART. 
 
 16. ON SCIENCE. 
 
 17. ON GOING TO LAW. 
 
 18. ON THE CRIMINAL COURT. 
 
 19. ON PROPERTY. 
 
 20. ON CHILDREN. 
 
 21. ON EDUCATION.
 
 ON RELIGION. 
 
 Boy. 
 
 Why is Nurse so nicely dressed to-day, and wliy 
 did she make me wear that new shirt? 
 
 Mother. 
 Because this is a holiday, and we are going to 
 church. 
 
 Boy. 
 What holiday? 
 
 Mother. 
 Ascension day. 
 
 Boy. 
 What does Ascension mean? 
 
 Mother. 
 It means that Jesus Christ has ascended to 
 heaven. 
 
 Boy. 
 What does that mean: ascended? 
 
 Mother. 
 It means that He flew up to heaven. 
 
 97
 
 98 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 
 
 Boy. 
 
 How did he fly? With his wings? 
 
 Mother. 
 Without any wings whatever. He simply flew 
 up because He is God, and God can do anything. 
 
 Boy. 
 
 But where did he fly to? Father told me there 
 was nothing in heaven at all, and we only think we 
 see something; that there's nothing but stars up 
 there, and behind them more stars still, and that 
 there is no end to it. Then where did He fly to? 
 
 Mother. 
 
 {sm'iUng.) You are unable to understand every- 
 thing. You must believe. 
 
 Boy. 
 
 What must I believe? 
 
 Mother. 
 What you are told by grown-up people. 
 
 Boy. 
 
 But when I said to you that somebody was 
 going to die because some salt had been spilt, you 
 said I was not to believe in nonsense.
 
 ON RELIGION 99 
 
 Mother. 
 Of course you are not to believe in nonsense. 
 
 Boy. 
 But how am I to know what Is nonsense and 
 what is not? 
 
 Mother. 
 
 You must believe what the true faith says, and 
 not in nonsense. 
 
 Boy. 
 Which is the true faith then? 
 
 Mother. 
 
 Our faith is the true one. {To herself.) I 
 am afraid I am talking nonsense. {Aloud.) Go 
 and tell father we are ready for church, and get 
 your coat. 
 
 Boy. 
 
 And shaU we have chocolate after church?
 
 ON WAR 
 
 Karlchen Schmidt, nine years; Petia Orlov, 
 ten years; and Masha Orlov, eight years. 
 
 Karlchen. 
 
 . . . Because we Prussians will not allow Russia 
 to rob us of our land. 
 
 Petia. 
 But we say this land belongs to us; we con- 
 quered it first. 
 
 Masha. 
 To whom? Is it ours? 
 
 Petia. 
 You are a child, and you don't understand. 
 " To us " means to our state. 
 
 Karlchen. 
 
 It is this way; some belong to one state and 
 some to another. 
 
 Masha. 
 
 What do I belong to? 
 
 lOO
 
 ON WAR loi 
 
 Petia. 
 You belong to Russia, like the rest of us. 
 
 Masha. 
 And If I don't want to? 
 
 Petia. 
 
 It doesn't matter whether you want to or not. 
 You are Russian all the same. Every nation 
 has its Tsar, its King. 
 
 Karlchen. 
 (interrupting.) And a parliament. 
 
 Petia. 
 Each state has its army, each state raises taxes. 
 
 Masha. 
 But why must each state stand by itself? 
 
 Petia. 
 
 What a silly question! Because each state is a 
 separate one. 
 
 Masha. 
 But why must it exist apart? 
 
 Petia. 
 
 Can't you understand? Because everybody 
 loves his own country.
 
 I02 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 
 
 Masha. 
 
 I don't understand why they must be separate 
 from the rest. Wouldn't it be better if they all 
 kept together? 
 
 Petia. 
 
 To keep together is all right when you play 
 games. But this is no game: it is a very serious 
 matter. 
 
 Masha. 
 
 I don't understand. 
 
 Karlchen. 
 
 You will when you grow up. 
 
 Masha. 
 
 Then I don't want to grow up. 
 
 Petia. 
 
 Such a tiny girl, and obstinate already, just like 
 all of them.
 
 ON STATE AND FATHERLAND 
 
 Gavrila, a soldier in the reserve, a servant. 
 MiSHA, his master s young son. 
 
 Gavrila. 
 
 Good-bye, Mishenka, my dear little master. 
 Who knows whether God will permit me to see 
 you again? 
 
 MiSHA. 
 Are you really leaving? 
 
 Gavrila. 
 
 I have to. There is war again. And I am in 
 the reserve. 
 
 MiSHA. 
 
 A war with whom? Who's fighting, and who 
 are they fighting against? . 
 
 Gavrila. 
 
 God knows. It's very difficult to understand 
 all that. I have read about it in the papers, but I 
 
 103
 
 I04 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 
 
 can't make it out. They say that some one in 
 Austria has a grudge against us because of some 
 favour he did to what's-their-names. . . . 
 
 MiSHA. 
 
 But what are you fighting for? 
 
 Gavrila. 
 
 I am fighting for the Tsar, of course; for my 
 country and the Orthodox Faith. 
 
 MiSHA. 
 
 But you don't wish to go to the war, do you? 
 
 Gavrila. 
 Certainly not. To leave my wife and my chil- 
 dren. . . . Do you suppose I would leave this 
 happy life of my own free will? 
 
 MiSHA. 
 
 Then why do you go? Tell them you don't 
 want to, and stop here. What can they do to 
 you? 
 
 Gavrila. 
 
 {laughing.) What can they do? They will take 
 me by force. 
 
 MiSHA. 
 
 Who can take you by force?
 
 ON STATE AND FATHERLAND 105 
 Gavrila. 
 Men who have to obey, and who are exactly in 
 my position. 
 
 MiSHA. 
 
 Why will they take you by force If they are in 
 the same position? 
 
 Gavrila. 
 
 Because of the authorities. They will be or- 
 dered to take me, and they will have to do it. 
 
 MiSHA. 
 
 But suppose they don't want to? 
 
 Gavrila. 
 They have to obey. 
 
 MiSHA. 
 
 But why? 
 
 Gavrila. 
 Why? Because of the law. 
 
 MiSHA. 
 
 What law 
 
 Gavrila. 
 You are a funny boy. It's a pleasure to chat 
 with you. But now I had better go and get the 
 samovar ready. It will be for the last time.
 
 ON TAXES 
 
 The Bailiff and Grushka. 
 Bailiff. 
 
 {entering a poor cottage. Nobody is in except 
 Grushka, a little girl of seven. He looks around 
 him.) Nobody at home? 
 
 Grushka. 
 Mother has gone to bring home the cow, and 
 Fedka is at work in the master's yard. 
 
 Bailiff. 
 
 Well, tell your mother the bailiff called. Tell 
 her I am giving her notice for the third time, and 
 that she must pay her taxes before Sunday without 
 fail, or else I will take her cow. 
 
 Grushka. 
 
 The cow? Are you a thief? We will not let 
 you take our cow. 
 
 Bailiff. 
 
 (smiling.) What a smart girl, I say! What is 
 your name? 
 
 io6
 
 ON TAXES 107 
 
 Grushka. 
 Grushka. 
 
 Bailiff. 
 You are a good girl, Grushka. Now listen. 
 Tell your mother that, although I am not a thief, 
 I will take her cow. 
 
 Grushka. 
 
 Why will you take our cow if you are not a 
 thief? 
 
 Bailiff. 
 Because what is due must be paid. I shall 
 take the cow for the taxes that are not paid. 
 
 Grushka. 
 What's that: taxes? 
 
 Bailiff. 
 What a nuisance of a girl! What are taxes? 
 They are money paid by the people by the order of 
 the Tsar. 
 
 Grushka. 
 To whom? 
 
 Bailiff. 
 
 The Tsar will look after that when the money 
 comes in. 
 
 Grushka. 
 He's not poor, is he? We are the poor people.
 
 io8 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 
 
 The Tsar is rich. Why does he want us to give 
 him money? 
 
 Bailiff. 
 
 He does not take it for himself. He spends It 
 on us, fools that we are. It all goes to supply our 
 needs — to pay the authorities, the army, the 
 schools. It is for our own good that we pay taxes. 
 
 Grushka. 
 
 How does It benefit us if our cow is taken away? 
 There's no good In that. 
 
 Bailiff. 
 
 You will understand that when you are grown- 
 up. Now, mind you give your mother my mes- 
 sage. 
 
 Grushka. 
 
 I will not repeat all your nonsense to her. You 
 can do whatever you and the Tsar want. And 
 we shall mind our own business. 
 
 Bailiff. 
 
 What a devil of a girl she will be when she 
 grows up !
 
 ON JUDGING 
 
 MiTiA, a boy of ten; Iliusha, a boy of nine; 
 SONIA, a girl of six. 
 
 MiTIA. 
 
 I told Peter Semenov^ich we could get used to 
 wearing no clothes at all. And he said, " That is 
 impossible." Then I told him Michael Ivano- 
 vich said that just as we have managed to get our 
 bare faces used to the cold, we could do the same 
 with our whole body. Peter Semenovich said, 
 " Your Michael Ivanovich is a fool." {He 
 laughs.) And Michael Ivanovich said to me 
 only yesterday, " Peter Semenovich is talking a 
 lot of nonsense. But, of course," he added, 
 " there's no law for fools." {He laughs.) 
 
 Iliusha. 
 
 If I were you I would tell Peter Semenovich, 
 " You abuse Michael Ivanovich, and he does the 
 same to you." 
 
 MiTIA. 
 
 No; but truly, I wish I knew which of them is 
 the fool. 
 
 109
 
 no THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 
 
 Son I A. 
 
 They both are. Whoever calls another person 
 a fool is a fool himself. 
 
 Iliusha. 
 
 And you hav^e called them both fools. Then 
 you are one also. 
 
 MiTIA. 
 
 Well, I hate people saying things about each 
 other behind their backs and never openly to their 
 faces. When I am grown-up I shan't be like that. 
 I shall always say what I think. 
 
 Iliusha. 
 
 So shall I. 
 
 SONIA. 
 
 And I shall do just whatever I like. 
 
 MiTIA. 
 
 What do you mean? 
 
 SONIA. 
 
 Why, I shall say what I think — If I choose. 
 And if I don't choose, I won't. 
 
 Iliusha. 
 You're a big fool, that is what you are. 
 
 SONIA. 
 
 And you have just said you will never call 
 people names. But of course. 
 
 • •
 
 ON KINDNESS 
 
 The children, Masha and MiSHA, are building a 
 tent for their dolls in front of the house. 
 
 MiSHA. 
 
 {in an angry tone to Masha.) No, not this. 
 Bring that stick there. What a blockhead you 
 are! 
 
 An Old Woman. 
 [coming out of the house, crossing herself, and 
 muttering.) Jesus Christ reward her! What 
 an angel ! She has pity on every one. 
 
 {The Children cease to play, and 
 look at the old woman.) 
 
 MiSHA. 
 
 Who is as good as all that? 
 
 Old Woman. 
 
 Your mother. She has God in her soul. She 
 pities us, the poor. She has given me a skirt — 
 and some tea, and money too. The Queen of 
 
 III
 
 112 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 
 
 Heaven save her! Not like that godless man. 
 " Such a lot of you," he says, " tramping about 
 here." And such savage dogs he has 1 
 
 MiSHA. 
 
 Who is that? 
 
 Old Woman. 
 
 The man opposite. The wine merchant. A 
 very unkind gentleman, J can tell you. But never 
 mind. I am so thankful to the dear lady. She 
 has given me presents, has relieved me, miserable 
 creature that I am. How could we exist if it were 
 not for such kind people? (She weeps.) 
 
 Masha. 
 (to Misha.) How good she is! 
 
 Old Woman. 
 
 When you are grown up, children, be as kind as 
 she is to the poor. God will reward you. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 MiSHA. 
 
 How wretched she is! 
 
 Masha. 
 I am so glad mother has given her something. 
 
 Misha. 
 
 Why shouldn't one give, if one has got plenty
 
 ON KINDNESS 113 
 
 of everything oneself? We are not poor, and 
 she is. 
 
 Masha. 
 
 You remember, John the Baptist said: Who- 
 ever has two coats, let him give away one. 
 
 MiSHA. 
 
 Oh, when I am grown up I will give away 
 everything I have. 
 
 Masha. 
 Not everything, I should think. 
 
 MiSHA. 
 
 Why not ? 
 
 Masha. 
 But what would you have left for yourself? 
 
 MiSHA. 
 
 I don't care. We must always be kind. Then 
 the whole world will be happy. 
 
 (MiSHA stopped playing with his sis- 
 ter, went to the nursery, tore a page out 
 of a copy-book, wrote a line on it, and 
 put it in his pocket. On that page was 
 written: We Must Be Kind.)
 
 ON REMUNERATION OF LABOUR 
 
 The Father; Katia, a girl of nine; Fedia, a boy 
 
 of eight. 
 
 Katia. 
 
 Father, our sledge is broken. Couldn't you 
 mend it for us? 
 
 Father. 
 No, darling, I can not. I don't know how to 
 do it. Give it to Prohor; he will put it right for 
 you. 
 
 Katia. 
 
 We have asked him to already. He says he is 
 busy. He is making a gate. 
 
 Father. 
 
 Well, then, you must just wait a little with your 
 sledge. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 And you, father, can't you mend it for us, 
 really? 
 
 114
 
 REMUNERATION OF LABOUR 115 
 Father. 
 {smiling.) Really, my boy. 
 
 Fedia. 
 Can't you do any work at all? 
 
 Father. 
 
 (laughing.) Oh yes, there are some kinds of 
 work I can do. But not the kind that Prohor 
 does. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Can you make samovars like Vania? 
 
 Father. 
 No. 
 
 Fedia. 
 Or harness horses? 
 
 Father. 
 
 Not that either. « 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 I wonder why are we all unable to do any work, 
 and they do It all for us. Ought It to be like 
 that? 
 
 Father. 
 Everybody has to do the work he Is fit for. 
 Learn, like a good boy, and you will know what 
 work everybody has to do.
 
 ii6 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Are we not to learn how to prepare food and 
 to harness horses? 
 
 Father. 
 There are things more necessary thaji that. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 I know: to be kind, not to get cross, not to 
 abuse people. But isn't it possible to do the cook- 
 ing and harness horses, and be kind just the same? 
 Isn't that possible? 
 
 Father. 
 Undoubtedly. Just wait till you are grown up. 
 Then you will understand. 
 
 Fedia. 
 And what If I don't grow up? 
 
 Father. 
 Don't talk nonsense ! 
 
 Katia. 
 Then we may ask Prohor to mend the sledge? 
 
 Father. 
 Yes, do. Go to Prohor and tell him I wish 
 him to do it.
 
 ON DRINK 
 
 An evening in the autumn. 
 
 (Makarka, a hoy of tzvehe, and 
 Marfutka, a girl of eight, are coming 
 out of the house into the street. Mar- 
 FUTKA is crying. Pavlushka, a hoy 
 of ten, stands hefore the house next 
 door.) 
 
 Pavlushka. 
 Where the devil are you going to, both of you? 
 'Have you any night work? 
 
 Makarka. 
 Crazy drunk again. 
 
 Pavlushka. 
 Who? Uncle Prohor? 
 
 Makarka. 
 Of course. 
 
 Marfutka. 
 
 He is beating mother — 
 
 117
 
 ii8 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 
 
 Makarka. 
 
 T won't go inside to-night. He would hit me 
 also. {Silting doivn on the doorstep.) I will 
 stay here the whole night. I will. 
 
 (Marfutka weeps.) 
 
 Pavlushka. 
 Stop crying. Never mind. It can't be helped. 
 Stop crying, I say. 
 
 Marfutka. 
 If I was the Tsar, I would have the people who 
 give him any drink just beaten to death. I would 
 not allow anybody to sell brandy. 
 
 Pavlusmka. 
 Wouldn't you? But it Is the Tsar himself who 
 sells it. He doesn't let anybody else sell it, for 
 fear it would lessen his own profits. 
 
 Marfutka. 
 It is a lie! 
 
 Pavlushka. 
 Humph! A lie! Tou just ask anybody you 
 like. Why have they put Akulina in prison? 
 Because they did not want her to sell brandy and 
 lessen their profits. 
 
 Makarka. 
 Is that really so ! I heard she had done some- 
 thing against the law.
 
 ON DRINK 119 
 
 Pavlushka. 
 What she did against the law was selling 
 brandy. 
 
 Marfutka. 
 I would not allow her to sell it either. It is 
 just that brandy that does all the mischief. Some- 
 times he is very nice, and then at other times he 
 hits everybody. 
 
 Makarka. 
 {to Pavlushka.) You say very strange things. 
 I will ask. the schoolmaster to-morrow. He must 
 know. 
 
 Pavlushka. 
 Do ask him. 
 
 {The next morning ProhoR, 
 Makarka's father, after a night's 
 sleep, goes to refresh himself with a 
 drink; Makarka's mother, with a 
 swollen eye, is kneading bread. 
 Makarka has gone to school. The 
 Schoolmaster is sitting at the door of 
 the village school, zvatching the children 
 coming in.) 
 
 Makarka. 
 {coming up to the schoolmaster.) Tell me, 
 please, Eugene Semenovich, is it true, what a fel- 
 low was telling me, that the Tsar makes a busi-
 
 120 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 
 
 ness of selling brandy, and that is why Akulina 
 has been sent to prison? 
 
 Schoolmaster. 
 
 That is a very silly question, and whoever told 
 you that is a fool. The Tsar sells nothing what- 
 soever. A tsar never does. As for Akulina, she 
 was put in prison because she was selling brandy 
 without a license, and was thereby lessening the 
 revenues of the Crown. 
 
 Makarka. 
 How lessening? 
 
 Schoolmaster. 
 
 Because there is a duty on spirits. A barrel 
 costs so much in the factory, and is sold to the 
 public for so much more. This surplus constitutes 
 the income of the state. The largest revenue 
 comes from it, and amounts to many millions. 
 
 Makarka. 
 Then the more brandy people drink the greater 
 the income? 
 
 Schoolmaster. 
 
 Certainly. If It were not for that income there 
 would be nothing to keep the army with, or 
 schools, or all the rest of the things you need.
 
 ON DRINK 121 
 
 Makarka. 
 But If all those things are necessary, why not 
 take the money directly for the necessary things? 
 Why get It by means of brandy? 
 
 Schoolmaster. 
 Why? Because that Is the law. But the chil- 
 dren are all In now. Take your seats.
 
 ON CAPITAL PUNISHMENT 
 
 Peter Petrovich, a professor. Maria Ivan- 
 OVNA, his wife {sewing.) Fedia, their son, a boy 
 of nine {listening to his father's conversation.) 
 Ivan Vasilievich, counsel for the prosecution in 
 the court martial. 
 
 Ivan Vasilievich. 
 
 The experience of history cannot be gainsaid. 
 We have not only seen in France after the revolu- 
 tion, and at other historical moments, but in our 
 own country as well, that doing away with — I 
 mean the removal of perverted and dangerous 
 members of society has in fact the desired result. 
 
 Peter Petrovich. 
 
 No, we cannot know what the consequences of 
 this are in reality. The proclamation of a state 
 of siege is therefore not justified. 
 
 Ivan Vasilievich. 
 
 But neither have we the right to presume that 
 the consequences of a state of siege must be bad, 
 
 122
 
 ON CAPITAL PUNISHMENT 123 
 
 or, If it proves to be so, that such consequences 
 are brought about by the employment of a state of 
 siege. This is one point. The other is that fear 
 canr^t fail to influence those who have lost every 
 human sensibility and are like beasts. What ex- 
 cept fear could have any effect on men like that 
 one who calmly stabbed an old woman and three 
 children In order to steal three hundred roubles? 
 
 Peter Petrovich. 
 
 But I am not against capital punishment in 
 principle; I am only opposed to the special courts 
 martial which are so often formed. If these 
 frequent executions did nothing but inspire fear, 
 it would be different. But in addition they per- 
 vert the mind, and killing becomes a habit of 
 thought. 
 
 Ivan Vasilievich. 
 
 There again we don't know anything about the 
 remote consequences, but we do know, on the con- 
 trary, how beneficial. . . . 
 
 Peter Petrovich. 
 Beneficial? 
 
 Ivan Vasilievich. 
 
 Yes, how beneficial the immediate results are, 
 and we have no right to deny it. How could
 
 124 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 
 
 society similarly fail to exact the penalty from 
 such a wretch as . . . 
 
 Peter Petrovich. 
 You mean society must take its revenge? 
 
 Ivan Vasilievich. 
 
 No, the object is not revenge. On the con- 
 trary, it must substitute for personal revenge the 
 penalty imposed for the good of the community. 
 
 Peter Petrovich. 
 
 But in that case it must be subject to regulations 
 settled by the lavt' once for ever, and not as a 
 special order of things. 
 
 Ivan Vasilievich. 
 
 The penalty imposed by the community is a 
 substitute for casual, exaggerated revenge, in 
 many cases ungrounded and erroneous, which a 
 private Individual might take. 
 
 Peter Petrovich. 
 
 (passionately.) Do you really mean to say the 
 penalty imposed by society is never casual, is 
 always well founded, is never erroneous? I can- 
 not admit that. None of your arguments could 
 ever convince ine or anyone else that this is true
 
 ON CAPITAL PUNISHMENT 125 
 
 of a state of siege, under which thousands have 
 been executed . . . and under which execu- 
 tions are still going on — that all this Is both just 
 and legal, and beneficial into the bargain! {Rises 
 and walks up and down in great agitation.) 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 {to his mother.) Mother, what Is father talking 
 about? 
 
 Maria Ivanovna. 
 
 Father thinks it wrong that so many people are 
 put to death. 
 
 Fedia. 
 Do you mean really put to death? 
 
 Maria Ivanovna. 
 
 Yes. He thinks it ought not to be done so 
 frequently. 
 
 Fedia. 
 {coming up to his father.) Father, Isn't It writ- 
 ten In the Ten Commandments: " Thou shalt not 
 kill "? Doesn't that mean you are not to kill at 
 all? 
 
 Peter Petrovich. 
 {smiling.) That does not refer to what we are 
 talking about. It only means that men are not 
 to kill other men.
 
 126 THE WISDONT OF CHILDREN 
 
 Fedia. 
 But when they execute they kill, don't they? 
 
 Peter Petrovich. 
 Certainly, But the thing is to know why and 
 when it is permissible. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 When is it? 
 
 Peter Petrovich. 
 
 Why, think of a war, or of a great villain who 
 has committed many murders. How could one 
 leave him unpunished? 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 But isn't it written in the Gospel that we must 
 love and forgive everybody? 
 
 Peter Petrovich. 
 
 If we could do that It would be splendid. But 
 that cannot be. 
 
 Fedia. 
 Why? 
 
 Peter Petrovich. 
 (to Ivan Vasilievich, zvIw listens to Fedia with 
 (I smile.) As I said, dear Ivan Vasilievich, I can- 
 not and will not admit the benefit of a state of 
 siege and courts-martial.
 
 ON PRISONS 
 
 Semka, a boy of thirteen ; Aksutka, a girl of 
 ten; Palashka, a girl of nine; Vanka, a boy of 
 eight. They are sitting at the well, with baskets 
 of mushrooms zvhich they have gathered. 
 
 Aksutka. 
 
 Aunt Matrena was crying so desperately. And 
 the children too would not leave off howling, all 
 at the same time. 
 
 Vanka. 
 Why were they howling? 
 
 Palashka. 
 What about? Why, their father has been 
 taken off to prison. Who should cry but the 
 family? 
 
 Vanka. 
 
 Why is he in prison? 
 
 Aksutka. 
 
 I don't know. They came and told him to get 
 
 127
 
 128 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 
 
 his things ready and led him away. We saw it 
 all from our cottage. 
 
 Semka. 
 
 Serves him right for being a horse-stealer. He 
 stole a horse from Demkin's place and one from 
 Hramov's. He and his gang also got hold of our 
 gelding. Who could love him for that? 
 
 Aksutka. 
 
 That is all right, but I am sorry for the poor 
 brats. There are four of them. And so poor — 
 no bread In the house. To-day they had to come 
 to us. 
 
 Semka. 
 Serves the thief right. 
 
 MiTKA. 
 
 But he's the only one that is the thief. Why 
 must his children become beggars? 
 
 Semka. 
 Why did he steal? 
 
 MiTKA. 
 
 The kid's didn't steal — it is just he. 
 
 Semka. 
 
 Kids indeed! Why did he do wrong? That 
 doesn't alter the case, that he has got children. 
 Does that give him the right to be a thief?
 
 ON PRISONS 129 
 
 Vanka. 
 
 What will they do to him in prison? 
 
 Aksutka. 
 He will just sit there. That's all. 
 
 Vanka. 
 
 And will they give him food? 
 
 Semka. 
 
 That's just the reason why they're not afraid, 
 those damned horse-thieves ! He doesn't mind 
 going to prison. They provide him with every- 
 thing and he has nothing to do but sit idle the 
 whole day long. If I were the Tsar, I would 
 know how to manage those horse-thieves. . . . 
 I would teach them a lesson that would make 
 them give up the habit of stealing. Now he has 
 nothing to worry him. He sits in the company 
 of fellows like himself, and they teach each other 
 how to steal. Grandfather said Petrusha was 
 quite a good boy when he went to prison for the 
 first time, but he came out a desperate villain. 
 Since then he's taken to — ^ 
 
 Vanka. 
 
 Then why do they put people in prison? 
 
 Semka. 
 Just ask them.
 
 130 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 
 
 Aksutka. 
 
 He will have all his food given to him — 
 
 Semka. 
 
 (agreeing.) So he will get more accustomed to 
 finding the food ready for him! 
 
 Aksutka. 
 
 While the kiddies and their mother have to die 
 of starvation. They are our neighbours; we can't 
 help pitying them. When they come asking for 
 bread, we can't refuse. How could we? 
 
 Vanka. 
 Then why are those people put In prison? 
 
 Semka. 
 What else could be done with them? 
 
 Vanka. 
 
 What? What could be done? One must 
 somehow manage that. . . . 
 
 Semka. 
 
 Yes, somelj^w ! But you don't know how. 
 There have been people with more brains than 
 you've got who have thought about that, and they 
 couldn't Invent anything. 
 
 Palashka. 
 I think If I had been a queen . . .
 
 ON PRISONS 131 
 
 Aksutka. 
 {laughing.) Well, what would you have done, 
 my queen? 
 
 Palashka. 
 
 I would have things so that nobody would steal 
 and the children would not cry. 
 
 Aksutka. 
 
 How would you do that? 
 
 Palashka. 
 
 I would just see that everybody was given what 
 he needed, that nobody was wronged by anybody 
 else, and that they were all happy. 
 
 Semka. 
 
 Three cheers for the queen ! But how would 
 you manage that? 
 
 Palashka. 
 I would just do it, you would see. 
 
 MiTKA. 
 
 Let us all go to the birch woods. The girls 
 have been gathering a lot there lately. 
 
 Semka. 
 
 All right. Come along, you fellows. i\nd 
 you, queen, mind you don't drop your mushrooms. 
 You are so sharp. 
 
 {They get up and go away.)
 
 ON WEALTH 
 
 The Landlord, his Wife, their Daughter 
 and their son Vasia, six years old, are having tea 
 on the veranda. The grown-up children are 
 playing tennis. A YouNG Beggar comes up to 
 the veranda. 
 
 Landlord. 
 
 {to the beggar.) What do you want? 
 
 Beggar. 
 
 {boiling to him.) I dare say you know. Have 
 pity on a man out of work. I am tramping, with 
 nothing to eat, and no clothes to wear. I have 
 been to Moscow, and am trying to get home. 
 Help a poor man. 
 
 Landlord. 
 Why are you poor? 
 
 Beggar. 
 Why? Because I haven't got anything. 
 
 Landlord. 
 You would not be poor if you worked. 
 
 132
 
 ON WEALTH 133 
 
 Beggar. 
 I would be glad to, but I can't get a job. 
 Everything is shut down now. 
 
 Landlord. 
 How Is It other people find work and you can- 
 not? 
 
 Beggar. 
 Believe me, upon my soul, I would be only too 
 glad to work. But I can't find a job. Have pity 
 on me, sir. I have not eaten for two days, and 
 I've been tramping all the time. 
 
 Landlord. 
 
 {to his wife in French.) Have you any change? 
 I have only notes. 
 
 His Wife. 
 
 (to Vasia.) Be a good boy, go and fetch my 
 purse; It is in my bag on the little table beside my 
 bed. 
 
 (Vasia does not hear what his mother 
 says; he has his eyes fixed on the beggar.) 
 
 The Wife 
 
 Don't you hear, Vasia? {Pulling him by the 
 sleeve.) Vasia 1
 
 134 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 
 
 Vasia. 
 What, mother? 
 
 (The Wife repeats her directions.) 
 Vasia. 
 {jumping up.) I am off. {Goes, looking back 
 at the beggar.) 
 
 Landlord. 
 {to the beggar.) Wait a moment. (Beggar 
 steps aside.) 
 
 Landlord. 
 {to his wife, in French.) Is It not dreadful? So 
 many are out of work now. It is all laziness. 
 Yet, It Is horrid If he really is hungry. 
 
 His Wife. 
 
 I hear It Is just the same abroad. I have read 
 that In New York there are 100,000 unemployed. 
 Another cup of tea? 
 
 Landlord. 
 Yes, but much weaker. {He lights a cigarette; 
 they stop talking.) 
 
 (Beggar looks at them, shakes his 
 head and coughs, evidently to attract 
 their attention.) 
 
 (Vasia comes running idth the 
 purse looks round for the beggar and, 
 passing the purse to his mother, looks 
 again fixedly at the beggar.)
 
 ON WEALTH 135 
 
 Landlord. 
 
 (taking a ten kopek piece out of the purse.) 
 There, What's-your-name, take that. 
 
 Beggar. 
 
 {bows, pulls of his cap and takes the money.) 
 Thank you, thank you for that much. Many 
 thanks for having pity on a poor man. 
 
 Landlord. 
 
 I pity you chiefly for being out of work. Work 
 would save you from poverty. He who works 
 will never be poor. 
 
 Beggar. 
 
 {having received the money, puts on his cap and 
 turns away.) They say truly that work does not 
 make a rich man but a humpback. (Exit.) 
 
 Vasia. 
 What did he say ! 
 
 Landlord. 
 He repeated that stupid peasant's proverb, that 
 work does not make a rich man but a humpback. 
 
 Vasia. 
 What does that mean?
 
 136 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 
 
 Landlord. 
 
 It is supposed to mean that work makes a man's 
 back crooked, without ever making him rich. 
 
 Vasia. 
 But that is not true, is it? 
 
 Father. 
 Of course not. Those who tramp about like 
 that man there and have no desire to work, are 
 always poor. It's only those who work, who get 
 rich. 
 
 Vasia. 
 Why are we rich, then, when we don't work? 
 
 Mother. 
 
 (laughing.) How do you know father doesn't 
 work ? 
 
 Vasia. 
 I don't know% but since we are very rich, father 
 ought to be working very hard. Is he, I wonder? 
 
 Father. 
 There is work and work. My work is perhaps 
 work that everybody could not do. 
 
 Vasia. 
 What is your work?
 
 ON WEALTH 137 
 
 Father. 
 My work is to provide for your food, your 
 clothes, and your education. 
 
 Vasia. 
 
 But hasn't he to provide all that also? Then 
 why is he so miserable when we are so — 
 
 Father. 
 
 {laughing.) What a self-made socialist, I say! 
 
 Mother. 
 
 Yes, people say: " A fool can ask more ques- 
 tions than a thousand wise men can answer." In- 
 stead of " fool," we ought to say " every child."
 
 ON THOSE WHO OFFEND YOU 
 
 Masha, a girl of ten; Vania, a boy of eight. 
 
 Mas HA. 
 
 What I wish is that mother would come home 
 at once and take us shoppuig, and then to call on 
 Nastla. What would you like to happen now? 
 
 Vania. 
 
 I? I wish something would happen like it did 
 yesterday. 
 
 Masha. 
 
 What happened yesterday? You mean when 
 Grisha hit you and you both began to cry? There 
 wasn't much good in that. 
 
 Vania. 
 That's just what was beautiful. Nothing could 
 have been more so. That's what I want to hap- 
 pen again. 
 
 Masha. 
 I don't understand. 
 
 138
 
 ON THOSE WHO OFFEND YOU 139 
 
 Vania. 
 
 Well, I will explain what I want. Do you 
 remember last Sunday, Uncle P. — you know how 
 I love him. . . . 
 
 Masha. 
 
 Who wouldn't. Mother says he is a saint; and 
 it's true. 
 
 Vania. 
 
 Well, you remember he told us a story last 
 Sunday about a man whom people used to insult. 
 The more any one insulted him the more he loved 
 the offender. They abused him, and he praised 
 them. They hit him and he helped them. Uncle 
 said that anybody who acts so feels very happy. 
 I liked what he said, and I wanted to be like that 
 man. So, when Grisha hit me yesterday, I re- 
 membered my wish and kissed Grisha. He burst 
 out crying. I felt very happy. But with nurse 
 yesterday it was different; she began scolding me, 
 and I quite forgot how I ought to have behaved, 
 and I answered her very rudely. What I wish 
 now is to have the same experience over again 
 that I had with Grisha. 
 
 Masha. 
 Then you would like somebody to strike you?
 
 140 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 
 
 Vania. 
 
 I would like it awfully. I would immediately 
 do what I did to Grisha, and I would be so glad. 
 
 Masha. 
 
 How stupid ! Just like the fool you've always 
 been. 
 
 Vania. 
 
 I don't mind being a fool. I only know now 
 what to do, so as to feel happy all the time. 
 
 Masha. 
 
 A regular fool ! Do you really feel happy, do- 
 ing so? 
 
 Vania. 
 Just awfully happy I
 
 ON THE PRESS 
 
 The schoolroom at home. 
 
 (VOLODIA, a schoolboy of fourteen, 
 is reading; SONIA, a girl of fifteen, is 
 writing. The Yard-Porter enters, 
 carrying a heavy load on his back: 
 MiSHA, a boy of eight, following him.) 
 
 Porter. 
 Where am I to put that bundle, sir? My 
 shoulders are bent down with the weight of it. 
 
 VOLODIA. 
 Where were you told to put it? 
 
 Porter. 
 Vasily Timofeevich told me to carry it to the 
 schoolroom and leave it for him. 
 
 VOLODIA. 
 
 Then put it in the corner. 
 
 (Porter unloads the bundle and 
 sighs heavHy.) 
 141
 
 142 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 
 
 SONIA. 
 What is It? 
 
 VOLODIA. 
 
 " Truth " — a paper. 
 
 MiSHA. 
 
 " Truth " ? What do you mean? 
 
 SONIA. 
 
 Why have you so many? 
 
 VOLODIA. 
 
 It is a collection of the whole year's issues. 
 
 (Continues reading.) 
 
 MiSHA. 
 Has all this been written? 
 
 Porter. 
 
 The fellows who wrote it weren't very lazy, 
 I'll bet. 
 
 VOLODIA. 
 
 (laughs.) What did you say? 
 
 Porter. 
 
 I said what I meant. It wasn't a lazy lot that 
 wrote all that. Well, I'm going. Will you 
 kindly say I have brought the bundle. (Exit.) 
 
 SONIA. 
 
 (to VOLODIA.) What does father want all those 
 papers for?
 
 ON THE PRESS 143 
 
 VOLODIA. 
 
 He wants to collect Bolchakov's articles from 
 them. 
 
 SONIA. 
 
 And Uncle Michael Ivanovich says reading 
 Bolchakov makes him ill. 
 
 VOLODIA. 
 
 Just like Uncle Michael Ivanovich. He only 
 reads " Truth for All." 
 
 MiSHA. 
 
 And is uncle's " Truth " as big as this? 
 
 SONIA. 
 
 Bigger. But this is only for one year, and the 
 papers have been published twenty years or more. 
 
 MiSHA. 
 
 That makes twenty such bundles and another 
 twenty more. 
 
 SONIA. 
 
 {"ivishing to mystify Mis HA.) That's nothing. 
 These are only two papers, and besides there are 
 at least thirty more. 
 
 VOLODIA. 
 {without raising his head.) Thirty, you say! 
 There are five hundred and thirty in Russia alone. 
 And with those published abroad there are thou- 
 sands altogether.
 
 144 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 
 
 MiSHA. 
 
 They couldn't all be put Into this room. 
 
 VOLODIA. 
 
 Not even in this whole street. But please 
 don't disturb me in my work. To-morrow teacher 
 is sure to call upon me, and you don't give me a 
 chance of learning my lessons with your silly talk. 
 
 {Resumes his reading.) 
 
 MiSHA. 
 
 I don't think there's any use writing so much. 
 
 SONIA. 
 
 Why not? 
 
 MiSHA. 
 
 Because if what they write is true, then why say 
 the same thing over and over again? If it isn't, 
 then why say what is not true? 
 
 SONIA. 
 
 An excellent judgment! 
 
 MiSHA. 
 
 Why do they write such an awful lot? 
 
 VOLODIA. 
 
 {ivithout taking his eyes of his book.) Because 
 if it wasn't for the freedom of the press, how 
 would people know what the truth is?
 
 ON THE PRESS 145 
 
 MiSHA. 
 
 Father says the " Truth " contains the truth, 
 and Uncle Michael Ivanovich says " Truth " 
 makes him ill. Then how do they know where 
 the truth really Is — in " Truth " or in " Truth for 
 All"? 
 
 SONIA. 
 
 I think you are right. There are really too 
 many papers and magazines and books. 
 
 VOLODIA. 
 
 Just like a woman : perfectly senseless In every 
 conclusion ! 
 
 SONIA. 
 
 I only mean that when there is so much written 
 it is impossible to know anything really. 
 
 VOLODIA. 
 
 But everybody has brains given him to find out 
 where the truth is. 
 
 MiSHA. 
 
 Then If everybody has got brains he can reason 
 things out for himself. 
 
 VOLODIA. 
 
 So that's how you reason with your large supply 
 of brains! Please go somewhere else and leave 
 me alone to work.
 
 ON REPENTANCE 
 
 VoLlA, a boy of eight, stands i7i the passage 
 zvith an empty plate and cries. Fedia, a boy of 
 ten, comes running into the passage. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Mother sent me to see where you were; but 
 what are you crying for? Have you brought 
 nurse . . . {Sees the empty plate, and whistles.) 
 Where is the cake? 
 
 VOLIA. 
 
 I — I — I wanted it, I — {and then suddenly) 
 — Boo-hoo-hoo ! All of a sudden I ate it up — 
 without meaning to. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Instead of taking it to nurse, you have eaten 
 it yourself on the way! Well I never! Mother 
 thought you wanted nurse to have the cake. 
 
 VOLIA. 
 I did {and then suddenly, without meaning to). 
 ■ — Boo-hoo-hoo ! 
 
 146
 
 ON REPENTANCE 147 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 You just tasted it, and then you ate the whole 
 of it. Well, I never! (Laughs.) 
 
 VOLIA. 
 
 It is all very well for you to laugh, but how am 
 I going to tell. . . . Now I can't go to nurse — 
 or to mother either. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 A nice mess you have made of it, I must say. 
 Ha, ha! So you have eaten the whole cake? It 
 is no use crying. Just try to think of some way 
 of getting out of it. 
 
 VOLIA. 
 
 I can't see how I can. What shall I do? 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Fancy that ! ( Trying to restrain himself from 
 laughing. A pause.) 
 
 VOLIA. 
 
 What am I to do now? I am lost. (Howls.) 
 
 Fedia. 
 Don't you care. Stop that howling. Simply 
 go to mother and tell her you have eaten the cake 
 yourself. 
 
 Volia. 
 That is worse.
 
 148 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 
 
 Fedia. 
 Then go and confess to nurse. 
 
 VOLIA. 
 
 How can I? 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Listen ; you wait here. I will find nurse and 
 tell her. She won't mind. 
 
 VOLIA. 
 
 No, don't. I cannot let her know about it. 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 Nonsense. You did it by mistake; it can't be 
 helped. I will tell her in a minute. {Runs 
 away.) 
 
 VOLIA. 
 
 Fedia, Fedia, wait! He is gone — I just 
 tasted it, and then I don't remember how I did it. 
 What am I to do now! (Sobbing.) 
 
 Fedia. 
 
 (comes running back.) Stop your bawling, I say. 
 I told you nurse would forgive you. She only 
 said, "Oh, the darling!" 
 
 VOLIA. 
 
 She is not cross with me?
 
 i 
 
 ON REPENTANCE 149 
 
 Fedia. 
 Not a bit. She said, " I don't care for the 
 cake; I would have given It to him anyhow." 
 
 VOLIA. 
 
 But I didn't mean to eat It. (Cries again.) 
 
 Fedia. 
 Why are you crying again? We won't tell 
 mother. Nurse has quite forgiven you. 
 
 VOLIA. 
 
 Nurse has forgiven me. I know she Is kind 
 and good. But me, I am a wicked boy, and that's 
 what makes me cry.
 
 ON ART 
 
 Footman; Housekeeper; Natasha {a little 
 
 girl.) 
 
 Footman. 
 
 (with a tray.) Almond milk for the tea, and 
 rum — 
 
 Housekeeper. 
 {knitting a stocking and counting the stitches.) 
 Twenty-three, twenty-four — 
 
 Footman. 
 I say, Avdotia Vasilievna, can't you hear? 
 
 Housekeeper. 
 I hear, I hear. Til give it to you presently. 
 I can't tear myself to pieces to do all kinds of 
 work at the same moment. {To Natasha.) 
 Yes, darling; I will bring you the prunes presently. 
 Just wait a moment, till I have given him the 
 milk. {Strains the almond milk.) 
 
 Footman. 
 
 {sitting down.) I tell you I have seen something 
 
 150
 
 ON ART 151 
 
 to-night. To think that they pay good money 
 for that! 
 
 Housekeeper. 
 Oh, you have been to the theatre. You were 
 out late to-night. 
 
 Footman. 
 
 An opera is always a long affair. I have al- 
 ways to wait hours and hours. To-night they 
 were kind, and let me in to see the performance. 
 
 {The kitchen-viaid, the manservant 
 Pavel enters with the cream and stands 
 listening.) 
 
 Housekeeper. 
 Then there was singing to-night? 
 
 Footman. 
 
 Singing — humph! Just silly, loud screaming, 
 not a bit like real singing. "I," he said — "I 
 love her so much." And he puts it all to a tune, 
 and it is not like anything under heaven. Then 
 they had a row, and ought to have fought it out; 
 but they started singing instead. 
 
 Housekeeper. 
 
 And yet I've heard it costs a lot to get seats for 
 the season.
 
 152 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 
 
 Footman. 
 
 Our box cost three hundred roubles for twelve 
 nights. 
 
 Pavel. 
 
 (shaking his head.) Three hundred ! And who 
 does that money go to? 
 
 Footman. 
 Why, the people who sing are paid for it. I 
 was told a lady singer makes fifty thousand a 
 year. 
 
 Pavel. 
 
 You talk of thousands — why, three hundred is 
 a pile of money in the country. Some folks toil 
 their whole life long, and can't even get together 
 one hundred. 
 
 (Nina, a schoolgirl, enters the ser- 
 vants' pantry.) 
 
 Nina. 
 Is Natasha here? Why don't you come? 
 Mother wants you. 
 
 Natasha. 
 {munching a prune.) I am coming. 
 
 Nina. 
 {to Pavel.) What were you saying about a hun- 
 dred roubles?
 
 
 ON ART 153 
 
 Housekeeper. 
 
 Simeon (pointing to the footman) was just tell- 
 ing us about the singing he listened to to-night in 
 the theatre, and about the lady singers being paid 
 such a lot of money. That's what made Pavel 
 wonder. Is that really true, Nina Mikhailovna, 
 that a lady may get fifty thousand for her singing? 
 
 Nina. 
 
 More than that. A lady has been engaged to 
 sing in America for a hundred and fifty thousand 
 roubles. But even better than that, yesterday's 
 paper says a musician has been paid fifty thousand 
 roubles for his finger-nail. 
 
 Pavel. 
 
 The papers write all sorts of nonsense. That 
 couldn't be. How could he be paid that? 
 
 Nina. 
 {evidently pleased.) He was, I tell you. 
 
 Pavel. 
 Just for a finger-nail? 
 
 Natasha. 
 How is that possible?
 
 154 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 
 
 Nina. 
 He was a pianist, and was insured for that 
 amount in case anything happened to his hand, 
 and he couldn't go on playing the piano. 
 
 Pavel. 
 
 Well, I'll be blowed ! 
 
 Senichka. 
 
 {a schoolboy in the upper class of the school, en- 
 tering the pantry.) You've got a regular meet- 
 ing here. What is it all about? 
 
 (Nina tells him what they have 
 been talking about.) 
 
 Senichka. 
 
 {zvith still more complacency than NiNA.) That 
 story of the nail is nothing at all. Why, a dancer 
 in Paris had her foot insured for two hundred 
 thousand roubles, in case she sprained it and was 
 not able to go on dancing. 
 
 Footman. 
 
 That's them girls — excuse me for mentioning 
 it — that work with their legs without any stock- 
 ings on. 
 
 Pavel. 
 You call that work! And they are paid for it!
 
 ON ART 155 
 
 Senichka. 
 
 But every one cannot do that kind of work — 
 and she had to study a good many years. 
 
 Pavel. 
 
 What did she study that did any good? Mere 
 hopping about? 
 
 Senichka. 
 
 Ycu don't understand. Art is a great thing. 
 
 Pavel. 
 
 I think it is all nonsense. People spend money 
 like that because they have such an easy time. If 
 they had to bend their backs as we do to make 
 a living, there wouldn't be all these singing and 
 dancing girls. They ain't worth anything — but 
 what is the use of saying so? 
 
 Senichka. 
 
 There we have the outcome of ignorance. To 
 him Beethoven and Viardot and Rafael are utter 
 folly. 
 
 Natasha. 
 
 Well, I think what he says Is so. 
 
 Nina. 
 Come, let's go. 

 
 ON SCIENCE 
 
 Two schoolboys, one a pupil of the real gym- 
 nasium'^ and the other of the classical gymnasium; 
 two twins, brothers of the latter; VOLODIA and 
 Petrusha, eight years of age. 
 
 Science Scholar. 
 
 What do I want with Latin and Greek, when 
 everything of any value has been translated into 
 the modern languages? 
 
 Classical Scholar. 
 You will never understand the Iliad unless you 
 read it In Greek. 
 
 Science Scholar. 
 But I don't see the use of reading it. I don't 
 want to. 
 
 VOLODIA. 
 
 What is the Iliadf 
 
 Science Scholar. 
 A story. 
 
 *A school for natural science without Greek and Latin; in 
 the classical gymnasium Latin and Greek are taught. 
 
 156
 
 ON SCIENCE 157 
 
 Classical Scholar. 
 
 Yes, a story, but one that has not Its equal in 
 the world. 
 
 Petrusha. 
 
 What Is it that makes the story so particularly 
 good? 
 
 Science Scholar. 
 
 Nothing. It is just a story, and nothing else. 
 Classical Scholar. 
 
 Yes; but you cannot really understand antiquity 
 without a knowledge of this story. 
 
 Science Scholar. 
 
 I consider that a superstition just like religious 
 instruction. 
 
 Classical Scholar. 
 
 (getting excited.) Religious instruction is noth- 
 ing but lies and nonsense, while this is history and 
 wisdom. 
 
 VOLODIA. 
 
 Is religious instruction all nonsense? 
 Classical Scholar. 
 
 Why do you sit there listening to our talk? 
 You can't understand. 
 
 Both Boys. 
 (hurt.) Why shouldn't we?
 
 158 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 
 
 VOLODIA. 
 
 Perhaps we understand things better than you 
 do. 
 
 Classical Scholar. 
 Very well. Just be quiet, and don't interrupt. 
 {To the Science Scholar.) You say Latin and 
 Greek is of no use in life: but that applies as well 
 to bacteriology, to chemistry, to physics, and as- 
 tronomy. Why is it necessary to know anything 
 about the distance of the stars, about their size, 
 and all those unnecessary details? 
 
 Science Scholar. 
 
 Unnecessary? On the contrary, they are very 
 necessary indeed. 
 
 Classical Scholar. 
 What for? 
 
 Science Scholar. 
 
 Why, for everything. Take navigation. You 
 would think that had not much to do with astron- 
 omy. But look at the practical results of science 
 — the way it is applied to agriculture, to medicine, 
 to the industries — 
 
 Classical Scholar. 
 
 On the other hand, it is used also in making 
 bombs, for purposes of war, and for revolutionary
 
 ON SCIENCE 159 
 
 objects as well. If science contributed to the 
 moral improvement, then — 
 
 Science Scholar. 
 
 But what about your sort of knowledge? Does 
 that raise the moral standard? 
 
 VOLODIA. 
 
 Is there any science that makes people better? 
 
 Classical Scholar. 
 
 I told you not to interfere in the discussions of 
 grown-up people. You say nothing but silly 
 things. 
 
 Volodia and Petrusha. 
 
 {with one voice.) Not so silly as you im- 
 agine. . . . Just tell us which science teaches 
 people how to be good. 
 
 Science Scholar. 
 
 There isn't such a science. Everybody has to 
 find that out for himself. 
 
 Classical Scholar. 
 
 What is the use of talking to them ? They don't 
 understand. 
 
 Science Scholar. 
 
 Why not? They might. How to be good, 
 Volodia and Petrusha, is not taught in schools.
 
 i6o THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 
 
 VOLODIA. 
 
 Well, if that is not taught, it is no use going to 
 school. 
 
 Petrusha. 
 
 When we are grown up we will not learn useless 
 things. 
 
 VOLODIA. 
 
 As for the right way to live, we'll do that better 
 than you. 
 
 Classical Scholar. 
 {laughing.) Oh, the wisdom of that conclusion!
 
 ON GOING TO. LAW 
 
 A Peasant, His Wife, a Kinswoman, Fedia, 
 the peasant's son, a lad of nineteen. Petka, an- 
 other son, a boy of nine. 
 
 Father. 
 {entering the cottage and taking off his cloak.) 
 What beastly weather ! I could hardly manage to 
 get home. 
 
 Mother. 
 
 And such a long way for you. It must be 
 nearly fifteen miles. 
 
 Father. 
 Not less than twenty, I can tell you. ( To his 
 son, Fedia.) Take the colt to the stable. 
 
 Mother. 
 Well, have we won? 
 
 Peasant. 
 
 We have not, damn it all. It will never come 
 right. 
 
 i6i
 
 1 62 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 
 
 Kinswoman. 
 
 But what Is it all about, cousin? I don't quite 
 understand. 
 
 Peasant. 
 
 It is simply that Averian has taken possession 
 of my vegetable garden and is holding it. And I 
 can't get at him in the right way. 
 
 Wife. 
 That lawsuit has been dragging along over a 
 year now. 
 
 Kinswoman. 
 
 I know, I know. I remember as far back as 
 Lent, when the matter was before the village 
 court. My man told me it had been settled in 
 your favour. 
 
 Peasant. 
 
 That finished it, didn't it? But Averian ap- 
 pealed to the head of the Zemstvo,* and he had 
 the whole business gone Into again. I then ap- 
 pealed to the judge and won. That ought to have 
 been the end of it. But it wasn't. After that he 
 won. Nice sort of judges they arel 
 
 Wife. 
 What are we to do now ? 
 
 * County council.
 
 ON GOING TO LAW 163 
 
 Peasant. 
 
 I won't stand his having my property. I will 
 appeal to the higher court, I have already had a 
 talk with a lawyer. 
 
 Kinswoman. 
 
 But suppose they take his side in the upper 
 court? 
 
 Peasant. 
 
 Then I'll go to the Supreme Court. I'll sell 
 my last cow before I'll give in to that fat hound. 
 I'll teach him a lesson. 
 
 Kinswoman. 
 
 A lot of trouble comes from these trials, a lot of 
 trouble, I declare! And suppose he wins again? 
 
 Peasant. 
 
 Then I'll appeal to the Tsar. Now I had bet- 
 ter go out and give the pony some hay, (Exit,) 
 
 Petka. 
 
 Why do they judge like that, some saying Aver- 
 ian is right and some daddy? 
 
 Mother. 
 
 Probably because they don't know who is right 
 themselves.
 
 i64 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 
 
 Petka. 
 
 Then why ask them, if they don't know? 
 
 Mother. 
 
 Because nobody wants to give up his property. 
 
 Petka. 
 
 When I grow up, I will do like this : If I have 
 a dispute with somebody, we Avill cast lots and see 
 who wins. And that will settle it. We always 
 settle it this way with Akulika. 
 
 Kinswoman. 
 
 Don't you think, cousin, that is quite a good 
 way? One sin less, anyhow. 
 
 Mother. 
 Quite so. What a lot we have spent on that 
 trial! More than the whole vegetable garden is 
 worth. Oh, it is a sin, a great sin 1 
 
 I
 
 ON THE CRIMINAL COURT 
 
 Children: Grishka, Semka, Jishka. 
 
 JlSHKA. 
 
 Serves him right. Why did he make his way 
 into another person's corn loft? When he is put 
 in prison that will teach him not to do it another 
 time. 
 
 Semka. 
 
 Of course if he has really done it. But old 
 Mikita said Mitrofan was run into prison without 
 being guilty. 
 
 Jishka. 
 
 Without being guilty? And won't anything 
 happen to the man who judged him falsely? 
 
 Grishka. 
 
 Well, they won't pat him on the head for it, of 
 course. If he hasn't judged according to law he 
 will be punished too. 
 
 165
 
 1 66 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 
 
 Semka. 
 Who will punish him? 
 
 JlSHKA. 
 
 Those above him. 
 
 Semka. 
 Who are above him? 
 
 Grishka. 
 His superiors. 
 
 JlSHKA. 
 
 And if the superiors also make a mistake? 
 
 Grishka. 
 
 There are higher powers above them, and they 
 will be punished by these. That's what the Tsar 
 is for. 
 
 JlSHKA. 
 
 But if the Tsar judges wrong, who is going to 
 punish him? 
 
 Grishka. 
 
 Who? Why do you ask that? Don't you 
 know? 
 
 Semka. 
 God will punish him. 
 
 JlSHKA. 
 
 God will also punish him who stole the corn 
 from the loft. Then why not leave it to God to
 
 ON THE CRIMINAL COURT 167 
 
 punish those who are guilty? He will not judge 
 wrong. 
 
 Grishka. 
 It's clear that that is not possible. 
 
 JlSHKA. 
 
 Why not? 
 
 Grishka. 
 Because . . .
 
 ON PROPERTY 
 
 An old carpenter is mending the railings on a 
 veranda. A boy of seven, the son of the master 
 of the house, is watching the man working. 
 
 Boy. 
 How well you work! What is your name? 
 
 Carpenter. 
 
 My name? They used to call me Hrolka, and 
 now they call me Hrol, and even Hrol Savich* 
 when they speak respectfully. 
 
 Boy. 
 How well you work, Frol Savich. 
 
 Carpenter. 
 As long as you have to work, you may as well 
 do good work. 
 
 Boy. 
 Have you got a veranda in your house? 
 
 •The name is Frol, but the common way of the ignorant masses 
 is to use //, instead of F. It is as if one said Johnny then John 
 and then John Smith. 
 
 1 68
 
 ON PROPERTY 169 
 
 Carpenter. 
 In our house? We have a veranda, my boy, 
 yours here Is nothing to compare with it. A ver- 
 anda with no windows. And if you step on to it, 
 well, you can't believe your eyes. That's the kind 
 of veranda we've got. 
 
 Boy. 
 
 You are making fun. No, seriously, tell me: 
 have you a veranda like this? I want to know. 
 
 Carpenter. 
 
 My dear child, how can the likes of us have a 
 veranda? It's a blessing if we've a roof over our 
 heads, and you say, "a veranda!" I've been 
 thinking about having a roof built ever since last 
 spring, I've just managed to pull down the old 
 one, but the new one isn't finished, and the house 
 is standing there and getting damp without it. 
 
 Boy. 
 
 (surprised.) But why? 
 
 Carpenter. 
 Why? Just because I am not able to do it. 
 
 Boy. 
 How so? If you are able to work for us?
 
 I70 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 
 
 Carpenter. 
 I can work all right for you, but not for my- 
 self. 
 
 Boy. 
 Why? I can't understand. Please explain. 
 
 Carpenter. 
 
 You will understand when you are grown up. 
 I am able to do your work, but as for my own, I 
 can't do it. 
 
 Boy. 
 But why? 
 
 Carpenter. 
 
 Because I need wood for that, and I haven't got 
 any. It has to be bought. I have nothing to buy 
 it with. When I have finished my work here, 
 and your mother pays me, just you tell her to pay 
 me well. Then I'll drive to the forest, get five 
 ash-trees or so to bring home and finish my roof. 
 
 Boy. 
 
 Do you mean you ha/en't a forest of your own ? 
 
 Carpenter. 
 
 We have such big forests that you can walk 
 three whole days and not reach the end. But, 
 worse luck, they don't belong to us.
 
 ON PROPERTY 171 
 
 Boy. 
 
 Mother says all her trouble comes from our 
 forest; she has continual worries about it. 
 
 Carpenter. 
 
 That's the worst of it. Your mother is worried 
 by having too much wood, and I'm worried by 
 having none at all. But here I am gabbling with 
 you and forgetting my work. And the likes of us 
 don't get made much of for doing that. 
 
 (Resumes his work.) 
 Boy. 
 
 When I grow up I shall arrange to have just 
 the same as everybody else, so that all of us are 
 equal. 
 
 Carpenter. 
 Mind you grow up quickly, that I may still be 
 alive. Then, mind you, don't forget. . . . 
 Where have I put my plane?
 
 ON CHILDREN 
 
 A Lady i^iih her children — a Schoolboy of 
 fourteen, a girl of five, Janichka, are walking in 
 the garden. An Old Peasant Woman ap- 
 proaches them. 
 
 Lady. 
 
 What do you want, Matresha? 
 Old Woman. 
 
 I have come again to ask a favour of your lady- 
 ship. 
 
 Lady. 
 What Is it? 
 
 Old Woman. 
 
 I am simply ashamed to speak, your ladyship, 
 but that don't help. My daughter, the one for 
 whom you stood godmother, has got another baby. 
 God has given her a boy this time. She sent me 
 to ask your ladyship if you would do her a favour, 
 and have the child christened into our Orthodox 
 faith.* 
 
 • When a lady in Russia stands godmother she gives the chris- 
 tening robes and a dress to the mother. The godfather pays the 
 priest and gives his godchild a cross. 
 
 172
 
 ON CHILDREN 173 
 
 Lady. 
 But didn't she have a child very recently? 
 Old Woman. 
 
 Well, that's just as you think. A year ago in 
 Lent. 
 
 Lady. 
 How many grandchildren have you got now? 
 
 Old Woman. 
 I could hardly tell you, dear lady. All of them 
 are still babes. Such a misfortune! 
 
 Lady. 
 How many children has your daughter? 
 
 Old Woman. 
 This is the seventh child, your ladyship, and all 
 alive. I wish God had taken some back to Him. 
 
 Lady. 
 How can you speak like that? 
 
 Old Woman. 
 
 I can't help it. That's how one comes to sin. 
 But then our misery is so great. Well, your lady- 
 ship, are you willing to help us, and stand god- 
 mother to the child? Believe me, on my soul.
 
 174 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 
 
 lady, we have not even got anything to pay the 
 priest; bread itself is scarce in the house. All the 
 children are small. My son-in-law is working 
 away from home, and I am alone with my daugh- 
 ter. I am old, and she is expecting or nursing 
 the whole time, and what work can you ask her 
 to do with all that? So it is me that has to do 
 everything. And that hungry lot all the while 
 asking for food. 
 
 Lady. 
 
 Are there really seven children? 
 
 Old Woman. 
 
 Seven, your ladyship, sure. Just the eldest girl 
 begins to help a bit; all the rest are little. 
 
 Lady. 
 But why do they have such a lot of children? 
 
 Old Woman. ^ 
 
 How can one help that, dear lady? He comes 
 now and then for a short stay, or just for a feast 
 day. They are young, and he lives near in town. 
 I wish he had to go somewhere far away. 
 
 Lady. 
 That's the way! Some people are sad because
 
 ON CHILDREN 175 
 
 they have no children, or their children die, and 
 you complain of having too many. 
 
 Old Woman. 
 
 They are too many. We have not the means 
 to keep them. Well, your ladyship, may I cheer 
 her up with your consent? 
 
 Lady. 
 
 Well, I will stand godmother to this one like 
 the others. It is a boy, you say? 
 
 Old Woman. 
 It's a small baby, but very strong; he's got 
 good lungs. What day do you order the chris- 
 tening to be? 
 
 Lady. 
 
 Whenever you like. 
 
 (Old Woman thanks her and goes.) 
 
 Janichka. 
 
 Mother, why is it that some people have chil- 
 dren and some have not? You have, Matresha, 
 has, but Parasha hasn't any. 
 
 Lady. 
 
 Parasha is not married. People have children 
 when they are married. They marry, become 
 husband and wife, and then only children come.
 
 176 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 
 
 Janiciika. 
 Do they always get children then? 
 
 Lady. 
 
 No, not always. Our cook has a wife, but they 
 have no children. 
 
 Janichka. 
 
 Couldn't it be arranged that only those who 
 want children should have them, and those who 
 don't want them should have none? 
 
 Schoolboy. 
 What nonsense you talk ! 
 
 Janichka. 
 That is not nonsense at all. I only thought 
 that if Matresha's daughter doesn't want to have 
 children, it ought to be arranged so that she 
 shouldn't have any. Couldn't it be arranged, 
 mother? 
 
 Schoolboy. 
 Have I not told you not to talk nonsense about 
 things you know nothing about? 
 
 Janichka. 
 Mother, could it be arranged as I say? 
 
 Lady. 
 
 I don't know: we never know about that. It 
 all depends on the will of God.
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 177 
 
 afraid of it before. And now I don't mind. I 
 only wish it to come quicker." 
 
 XVI 
 
 In the meanwhile, the affairs of Eugene Mihailo- 
 vich had grown worse and worse. Business was 
 very slack. There was a new shop in the town; 
 he was losing his customers, and the interest had 
 to be paid. He borrowed again on interest. At 
 last his shop and his goods were to be sold up. 
 Eugene Mihailovich and his wife applied to every 
 one they knew, but they could not raise the four 
 hundred roubles they needed to save the shop any- 
 where. 
 
 They had some hope of the merchant Krasno- 
 puzov, Eugene Mihailovich's wife being on good 
 terms with his mistress. But news came that . 
 Krasnopuzov had been robbed of a huge sum of 
 money. Some said of half a million roubles. 
 " And do you know who is said to be the thief? " 
 said Eugene Mihailovich to his wife. " Vassily, 
 our former yard-porter. They say he is squan- 
 dering the money, and the police are bribed by 
 him." 
 
 " I knew he was a villain. You remember how 
 he did not mind perjuring himself? But I did 
 not expect it would go so far."
 
 178 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 " I hear he has recently been in the courtyard 
 of our house. Cook says she is sure it was he. 
 She told me he helps poor girls to get married." 
 
 " They always invent tales. I don't believe 
 it." 
 
 At that moment a strange man, shabbily dressed, 
 entered the shop. 
 
 " What is it you want? " 
 
 " Here is a letter for you." 
 
 " From whom? " 
 
 " You will see yourself." 
 
 " Don't you require an answer? Wait a mo- 
 ment." 
 
 " I cannot." The strange man handed the let- 
 ter and disappeared. 
 
 "How extraordinary!" said Eugene Mihailo- 
 vich, and tore open the envelope. To his great 
 amazement several hundred rouble notes fell out. 
 "Four hundred roubles!" he exclaimed, hardly 
 believing his eyes. " What does it mean? " 
 
 The envelope also contained a badly-spelt letter, 
 addressed to Eugene Mihailovich. " It is said in 
 the Gospels," ran the letter, " do good for evil. 
 You have done me much harm; and in the coupon 
 case you made me wrong the peasants greatly. 
 But I have pity for you. Here are four hundred 
 notes. Take them, and remember your porter 
 Vassily."
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 179 
 
 "Very extraordinary!" said Eugene Mihailo- 
 vich to his wife and to himself. And each time 
 he remembered that incident, or spoke about it 
 to his wife, tears would come to his eyes. 
 
 XVII 
 
 Fourteen priests were kept in the Suzdal friary 
 prison, chiefly for having been untrue to the or- 
 thodox faith. Isidor had been sent to that place 
 also. Father Missael received him according to 
 the instructions he had been given, and without 
 talking to him ordered him to be put into a sep- 
 arate cell as a serious criminal. After a fort- 
 night Father Missael, making a round of the 
 prison, entered Isidor's cell, and asked him 
 whether there was anything he wished for. 
 
 " There is a great deal I wish for," answered 
 Isidor; "but I cannot tell you what it is in the 
 presence of anybody else. Let me talk to you 
 privately." 
 
 They looked at each other, and Missael saw he 
 had nothing to be afraid of in remaining alone 
 with Isidor. He ordered Isidor to be brought 
 into his own room, and when they were alone, he 
 said, — 
 
 " Well, now you can speak." 
 
 Isidor fell on his knees. 

 
 i8o THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 " Brother," said Isidor. " What are you do- 
 ing to yourself! Have mercy on your own soul. 
 You are the worst villain in the world. You have 
 offended against all that is sacred . . 
 
 A month after Missael sent a report, asking 
 that Isidor should be released as he had repented, 
 and he also asked for the release of the rest of 
 the prisoners. After which he resigned his post. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 Ten years passed. Mitia Smokovnikov had fin- 
 ished his studies in the Technical College; he was 
 now an engineer in the gold mines in Siberia, and 
 was very highly paid. One day he was about to 
 make a round in the district. The governor of- 
 fered him a convict, Stepan Pelageushkine, to ac- 
 company him on his journey. 
 
 " A convict, you say? But is not that danger- 
 ous?" 
 
 " Not if it is this one. He is a holy man. You 
 may ask anybody, they will all tell you so." 
 
 "Why has he been sent here?" 
 
 The governor smiled. " He had committed six 
 murders, and yet he is a holy man. I go bail for 
 im. 
 
 Mitia Smokovnikov took Stepan, now a bald-
 
 THE FORGED COUPON i8i 
 
 headed, lean, tanned man, with him on his journey. 
 On their way Stepan took care of Smokovnikov 
 hke his own child, and told him his story; told 
 him why he had been sent here, and what now 
 filled his life. 
 
 And, strange to say, Mitla Smokovnikov, who 
 up to that time used to spend his time drinking, 
 eating, and gambling, began for the first time to 
 meditate on life. These thoughts never left him 
 now, and produced a complete change in his habits. 
 After a time he was offered a very advantageous 
 position. He refused it, and made up his mind 
 to buy an estate with the money he had, to marry, 
 and to devote himself to the peasantry, helping 
 them as much as he could. 
 
 XIX 
 
 He carried out his intentions. But before retiring 
 to his estate he called on his father, with whom 
 he had been on bad terms, and who had settled 
 apart with his new family. Mitia Smokovnikov 
 wanted to make it up. The old man wondered at 
 first, and laughed at the change he noticed in his 
 son; but after a while he ceased to find fault with 
 him, and thought of the many times when it was 
 he who was the guilty one.
 
 AFTER THE DANCE 
 
 1
 
 AFTER THE DANCE 
 
 " — And you say that a man cannot, of himself, 
 understand what is good and evil; that it is all 
 environment, that the environment swamps the 
 man. But I believe it Is all chance. Take my 
 own case . . ." 
 
 Thus spoke our excellent friend, Ivan Vasilie- 
 vich, after a conversation between us on the impos- 
 sibility of improving individual character without 
 a change of the conditions under which men live. 
 Nobody had actually said that one could not of 
 oneself understand good and evil; but it was a 
 habit of Ivan Vasilievich to answer in this way the 
 thoughts aroused in his own mind by conversation, 
 and to illustrate those thoughts by relating inci- 
 dents in his own life. He often quite forgot the 
 reason for his story in telling it; but he always told 
 it with great sincerity and feeling. 
 
 He did so now. 
 
 " Take my own case. My whole life was 
 moulded, not by environment, but by something 
 quite different." 
 
 " By what, then?" we asked. 
 
 " Oh, that is a long story. I should have to 
 
 185 

 
 i86 AFTER THE DANCE 
 
 tell you about a great many things to make you 
 understand." 
 
 " Well, tell us then." 
 
 Ivan Vasilievich thought a little, and shook his 
 head. 
 
 " My whole life," he said, " was changed in one 
 night, or, rather, morning." 
 
 " Why, what happened? " one of us asked. 
 
 " What happened was that I was very much in 
 love. I have been in love many times, but this 
 was the most serious of all. It is a thing of the 
 past; she has married daughters now. It was 
 
 Varinka B ." Ivan Vasilievich mentioned her 
 
 surname. " Even at fifty she is remarkably hand- 
 some; but in her youth, at eighteen, she was ex- 
 quisite — tall, slender, graceful, and stately. Yes, 
 stately is the word; she held herself very erect, by 
 instinct as it were; and carried her head high, and 
 that together with her beauty and height gave her 
 a queenly air in spite of being thin, even bony one 
 might say. It might indeed have been deterring 
 had it not been for her smile, which was always 
 gay and cordial, and for the charming light in 
 her eyes and for her youthful sweetness." 
 
 " What an entrancing description you give, Ivan 
 Vasilievich! " 
 
 " Description, indeed! I could not possibly de- 
 scribe her so that you could appreciate her. But
 
 AFTER THE DANCE 187 
 
 that does not matter; what I am going to tell you 
 happened in the forties. I was at that time a 
 student in a provincial university. I don't know 
 whether it was a good thing or no, but we had no 
 political clubs, no theories in our universities then. 
 We were simply young and spent our time as young 
 men do, studying and amusing ourselves. I was a 
 very gay, lively, careless fellow, and had plenty of 
 money too. I had a fine horse, and used to go 
 tobogganing with the young ladies. Skating had 
 not yet come into fashion. I went to drinking 
 parties with my comrades — in those days we 
 drank nothing but champagne — if we had no 
 champagne we drank nothing at all. We never 
 drank vodka, as they do now. Evening parties 
 and balls were my favourite amusements. I 
 danced well, and was not an ugly fellow." 
 
 " Come, there is no need to be modest," inter- 
 rupted a lady near him. " We have seen your 
 photograph. Not ugly, indeed! You were a 
 handsome fellow." 
 
 " Handsome, if you like. That does not mat- 
 ter. When my love for her was at its strongest, 
 on the last day of the carnival, I was at a ball at 
 the provincial marshal's, a good-natured old man, 
 rich and hospitable, and a court chamberlain. The 
 guests were welcomed by his wife, who was as 
 good-natured as himself. She was dressed in
 
 1 88 AFTER THE DANCE 
 
 puce-coloured velvet, and had a diamond diadem 
 on her forehead, and her plump, old white shoul- 
 ders and bosom were bare like the portraits of 
 Empress Elizabeth, the daughter of Peter the 
 Great. 
 
 " It was a delightful ball. It was a splendid 
 room, with a gallery for the orchestra, which was 
 famous at the time, and consisted of serfs belong- 
 ing to a musical landowner. The refreshments 
 were magnificent, and the champagne flowed in 
 rivers. Though I was fond of champagne I did 
 not drink that night, because without it I was 
 drunk with love. But I made up for it by danc- 
 ing waltzes and polkas till I was ready to drop — 
 of course, whenever possible, with Varinka. She 
 wore a white dress with a pink sash, white shoes, 
 and white kid gloves, which did not quite reach to 
 her thin pointed elbows. A disgusting engineer 
 named Anisimov robbed me of the mazurka with 
 her — to this day I cannot forgive him. He asked 
 her for the dance the minute she arrived, while 
 I had driven to the hair-dresser's to get a pair of 
 gloves, and was late. So I did not dance the 
 mazurka with her, but with a German girl to whom 
 I had previously paid a little attention; but I am 
 afraid I did not behave very politely to her that 
 evening. I hardly spoke or looked at her, and saw 
 nothing but the tall, slender figure in a white dress,
 
 Alexander the First.
 
 i
 
 AFTER THE DANCE 189 
 
 with a pink sash, a flushed, beaming, dimpled 
 face, and sweet, kind eyes. I was not alone; they 
 were all looking at her with admiration, the men 
 and women alike, although she outshone all of 
 them. They could not help admiring her. 
 
 " Although I was not nominally her partner for 
 the mazurka, I did as a matter of fact dance nearly 
 the whole time with her. She always came for- 
 ward boldly the whole length of the room to pick 
 me out. I flew to meet her without waiting to be 
 chosen, and she thanked me with a smile for my 
 intuition. When I was brought up to her with 
 somebody else, and she guessed wrongly, she took 
 the other man's hand with a shrug of her slim 
 shoulders, and smiled at me regretfully. 
 
 " Whenever there was a waltz figure in the 
 mazurka, I waltzed with her for a long time, and 
 breathing fast and smiling, she would say, 'En- 
 core ' ; and I went on waltzing and waltzing, as 
 though unconscious of any bodily existence." 
 
 " Come now, how could you be unconscious of 
 it with your arm round her waist? You must 
 have been conscious, not only of your own exist- 
 ence, but of hers," said one of the party. 
 
 Ivan Vasilievich cried out, almost shouting in 
 anger: " There you are, moderns all over! Now- 
 adays you think of nothing but the body. It was 
 different in our day. The more I was In love the
 
 190 AFTER THE DANCE 
 
 less corporeal was she In my eyes. Nowadays you 
 think of nothing but the body. It was different 
 in our day. The more I was in love the less cor- 
 poreal was she in my eyes. Nowadays you see 
 legs, ankles, and I don't know what. You undress 
 the women you are in love with. In my eyes, as 
 Alphonse Karr said — and he was a good writer 
 — ' the one I loved was always draped in robes of 
 bronze.' We never thought of doing so; we tried 
 to veil her nakedness, like Noah's good-natured 
 son. Oh, well, you can't understand." 
 
 " Don't pay any attention to him. Go on," said 
 one of them. 
 
 " Well, I danced for the most part with her, 
 and did not notice how time was passing. The 
 musicians kept playing the same mazurka tunes 
 over and over again in desperate exhaustion — you 
 know what it is towards the end of a ball. Papas 
 and mammas were already getting up from the 
 card-tables in the drawing-room in expectation of 
 supper, the men-servants were running to and 
 fro bringing in things. It was nearly three 
 o'clock. I had to make the most of the last 
 minutes. I chose her again for the mazurka, and 
 for the hundredth time we danced across the 
 room. 
 
 " ' The quadrille after supper is mine,' I said, 
 taking her to her place.
 
 AFTER THE DANCE 191 
 
 " ' Of course, if 1 am not carried off home,' she 
 said, with a smile. 
 
 " ' I won't give you up,' I said. 
 
 " ' Give me my fan, anyhow,' she answered. 
 
 " ' I am so sorry to part with it,' I said, handing 
 her a cheap white fan. 
 
 " ' Well, here's something to console you,' she 
 said, plucking a feather out of the fan, and giving 
 it to me. 
 
 " I took the feather, and could only express my 
 rapture and gratitude with my eyes. I was not 
 only pleased and gay, I was happy, delighted; I 
 was good, I was not myself but some being not 
 of this earth, knowing nothing of evil. I hid the 
 feather in my glove, and stood there unable to 
 tear myself away from her. 
 
 " ' Look, they are urging father to dance,' she 
 said to me, pointing to the tall, stately figure of 
 her father, a colonel with silver epaulettes, who 
 was standing in the doorway with some ladies. 
 
 " ' Varinka, come here ! ' exclaimed our hostess, 
 the lady with the diamond fcrroniiiere and with 
 shoulders like Elizabeth, in a loud voice. 
 
 " Varinka went to the door, and I followed her. 
 
 " ' Persuade your father to dance the mazurka 
 with you, ma chere. — Do, please, Peter Valdislavo- 
 vich,' she said, turning to the colonel. 
 
 " Varinka's father was a very handsome, well-
 
 192 AFTER THE DANCE 
 
 preserved old man. He had a good colour, mous- 
 taches curled in the style of Nicolas I., and white 
 whiskers which met the moustaches. His hair was 
 combed on to his forehead, and a bright smile, 
 like his daughter's, was on his lips and in his eyes. 
 He was splendidly set up, with a broad military 
 chest, on which he wore some decorations, and he 
 had powerful shoulders and long slim legs. He 
 was that ultra-military type produced by the disci- 
 pline of Emperor Nicolas I. 
 
 " When we approached the door the colonel was 
 just refusing to dance, saying that he had quite for- 
 gotten how; but at that instant he smiled, swung 
 his arm gracefully around to the left, drew his 
 sword from its sheath, handed it to an obliging 
 young man who stood near, and smoothed his 
 suede glove on his right hand. 
 
 " ' Everything must be done according to rule,' 
 he said with a smile. He took the hand of his 
 daughter, and stood one-quarter turned, waiting 
 for the music. 
 
 " At the first sound of the mazurka, he stamped 
 one foot smartly, threw the other forward, and, 
 at first slowly and smoothly, then buoyantly and 
 impetuously, with stamping of feet and clicking of 
 boots, his tall, imposing figure moved the length 
 of the room. Varinka swayed gracefully beside 
 him, rhythmically and easily, making her steps
 
 FEDOR KUSMICH 193 
 
 help, I prayed to the God of the Orthodox Church ; 
 then I turned to the Catholic; then to the Protes- 
 tant with Parrot; then to the god of the Mystics 
 with Krudener; but I only prayed that others 
 might see and be filled with admiration of me. I 
 used to despise everybody, yet the opinion of the 
 very people I despised was the one thing of im- 
 portance to me — the only thing for which I lived, 
 and which guided all my actions. It was terrible 
 to be left alone. Still more terrible to be alone 
 with her — with my wife. Consumptive, narrow- 
 minded, deceitful, capricious, spiteful, hypocriti- 
 cal, she did more to poison my life than anythmg 
 else. Nous etions censes to spend our new hine 
 de miel, a very hell clothed in decent garb, too 
 horrible to think of. 
 
 I felt particularly wretched on one occasion. I 
 had received a letter from Arakcheev the night 
 before, in which he informed me about the assassi- 
 nation of his mistress, and spoke of his utter grief 
 and despair. Strange to say, in spite of his con- 
 stant subtle flattery, I liked him. It was not 
 altogether flattery, perhaps, but a real dog-like 
 devotion, which began even in my father's time, 
 when we both took the oath of allegiance to him 
 unknown to my grandmother. This devotion of 
 his made me love him — if I loved any man at that 
 time — although the word love can hardly be used
 
 194 FEDOR KUSMICH 
 
 in connection with such a monster. What drew 
 me to him particularly was the fact that not only 
 had he no hand in my father's death, as so many 
 others had who became hateful to me afterwards 
 as accomplices in my crime, but he had been de- 
 voted alike to him and to me. However, of this 
 later. 
 
 Strange to say, the murder of the beautiful, 
 wicked Nastasia — she was a sensuous beauty — 
 had the effect of arousing all my desires so that I 
 could not sleep the whole night. The fact that 
 my consumptive wife, whom I loathed, was lying 
 in the room next but one to me, coupled with 
 thoughts of Mary Narishkin, who had thrown me 
 over for an insignificant diplomat, vexed and tor- 
 mented me still more. Both my father and I 
 seemed to have been doomed to be jealous of the 
 Gagarins. But I was carried away again. I 
 could not sleep the whole of that night. With the 
 first signs of dawn I pulled up my blind, slipped 
 on a white dressing-gown, and rang for my valet. 
 Every one was still asleep. I dressed, put on a 
 civilian overcoat and cap, and went out past the 
 sentinels into the street. 
 
 It was a cool, autumn morning, the sun was just 
 rising over the sea. I felt revived in the fresh 
 air, and my depressing thoughts left me. I turned 
 my steps towards the sea. The first rays of the
 
 FEDOR KUSMICH 195 
 
 rising sun were dancing about on its surface. I 
 had barely reached the green-coloured house at the 
 corner when I was attracted by sounds of drum- 
 ming and piping from the square. I listened for 
 a moment, and guessed that a punishment was 
 going on, that some one was running the gauntlet. 
 I had frequently sanctioned this form of punish- 
 ment, but had never seen it before. All at once, 
 as though at the instigation of Satan himself, a 
 picture rose up in my mind of the beautiful Nas- 
 tasia who had been murdered, and of the soldier's 
 body as it was being lashed with sticks, the two 
 mingling together in one maddening sensation. 
 I tried to recall this punishment in the Semijonov 
 regiment, amongst the military settlers, hundreds 
 of whom had been flogged to death in this way, 
 and was suddenly seized by an overwhelming de- 
 sire to witness this sight. As I was in civilian 
 garb, it was quite possible for me to do so. The 
 beating of the drum and the sound of the pipes 
 grew louder as I drew nearer the square. Being 
 short-sighted, I could not see very well without 
 my glasses, but I could just make out a tall figure 
 with a white back, marching along between two 
 rows of soldiers. When I joined the crowd stand- 
 ing behind, I got out my glasses, and could see 
 everything that was going on distinctly. A tall 
 man with his bare arms tied to a bayonet, his bare
 
 196 FEDOR KUSMICH 
 
 back — on which the blood was beginning to show 
 itself — slightly bent, was walking down an 
 avenue of soldiers armed with sticks. This man 
 was the image of myself — my double! The 
 same height, stooping shoulders, bald head, the 
 same kind of whiskers without a moustache, the 
 same cheek-bones, mouth, and blue eyes. But 
 there was no smile on those lips that opened and 
 contorted with pain at the blows, no tender, caress- 
 ing expression in those eyes that protruded horri- 
 bly, now closing, now opening. 
 
 I recognised him at once. It was Strumensky, 
 a corporal in the third company of the Semijonov 
 regiment, well known to the guards by his likeness 
 to me. They used to call him Alexander II. in 
 fun. I knew that he had been transferred to the 
 garrison, together with some other rebels, and had 
 most likely tried to escape or something of the 
 sort, and having been caught, was undergoing pun- 
 ishment. I confirmed this afterwards. I stood 
 as one petrified, gazing afthe unfortunate man, as 
 he was marching along under the blows. Sud- 
 denly I noticed that the crowd was staring at me, 
 some people stepping aside, others approaching 
 nearer. I had evidently been recognised; I turned 
 my steps quickly homewards. The drumming and 
 piping continued, so I gathered that the flogging 
 was not yet over.
 
 FEDOR KUSMICH 197 
 
 My first sensation on getting away was that my 
 sympathies ought to be on the side of those who 
 were inflicting the punishment; at any rate, that 
 I ought to acknowledge that what they were doing 
 was right, good, and necessary. But I could not 
 do this, and was at the same time conscious that 
 if I did not acknowledge it, I must admit that my 
 whole life had been wrong from beginning to end, 
 and that I ought to do what I had long ago 
 wanted to do — throw up everything, go away, 
 and disappear. 
 
 1 was completely overwhelmed by this sensation. 
 1 tried to fight against it, now assuring myself that 
 the thing v.'as right, a grievous necessity that could 
 not be dispensed with ; now feeling that I ought 
 to be in the unfortunate man's place. Strange to 
 say, I did not pity the man in the least. Instead 
 of doing anything to stop the proceeding, I has- 
 tened home merely to avoid recognition. Soon the 
 drumming ceased, and the disturbing sensation 
 somehow left me. I had some tea on reaching 
 home, and received Volkonsky with his report. 
 Then there was breakfast, the usual burdensome, 
 insincere relations with my wife; then Dibich, and 
 another report dealing with certain informations 
 about a secret society. With God's grace I will 
 deal with this more fully in its proper place. I 
 will merely say now that I received the informa-
 
 198 FEDOR KUSMICH 
 
 tion with outward composure. I continued in a 
 more or less calm state until dinner came to an end, 
 when I went into my study, lay down on the 
 couch, and dozed off. I had scarcely been asleep 
 for live minutes when I was suddenly awakened 
 by a powerful shock. I distinctly heard the beat- 
 ing of the drum, the sound of the pipes and Stru- 
 mensky's cries. I saw his agonised face, or mine 
 — I was not quite sure which; whether it was Stru- 
 mensky or myself — and the grim contorted faces 
 of the soldiers and officers. I remained in this 
 trance for a short time, and when I came to my- 
 self put on my hat and sword, and went out say- 
 ing that I was going for a walk. I knew where 
 the military hospital was situated, and directed my 
 steps straight there. My appearance caused a 
 great tumult as usual. The chief doctor and head 
 of the staff came running up breathless. I told 
 them that I wished to inspect the wards. On my 
 round I caught sight of Strumensky's bald head in 
 the second ward. He was lying face downwards, 
 his head resting on his arm, moaning pitifully. 
 " He's been punished for desertion," some one 
 said to me. 
 
 "Ah! " I exclaimed, with my usual gesture of 
 approval, and walked on. 
 
 The next day I sent a messenger to ask how 
 he was, and learnt that he had received the sacra- 
 ment and was dying.
 
 FEDOR KUSMICH 199 
 
 It was my brother Michael's name-day; there 
 was a special service and parade. I feigned to be 
 unwell, as a result of my recent journey from the 
 Crimea, and did not go to church. Dibich came 
 again and continued his report about the conspir- 
 acy in the second army. He drew my attention to 
 what Count Vitt had said before my Crimean visit, 
 and to the information that had been received from 
 Corporal Sherwood. Whilst listening to Dibich, 
 and seeing the immense importance he attached to 
 these plots and conspiracies, I was suddenly struck 
 by the full significance of the revolution that had 
 taken place within me. All these people were 
 conspiring to change the form of government, 
 to set up a constitution, the very thing I had my- 
 self wanted to do twenty years ago. I had 
 made and unmade constitutions in Europe, but 
 was there one soul the better for it? What right 
 had I to take such a task upon myself? In re- 
 ality external life, external affairs and participa- 
 tion in them were unimportant, unnecessary, and 
 had nothing whatever to do with me. Had I not 
 participated in them to the full, changed the fates 
 of European nations? I suddenly realised that 
 this did not concern me, that the only thing of 
 importance to me, was myself — my soul. My 
 former ideas about abdication came back to me 
 with new force. This time It was without any 
 affectation, without any desire to grieve others,
 
 200 FEDOR KUSMICH 
 
 to astonish the world, or to add to my own ag- 
 grandisement — all the things that had prompted 
 me formerly; but it was with a real sincerity, not 
 for the sake of impressing others, but for myself 
 — for the needs of my own soul. It seemed as if 
 I had gone through my brilliant career (in the 
 worldly sense of course), in order to return to 
 that dream of my youth, which had reached me 
 through penitence. I had come back to it with no 
 feeling of vanity or desire for self glorification; it 
 was for my true self alone, for God. In my youth 
 the idea had not been quite clear to me, but now 
 it seemed to me impossible to go on living as I 
 had been doing. Nevertheless how could I es- 
 cape? I no longer wished to astonish the world, 
 but on the contrary wanted to go away quietly, 
 unknown to any one — to go away and suffer. I 
 was so filled with joy at the idea that I began 
 considering ways and means of accomplishing it, 
 and used all the resources of my mind and my 
 peculiar subtleness to bring it about. Curiously 
 enough it was not nearly so difiicult as 1 had 
 anticipated. My plan was to feign a dangerous 
 illness, bribe the doctor, get Strumensky, who was 
 dying, put in my place, and flee without disclosing 
 my identity to any one. 
 
 Everything turned out favourably. On the 
 9th, by some peculiar fate, I fell ill of a fever. I
 
 FEDOR KUSMICH 201 
 
 stayed in bed for about a week, during which time 
 I considered my idea thoroughly, and became 
 more confirmed in it. On the i6th I got up feel- 
 ing quite well again. 
 
 r shaved as usual on that day and cut myself 
 rather badly. I bled a great deal, and feeling 
 faint dropped down on the floor. People came 
 rushing in, and I was immediately raised. I could 
 see at a glance that the incident might prove 
 useful to my purpose, and though I had quite re- 
 covered, pretended to be very weak, and going 
 back to bed and asked for Doctor Villier's assist- 
 ant. I knew it would have been impossible to 
 bribe Villier, but I had hopes of his assistant. I 
 told him of my purpose and offered him eighty 
 thousand roubles, if he would do everything I 
 wanted of him. 
 
 I had hit on the following plan, having heard 
 that Strumensky was not expected to live through 
 the day, I pretended to be irritated and annoyed 
 with everybody, and allowed no one to come near 
 .me except the young doctor, whom I had bribed. 
 He was to bring Strumensky's body hidden in a 
 bath, put him in my place, and announce my sud- 
 den death. It all happened as we had arranged 
 it, and on the 7th day of November I was a free 
 man. 
 
 Strumensky's body was buried in great state.
 
 202 FEDOR KUSiMICH 
 
 My brother Nicholas came to the throne, con- 
 demning the conspirators to hard labour, I met 
 several of them later in Siberia, I have suffered 
 very little in comparison to the enormity of my 
 crime, and have enjoyed the greatest of all hap- 
 piness. But I will speak of this in due course. 
 
 An old man of seventy-two, on the brink of the 
 grave, fully realising the vanity of my former life 
 and the deep significance of my present one as 
 a wanderer, I will now endeavour to relate the 
 whole story of the past. 
 
 II 
 
 THE STORY OF MY LIFE 
 
 December 12, 1849, 
 Near Krasnorechinsk, Siberia. 
 
 To-day is my birthday, I have reached my 
 seventy-second year. Exactly seventy-two years 
 ago I was born in the Winter Palace in St, Peters- 
 burg. My mother, the Empress, was then the 
 Grand Duchess Maria Fedorovna. 
 
 I slept well last night, and feel better than I did 
 yesterday. I have come out of my spiritual torpor 
 and can turn once more to God. During the 
 night I prayed in the darkness, and a conscious- 
 ness came upon me that my one and only purpose in
 
 FEDOR KUSMICH 203 
 
 life was to serve Him who liad sent me into the 
 world. 
 
 It is within my own power either to serve or 
 not to serve Him. Serving Him I add to my own 
 good and to the good of the whole world; not 
 serving Him I forfeit my own good, and deprive 
 the world of that good which was in my power 
 to create; not, however, of its potential good. 
 What I ought to have done, others will do after 
 me, and His will shall be fulfilled. This is the 
 meaning of free will. But if He knows every- 
 thing that is to be, if all is ordained by Him, then 
 how can there be free will? I do not know. 
 This is the boundary of thought and the begin- 
 ning of prayer. Let Thy will be done, O Lord. 
 Help us. Come and dwell within us. Or more 
 simply: Lord have mercy upon us! Lord have 
 mercy upon us! Lord have mercy upon us, and 
 forgive us our sins! Words fail me, O Lord, but 
 Thou knowest what is in my heart, for Thou 
 dwellest in it. And so I fell asleep. I was rest- 
 less as usual, woke up several times, and had bad 
 dreams. I seemed to be swimming in the sea, 
 and wondering how it was that I lay so high above 
 the water; why the water did not cover me. The 
 sea was a beautiful green, and some people seemed 
 to be in my way. 
 
 I wanted to come out of the water, but could
 
 204 FEDOR KUSMICH 
 
 not, because several women were staiuliiig on the 
 shore and I was naked. 1 took the dream to 
 mean that the power of the tlesh was strong within 
 me, standhig in my way, but deliverance was close 
 at hand. I got up before dawn, struck a flint, but 
 could not light the tinder for a long time, after 
 which, putting on my dressing-gown of elk skin, I 
 went out into the fresh air. The rosy orange glow 
 of the rising sun could be seen behind the snow- 
 clad pines and larches. I brought in the wood 
 which I chopped yesterday, lit my stove, and began 
 chopping some more. It grew lighter. I had 
 my breakfast of soaked rusks, shut the damper 
 of the stove as soon as the logs were red, and sat 
 down to write. 
 
 I begin again. I was born on loth December 
 1777, and was named Alexander by my grand- 
 mother's wish, in the hope, as she afterwards told 
 me, that I should become as great as Alexander 
 of Macedonia, and as holy as Alexander Nevsky. 
 I was christened a week after my birth in the big 
 church of the palace. I was carried into the 
 church by the Duchess of Courland on a brocade 
 pillow, whilst a number of other great personages 
 held a cover over me. The Empress was my 
 godmother, the Emperor of Austria and the King 
 of Prussia were my godfathers.
 
 FEDOR KUSMICH 205 
 
 My room was arranged according to my grand- 
 mother's taste. I can of course remember noth- 
 ing about It, but have been told by other people. 
 It was a large room with three high windows. A 
 space was portioned oft In the middle by four 
 columns, with a velvety canopy overhead fastened 
 to the celling, and silk curtains falling to the 
 ground. Under this canopy there was a little 
 iron bedstead with a leather mattress, a little pil- 
 low, and a light English blanket. The whole was 
 enclosed by a rail four feet high, so that visitors 
 should not come too close. There was no furni- 
 ture in the room with the exception of the nurse's 
 bed behind the curtains. 
 
 All the details of my physical training were 
 settled by my grandmother. I was not allowed 
 to be rocked, and was swathed in a new way, with 
 the feet left bare. I used to be bathed first in 
 warm then In cold water. My clothes, too, were 
 of a peculiar kind; none of my garments had any 
 seams or fasteners, and were slipped straight over 
 my head. As soon as I was able to crawl, I was 
 put upon the carpet and left to my own devices. 
 I was told that in the early days my grandmother 
 used frequently to sit down beside me on the 
 carpet and play with me. But I have no recollec- 
 tion of it, neither do I remember my nurse. 
 
 She was the wife of a gardener at Tsarskoye
 
 2o6 FEDOR KUSMICH 
 
 Selo, and was called Avdotla Petrova. I saw her 
 again in the garden at Tsarskoye when I was 
 eighteen years old — she came up and told me 
 who she was. It was at the best time of my life, 
 during my first friendship with Chartorisky, when 
 I was filled with disgust at what went on at the 
 two courts — my poor unfortunate father's and my 
 grandmother's. She had made me hate her at 
 that time. I was still a man then, and not a bad 
 man, full of good intentions. I was walking in the 
 garden with Chartorisky, when a neatly-dressed 
 woman came out of one of the side avenues. Her 
 rosy face, wreathed in smiles, was wonderfully 
 kind and pleasant. She came up to me excitedly, 
 and falling down on her knees, seized my hand 
 and began kissing it. 
 
 "Who are you?" I asked. 
 
 "Your Highness! Your Highness! Heaven 
 be praised that I see you again! " 
 
 " I was your foster-mother, Avdotia Dunyasha. 
 I nursed you for eleven months. Thank the Lord 
 for this meeting with you ! " 
 
 I raised her with difficulty, asked where she 
 lived, and promised to go and see her. 
 
 The charming interior of her tiny cottage, her 
 sweet daughter, my foster-sister, a perfect Russian 
 beauty, who was engaged to the court riding- 
 master, her husband the gardener, just as smiling 
 as his wife, and their group of little children, all
 
 FEDOR KUSMICH 207 
 
 seemed to light up the darkness surrounding 
 me. 
 
 " This is real life, real happiness! " I thought. 
 "How simple it all is, how clear! No envies, 
 intrigues, quarrels ! " 
 
 This beloved Dunyasha was my foster-mother. 
 My head nurse was a certain Sophia Ivanovna 
 Benkendorf, a German; my second nurse was a 
 Miss Hessler, an Englishwoman. Sophia Ivan- 
 ovna Benkendorf was a tall, stout woman, with 
 a pale complexion and straight nose. She had 
 a majestic bearing when in the nursery, but was 
 marvellously small and servile when in the pres- 
 ence of my grandmother, who was about a head 
 shorter than herself. She was obsequious and 
 severe with me at the same time. At one moment 
 she was a queen in her broad skirts and with her 
 haughty countenance; at another she was a cring- 
 ing, hypocritical serving-maid. Praskovia Ivan- 
 ovna Hessler was a long-faced, red-haired, serious 
 Englishwoman, but when she smiled, her face 
 shone with radiance, so that It was impossible to 
 keep from smiling with her. I liked her sense of 
 order, her cleanliness, her kindness, and her firm- 
 ness. She seemed to be possessed of some mys- 
 terious knowledge of which neither my mother nor 
 even grandmother herself were aware. 
 
 I remember my mother at that time as some 
 supernaturally beautiful vision, mysterious and
 
 2o8 FEDOR KUSMICH 
 
 sad, gorgeously dressed In silks and laces, and 
 glittering with diamonds. She would come into 
 my room with her bare round white arms and a 
 curiously aloof expression on her face which I did 
 not understand. She would caress me, take me up 
 in those lovely arms of hers, raise me to her still 
 more lovely face, and, shaking back her beautiful 
 thick hair, would kiss me and begin to cry. On 
 one occasion she let me drop out of her arms as 
 she fell to the floor senseless. 
 
 Strange to say, I had no sort of love for my 
 mother. Whether it was due to her attitude 
 towards me, or to my grandmother's influence, or 
 because I was able by my childish instinct to see 
 through all the court intrigues centring round me, 
 I am unable to say. There used to be something 
 strained about her manner towards me. She was 
 not really interested in me, but seemed to be dis- 
 playing me for some end, and I was conscious of 
 this. I was not mistaken, as I learnt later. 
 
 My grandmother took me away from my par- 
 ents and brought me up entirely herself. She in- 
 tended placing me on the throne instead of my 
 poor unfortunate father, her son, whom she hated. 
 Needless to say, I knew nothing of this at the time, 
 but as soon as I began to notice things I felt my- 
 self to be an object of enmity and rivalry, the play- 
 thing of conspirators, without knowing the why
 
 FEDOR KUSMICH 209 
 
 or wherefore. I was conscious of every one's 
 utter indifference to me — to my childish heart, 
 that had no need of a crown but rather of love, 
 of which I knew nothing. There was my mother, 
 who was always depressed when she saw me. On 
 one occasion she was talking to Sophia Ivanovna 
 in German, when she heard my grandmother com- 
 ing; she suddenly burst into tears and ran out of 
 the room. There was my father, who sometimes 
 came to see us and whom we sometimes went to 
 see. This poor unfortunate father of mine 
 showed even greater displeasure on seeing me than 
 my mother. His whole bearing towards me was 
 one of restrained anger. I remember on one 
 occasion how we were taken to their apartments 
 before they set out for their travels abroad in 
 178 1. I happened to be standing next to him, 
 when he suddenly thrust me away, jumped up 
 from his chair with flashing eyes, and gasped out 
 something concerning me and my grandmother. 
 I cannot recall all that he said, but the .Words 
 api'es 62 tout est possible have remained in my 
 memory. I remember how I got frightened and 
 burst into tears. My mother took me up in her 
 arms and kissed me, then carried me over to him. 
 He gave me his blessing hurriedly and rushed 
 out of the room, his high heels clattering as he 
 went.
 
 210 
 
 FEDOR KUSMICH 
 
 It was not until long after that I understood 
 the meaning of this outburst. They set out for 
 their travels under the name of Comte el Comtesse 
 du Nord. It was my grandmother's idea th?.t 
 they should go. My father was afraid that 'f? nis 
 absence he would be deprived of the right :c :he 
 throne and that I should be acknowledged as iis 
 successor. Good God! he prized that which 
 ruined us both — ruined us bodily and spiritually, 
 and I, unfortunate man, prized it no less than he! 
 
 I hear some one knocking at the door and 
 chanting a prayer in the name of Father and Son. 
 Amen. I must put away my papers and go and 
 see who it is. With God's grace I will continue 
 to-morrow. 
 
 Ill 
 
 December 13. 
 
 JLast night I slept very little and had bad dreams. 
 I thought that an unpleasant, sickly-looking woman 
 was pressing herself close against me and I was not 
 afraid of her, nor of the sin, but afraid that my 
 wife should see us. I did not want to hear her 
 reproaches again. I am seventy-two years old 
 and am not yet free. In a waking state it Is pos- 
 sible to deceive yourself, but in dreams you get a
 
 FEDOR KUSMICH 211 
 
 true estimate of the plane that you have reached. 
 I had a second dream which gave me another 
 proof of my low moral condition. I thought that 
 some one had brought me some sweets wrapped 
 up in green moss. We unpacked them and divided 
 them between us, leaving a few over. I still went 
 on selecting some for myself, when suddenly I 
 caught sight of an unpleasant-looking, dark-col- 
 oured boy, a son of the Sultan, stretching his arm 
 towards me and trying to clutch them. I pushed 
 him away rudely, though I knew quite well that it 
 was far more natural for a child to eat sweets 
 than for me, but I was angry with him and would 
 not give him any and was conscious at the same 
 time that it was mean. 
 
 A similar thing happened to me when I was 
 awake. I had a visit from Maria Martemen- 
 ovna; a messenger called yesterday to ask if she 
 might come. I did not like to hurt her feelings, 
 so I consented, but I find these visits extremely 
 trying. She came to-day. I could hear the sound 
 of her sledge over the crisp snow when she was 
 still some way off. She arrived in her fur coat 
 and shawls, laden with packages she had brought 
 for me, letting in so much cold that I was obliged 
 to put on my dressing-gown. She had brought me 
 pancakes, lenten oil, and apples. She had come 
 to consult me about her daughter, whom a rich
 
 212 FEDOR KUSMICH 
 
 widower wished to marry, and wanted to know if 
 she was to give her consent. Their tremendous 
 opinion of my wisdom is extremely annoying to 
 me. All my protestations to the contrary they - 
 Invariably put down to my humility. I repeated 
 to her what 1 had said many times before, that 
 chastity is higher than marriage, but that the Apos- 
 tle Paul says it is better to marry than be the 
 slave of passion. 
 
 Her brother-in-law Nikanor Ivanov was with 
 her. He had once asked me to settle in his house, 
 and has never since ceased worrying me with his 
 visits. Nikanor Ivanov is a great trial to me. I 
 can never overcome my aversion of him. Help 
 me, O Lord, to see my own sins that I may not 
 judge my brother. All his shortcomings are 
 known to me. I see through them with a ma- 
 licious shrewdness. I am conscious of his weak- 
 nesses and cannot conquer my dislike of him — 
 and he is my brother, with the same divine element 
 in him that is in me. What do these aversions 
 mean! It is not my first experience of them. 
 The two strongest antipathies I ever felt in my 
 life were against Louis XVIII., with his corpulent 
 body, hook nose, irritating white hands; his con- 
 ceit, insolence, and utter stupidity . . . (there! 
 I cannot keep from abusing him). The other 
 was against Nikanor Ivanov, who tormented me
 
 FEDOR KUSMICH 213 
 
 for two whole hours yesterday. Everything about 
 him, from his voice, his hair, to his very nails was 
 repulsive to me. I pretended to be unwell in or- 
 der to account for my depression to Maria Marte- 
 menovna. After they had gone I said my prayers 
 and grew calmer. I thank Thee, O Lord, for the 
 power Thou hast granted me over the only thing 
 that is necessary to me. I tried to remember that 
 Nikanor Ivanov was once an innocent child and 
 that he will come to die like the rest of us. I 
 tried to think kindly of Louis XVIIL, who was 
 dead. I felt sorry that Nikanor Ivanov was not 
 there that I might show him how kindly disposed 
 I felt towards him. ' 
 
 Maria Martemenovna brought me a quantity 
 of candles so that I shall be able to write at night. 
 
 I have just been out. To the left the stars had 
 already merged into the glorious light of the au- 
 rora borealis. How beautiful! How beautiful! 
 I must continue. 
 
 My father and mother started on their travels 
 abroad and my brother Constantine and I were 
 left in the entire charge of our grandmother. My 
 brother, who was born two years later than I, 
 had been christened Constantine in the hope that 
 he would one day become the Emperor of Con- 
 stantinople.
 
 2 14 FEDOR KUSMICH 
 
 Children readily grow fond of people, especially 
 of those who are kind to them. My grandmother 
 was very nice to me, made much of me, and I 
 loved her in spite of an extremely repellant odour 
 that always seemed to hang about her. 7 he strin- 
 gent scents could not disguise this odour — I used 
 to notice it particularly when I sat upon her knee. 
 I was still more repelled by her clean yellowish 
 hands covered with wrinkles, so shiny and slip- 
 pery, the fingers bending over, and the nails un- 
 naturally long. Her languid, lustreless eyes, that 
 seemed almost dead, and the smile playing about 
 her toothless mouth, produced an oppressive 
 though not altogether unpleasant effect on those 
 who saw her. I believed at that time that the 
 languid expression of her eyes was due to the enor- 
 mous pains she took over her toilet. At any rate 
 I was told so. I felt sorry for her then, but now 
 I think of it with disgust. 
 
 I had seen Potemkin , once or twice. This 
 huge, greasy, one-eyed monster was terrible. 
 
 The thing that awed me most about him, though 
 he used to play with me and call me your High- 
 ness, was the fact that he never seemed afraid of 
 my grandmother, like other people, but would 
 speak boldly in her presence in his gruff, bellow- 
 ing voice. 
 
 Another man whom I frequently saw in her
 
 FEDOR KUSMICH 215 
 
 company was Lanskoy. He was nearly always 
 with her. The whole Court hovered about him 
 and made much of him. Needless to say I did 
 not understand who Lanskoy was at the time, and 
 liked him. I was attracted by his curly hair, his 
 shapely legs in tight elk-skin breeches, his happy, 
 light-hearted smile, his diamonds and jewels, glit- 
 tering all over him. 
 
 It was a time full of gaieties. We were taken 
 to Tsarskoye Selo, we rowed on the river, we 
 busied ourselves in the garden, we went out walk- 
 ing and riding, Constantine, a chubby, red- 
 haired little boy, un petit Bacchus as grandmother 
 used to call him, kept us amused with his lively 
 fun. He used to mimic everybody, including 
 Sophia Ivanovna and even grandmother herself. 
 One event of that time impressed itself on my 
 memory. This was the death of Sophia Ivanovna 
 Benkendorf. She died one evening at Tsarskoye 
 in grandmother's presence. Sophia Ivanovna had 
 just brought us in to her and was talking and smil- 
 ing, and suddenly her face changed, she reeled, 
 leaned up against the door for support, and fell 
 down senseless. People came running in and we 
 were taken away. The next day we heard that 
 she was dead. I cried very much, felt very mis- 
 erable, and would not be comforted. They all 
 thought that I was grieved about Sophia Ivanovna,
 
 2i6 FEDOR KUSMICH 
 
 but that was not true. I cried at the thought 
 that people should have to die; that there should 
 be such a thing as death in the world. I could 
 not comprehend, could not believe, that it was 
 the inevitable fate of all men. I remember how, 
 in my five-year-old soul, there rose up questions 
 about the meaning of death and the meaning of 
 life that ends in death. Those vital questions 
 confronting all men, to which the wise have tried 
 to seek an answer in vain, and the foolish have 
 tried to ignore and forget. As is natural to a 
 child, particularly one in my position, I dismissed 
 the terrifying idea of death from my mind; for- 
 got about it as if it did not exist. 
 
 Another important event of that time which 
 came as a consequence of Sophia Ivanovna's death, 
 was that we passed over into the charge of a tutor. 
 He was Nicolai Ivanovich Saltikov — not the 
 Saltikov who, in all probability, was our grand- 
 father, but Nicolai Ivanovich, who had been at- 
 tached to my father's Court. He was a little 
 man, with an enormous head and a stupid-looking 
 countenance, on which there was a constant grim- 
 ace. Constantine used to imitate it beautifully. 
 This change necessitated parting with my dear 
 Praskovia Ivanovna, my old nurse. 
 
 Those who have not had the misfortune of be- 
 ing born in a royal house can hardly imagine the
 
 FEDOR KUSMICH 217 
 
 distorted view we have of people, nor our false 
 attitude towards them. Instead of being instilled 
 with a sense of dependence on our elders natural 
 to children, or with a sense of gratitude for all the 
 good we enjoyed, we were made to believe that 
 we were some kind of superior beings whose every 
 wish must be gratified. Beings who, by a single 
 word or smile, not only paid for all the kindness 
 showered upon them, but were even conferring 
 some sort of favour, making others happy. 
 
 It is true that politeness was expected of us; 
 but by a peculiar childish instinct, I soon saw that 
 we were not meant to be polite for the benefit of 
 others, but merely so as to enhance our own 
 grandeur. 
 
 I remember one festive day. My brother, 
 Saltikov and I were driving along the Nevsky. 
 We sat on the front seat, with two powdered foot- 
 men in red livery standing behind. It was a 
 beautiful day. Constantine and I were dressed 
 in uniforms, unbuttoned in front, exposing our 
 white waistcoats, on which lay the order of St. 
 Andrew. We wore hats with feathers, which we 
 kept raising all the time to people greeting us. 
 The crowd stared and cheered, and ran after us — 
 " On vous saliie." Nicolai Ivanovich kept on say- 
 ing, " A droite." As we passed the guardhouse 
 the sentinels came running out to have a look at us.
 
 2i8 FEDOR KUSMICH 
 
 I always liked to see them. From my earliest 
 childhood I had a passion for soldiers and military 
 manoeuvres. 
 
 It was always instilled into us, particularly by 
 our grandmother, who believed it least of all, that 
 we must always bear in mind that all men are 
 equal. But I knew somehow that those who 
 talked about equality did not believe in it. 
 
 Once when I was playing with Sasha Galitsin, 
 he pushed me accidentally, and hurt me. 
 
 " How dare you ! " I cried. 
 
 " I didn't mean it. It's all right! " 
 
 I was so outraged that my blood rushed to my 
 heart. I complained to Nicolai Ivanovich, and 
 was not ashamed when Galitsin was made to apol- 
 ogise. 
 
 Enough for to-day. My candle is nearly out, 
 and I must break up some fagots. My axe is 
 blunt, and I have nothing to sharpen it on. Be- 
 sides, I don't know how to do it. 
 
 IV 
 
 December 17. 
 
 I have not written anything for the last three 
 days, because I have not been very well. I tried 
 to read the Testament, but could not bring myself
 
 FEDOR KUSMICH 219 
 
 to that understanding of it, that communion with 
 God that I formerly experienced. I used to think 
 at one time that it was impossible for man to live 
 without desire. I was always in a state of desire 
 for something or other, and am not free from it 
 now. At one time I desired to conquer Napoleon; 
 [ desired to be Europe's peacemaker; I desired 
 to free myself of my crown; but all these desires, 
 whether fulfilled, or unfulfilled, soon ceased to 
 attract me, and gave place to new ones. So it 
 went on without end. Recently I longed for win- 
 ter to come — winter has come. I longed for sol- 
 itude, and have almost attained it. Now I want 
 to write the story of my life so that it may be a 
 warning to others, but whether I accomplish it or 
 not, new desires will spring up just the same. If 
 life is nothing more than the begetting of desire, 
 and happiness the fulfilment of desire, then is 
 there not some sort of desire fundamental to every 
 man that would always be fulfilled, or that would 
 be possible of fulfilment? It became clear to me 
 that such a desire must be death. The whole of 
 life would then become a preparation for the ful- 
 filment of this desire, and would inevitably be 
 fulfilled. 
 
 The idea seemed strange to me at first, but 
 meditating on it further, I was convinced that the 
 only thing a wise man could wish for was death.
 
 220 FEDOR KUSMICH 
 
 Not death for Its own sake, but for that stream of 
 life leading from it. It would free the spiritual 
 nature inherent in every man from all passions 
 and temptations. I see this now, having been 
 freed from the worst of that darkness that ob- 
 scured my own soul from me, not letting me see 
 its oneness with God — nay, that obscured God 
 Himself. The idea came to me unconsciously. 
 
 If I really believed that my highest good was to 
 be delivered from passion and to be united with 
 God, then I ought to welcome everything that 
 brought me nearer death, such as old age and 
 sickness. It would in a sense be a fulfilment of 
 my one and only desire. I see this clearly when 
 I am well, but when I am ill, as I have been for 
 the last two days, I cannot see it in the same light, 
 and though I do not rebel against death, yet do 
 not long for its approach. This is a condition of 
 spiritual inertia. I must be patient. 
 
 I will go on from where I left off yesterday. 
 
 Most of the things I have related about my 
 childhood I have heard from others. Frequently 
 the things that have been told me and my own 
 impressions get mixed up one with another, so that 
 I am sometimes unable to distinguish between the 
 two. 
 
 The whole of my life from the very moment of 
 my birth until my present old age, makes me think 
 of a plain enveloped in a thick fog. Everything
 
 FEDOR KUSMICH 221 
 
 is hidden from view, when all at once the mist 
 lifts itself in places, disclosing tiny little islands 
 des eclaircies on which people and objects can be 
 distinguished, quite disconnected with one another, 
 surrounded by an impenetrable veil of mist. 
 
 In my childhood these eclaircies appeared very 
 rarely in the interminable sea of fog and smoke 
 surrounding me. As I grew older I could see 
 them more often, but even now there are periods 
 of my life that have left no trace on my memory. 
 I have already given some of the events of my 
 early childhood that have most impressed them- 
 selves on my mind, the death of Sophia Benken- 
 dorf, the parting scene with my parents, my lively 
 brother Constantine, and there are other reminis- 
 cences that come crowding back as I think of the 
 past. But, for instance, I have no recollection' of 
 when Constantine first appeared, nor when we 
 came to live together, but I do remember one 
 Christmas Eve when he was five and I was seven 
 years old. It was after the midnight service when 
 they put us to bed. We both got together as soon 
 as we were left alone. Constantine, with nothing 
 on but a nightshirt, climbed into my bed, and we 
 began a lively game which consisted in slapping 
 each other on our naked bodies. We laughed un- 
 til our sides ached, and were feeling ever so happy, 
 when suddenly Nicolai. Ivanovich came Into the
 
 222 FEDOR KUSMICH 
 
 room with his enormous powdered head, and in 
 an embroidered coat. He was horror-stricken 
 on catching sight of us, and flew at us In a perfect 
 state of terror that I have never been able to 
 fathom. He put Constantine back in his own 
 bed, threatened to punish us and to tell our grand- 
 mother. 
 
 Another thing that impressed itself on my mem- 
 ory occurred somewhat later, when I was about 
 nine. It was the quarrel between Alexei Gregori- 
 evich Orlov and Potenkin, which took place in my 
 grandmother's room in our presence. It happened 
 a short time before our departure for the Crimea 
 and our first visit to Moscow, Nicolai Ivanovich 
 had taken us to see grandmother as usual. The 
 large room with a carved and painted ceiling was 
 full of people. My grandmother was sitting be- 
 fore a golden dressing-table, in a white dressing- 
 jacket, surrounded by her maids, who were put- 
 ting the finishing touches to her hair. It was 
 tastefully dressed on the top of her head. She 
 smiled on seeing us, and went on talking to a gen- 
 eral decorated with the order of St. Andrew. He 
 was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a terrible 
 scar across his cheek from the mouth to the ear. 
 It was Orlov, le Balafre. I had never seen him 
 before. 
 My favourite little dog*i,Michot, sprang from
 
 FEDOR KUSMICH 223 
 
 the foot of grandmother's dress, and began paw- 
 ing me and licking my face. We came up to 
 grandmother and kissed her plump yellow hand. 
 She put it under my chin, and began to caress me 
 with her bent fingers. In spite of her perfumes, I 
 felt that unpleasant odour about her. She con- 
 tinued talking to the Balafre. " Is he not a fine 
 fellow? " she said, pointing to me. " You haven't 
 seen him before, have you. Count? " 
 
 " They are both fine fellows," the Count replied, 
 kissing our hands in turn. 
 
 "All right, all right!" she said to the maid, 
 who was arranging a cap on her head. It was 
 dear Marie Stepanovna, powdered and painted, 
 who was always kind to me. 
 
 Lanskoy came up with an open snuff-box. 
 Grandmother took some snuff, and smiled as she 
 caught sight of Matriona Denisovna, her jester, 
 who was just coming in 
 
 f^Here the papers break off.)
 
 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC
 
 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC. 
 
 This morning I underwent a medical examina- 
 tion in the government council room. The opin- 
 ions of the doctors were divided. They argued 
 among themselves and came at last to the con- 
 clusion that I was not mad. But this was due to 
 the fact that I tried hard during the examination 
 not to give myself away. I was afraid of being 
 sent to the lunatic asylum, where I would not be 
 able to go on with the mad undertaking I have on 
 my hands. They pronounced me subject to fits of 
 excitement, and something else, too, but never- 
 theless of sound mind. The doctor prescribed a 
 certain treatment, and assured me that by follow- 
 ing his directions my trouble would completely 
 disappear. Imagine, all that torments me dis- 
 appearing completely! Oh, there is nothing I 
 would not give to be free from my trouble. The 
 suffering is too great! 
 
 I am going to tell explicitly how I came to un- 
 dergo that examination; how I went mad, and 
 how my madness was revealed to the outside 
 world. 
 
 227
 
 228 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 
 
 Up to the age of thirty-five I lived like the 
 rest of the world, and nobody had noticed any 
 peculiarities in me. Only in my early childhood, 
 before I was ten, I had occasionally been in a men- 
 tal state similar to the present one, and then only 
 at intervals, whereas now I am continually con- 
 scious of it. 
 
 I remember going to bed one evening, when I 
 was a child of five or six. Nurse Euprasia, a tall, 
 lean woman in a brown dress, with a double chin, 
 was undressing me, and was just lifting me up to 
 put me into bed. 
 
 " I will get Into bed myself," I said, preparing 
 to step over the net at the bedside. 
 
 " Lie down, Fedinka. You see, Mitlnka is al- 
 ready lying quite still," she said, pointing with 
 her head to my brother in his bed. 
 
 I jumped into my bed still holding nurse's hand 
 in mine. Then I let it go, stretched my legs under 
 the blanket and wrapped myself up. 1 felt so nice 
 and warm! I grew silent all of a sudden and 
 began thinking: "I love nurse, nurse loves me 
 and Mitlnka, I love Mitlnka too, and he loves me 
 and nurse. And nurse loves Taras; I love Taras 
 too, and so does Mitlnka. And Taras loves me 
 and nurse. And mother loves me and nurse; 
 nurse loves mother and me and father; everybody 
 loves everybody, and everybody is happy."
 
 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 229 
 
 Suddenly the housekeeper rushed In and began 
 to shout in an angry voice something about a sugar 
 basin she could not find. Nurse got cross and 
 said she did not take it. I felt frightened; it was 
 all so strange. A cold horror came over me, and 
 I hid myself under the blanket. But I felt no 
 better in the darkness under the blanket. I 
 thought of a boy who had got a thrashing one day 
 in my presence — of his screams, and of the cruel 
 face of Foka when he was beating the boy. 
 
 " Then you won't do it any more; you won't! " 
 he repeated and went on beating. 
 
 "I won't," said the boy; and Foka kept on 
 repeating over and over, " You won't, you 
 won't! " and did not cease to strike the boy. 
 
 That was when my madness came over me for 
 the first time. I burst into sobs, and they could 
 not quiet me for a long while. The tears and 
 despair of that day were the first signs of my 
 present trouble. 
 
 I well remember the second time my madness 
 seized me. It was when aunt was telling us about 
 Christ. She told His story and got up to leave 
 the room. But we held her back: "Tell us 
 more about Jesus Christ! " we said. 
 
 " I must go," she replied. 
 
 " No, tell us more, please! " Mitinka insisted, 
 and she repeated all she had said before. She
 
 230 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 
 
 told us how they crucified Him, how they beat and 
 martyred Him, and how He went on praying and 
 did not blame them. 
 
 " Auntie, why did they torture Him? " 
 
 " They were wicked." 
 
 "But wasn't He God?" 
 
 " Be still — it is nine o'clock, don't you hear 
 the clock striking? " 
 
 "Why did they beat Him? He had forgiven 
 them. Then why did they hit Him? Did it 
 hurt Him? Auntie, did it hurt? " 
 
 " Be quiet, I say. I am going to the dining- 
 room to have tea now." 
 
 " But perhaps it never happened, perhaps He 
 was not beaten by them? " 
 
 " I am going." 
 
 " No, Auntie, don't go ! . . ." And again my 
 madness took possession of me. I sobbed and 
 sobbed, and began knocking my head against the 
 wall. 
 
 Such had been the fits of madness in my child- 
 hood. But after I was fourteen, from the time 
 the instincts of sex awoke and I began to give way 
 to vice, my madness seemed to have passed, and 
 I was a boy like other boys. Just as happens 
 with all of us who are brought up on rich, over- 
 abundant food, and are spoiled and made effemi-
 
 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 231 
 
 nate, because we never do any physical work, and 
 are surrounded by all possible temptations, which 
 excite our sensual nature when in the company of 
 other children similarly spoiled, so I had been 
 taught vice by other boys of my age and I in- 
 dulged in it. As time passed other vices came to 
 take the place of the first. I began to know 
 WDmen, and so I went on living, up to the time I 
 was thirty-five, looking out for all kinds of pleas- 
 ures and enjoying them. I had a perfectly sound 
 mind then, and never a sign of madness. Those 
 twenty years of my normal life passed without 
 leaving any special record on my memory, and now 
 it is only with a great effort of mind and with utter 
 disgust, that I can concentrate my thoughts 
 upon that time. 
 
 Like all the boys of my set, who were of sound 
 mind, I entered school, passed on to the university 
 and went through a course of law studies. Then 
 I entered the State service for a short time, mar- 
 ried, and settled down in the cou.itry, educating — 
 if our way of bringing up children can be called 
 educating — my children, looking after the land, 
 and filling the post of a Justice of the Peace. 
 
 It was when I had been married ten years that 
 one of those attacks of madness I suffered from in 
 my childhood made its appearance again. My 
 wife and I had saved up money from her inherit-
 
 232 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 
 
 ance and from some Government bonds* of mine 
 which I had sold, and we decided that with that 
 money we would buy another estate. I was natu- 
 rally keen to increase our fortune, and to do it 
 in the shrewdest way, better than any one else 
 would manage it. I went about inquiring what 
 estates were to be sold, and used to read all the 
 advertisements in the papers. What I wanted was 
 to buy an estate, the produce or timber of which 
 would cover the cost of purchase, and then I would 
 have the estate practically for nothing. I was 
 looking out for a fool who did not understand 
 business, and there came a day when I thought I 
 had found one. An estate with large forests at- 
 tached to it was to be sold in the Pensa Govern- 
 ment. To judge by the information I had re- 
 ceived the proprietor of that estate was exactly 
 the imbecile I wanted, and I might expect the for- 
 ests to cover the price asked for the whole estate. 
 I got my things ready and was soon on my way 
 to the estate I wished to inspect. 
 
 We had first to go by train (I had taken my 
 man-servant with me), then by coach, with relays 
 
 •These government bonds were of a peculiar kind: At the 
 moment of the abolition of serfdom, the Russian Government 
 handed to the owners of serfs State bonds instead of money, 
 called in Russia "the redemption bonds." The money due by 
 the Government on those papers were paid off at fixed periods — 
 and the owners of those bonds sold them often like ordinary 
 Government papers.
 
 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 233 
 
 of horses at the various stations. The journey 
 was very pleasant, and my servant, a good-natured 
 youth, hked it as much as I did. We enjoyed the 
 new surroundings and the new people, and having 
 now only about two hundred miles more to drive, 
 we decided to go on without stopping, except to 
 change horses at the stations. Night came on 
 and we were still driving. I had been dozing, but 
 presently I awoke, seized with a sudden fear. 
 As often happens in such a case, I was so excited 
 that I was thoroughly awake and it seemed as if 
 sleep were gone for ever. " Why am I driving? 
 Where am I going?" I suddenly asked myself. 
 It was not that I disliked the idea of buying an 
 estate at a bargain, but it seemed at that moment 
 so senseless to journey to such a far away place, 
 and I had a feeling as if I were going to die there, 
 away from home. I was overcome with horror. 
 
 My servant Sergius awoke, and I took advan- 
 tage of the fact to talk to him. I began to remark 
 upon the scenery around us; he nad also a good 
 deal to say, of the people at home, of the pleasure 
 of the journey, and it seemed strange to me that 
 he could talk so gaily. He appeared so pleased 
 with everything and in such good spirits, whereas 
 I was annoyed with it all. Still, I felt more at 
 ease when I was talking with him. Along with 
 my feelings of restlessness and my secret horror.
 
 234 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 
 
 however, I was fatigued as well, and longed to 
 break the journey somewhere. It seemed to me 
 my uneasiness would cease if I could only enter a 
 room, have tea, and, what I desired most of all, 
 sleep. 
 
 W.e were approaching the town Arzamas. 
 
 " Don't you think we had better stop here and 
 have a rest? " 
 
 " Why not? It's an excellent idea." 
 
 " How far are we from the town? " I asked the 
 driver. 
 
 "Another seven miles." 
 
 The driver was a quiet, silent man. He was 
 driving rather slowly and wearily. 
 
 We drove on. I was silent, but I felt better, 
 looking forward to a rest and hoping to feel the 
 better for it. We drove on and on in the dark- 
 ness, and the seven miles seemed to have no end. 
 At last we reached the town. It was sound asleep 
 at that early hour. First came the small houses, 
 piercing the darkness, and as we passed them, the 
 noise of our jingling bells and the trotting of our 
 horses sounded louder. In a few places the 
 houses were large and white, but I did not feel 
 less dejected for seeing them. I was waiting for 
 the station, and the samovar, and longed to lie 
 down and rest. 
 
 At last we approached a house v/ith pillars in
 
 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 235 
 
 front of it. The house was white, but it seemed 
 to me very melancholy. I felt even frightened at 
 its aspect and stepped slowly out of the carriage. 
 Sergius was busying himself with our luggage, 
 taking what we needed for the night, running 
 about and stepping heavily on the doorsteps. The 
 sound of his brisk tread increased my weariness. 
 I walked in and came into a small passage. A 
 man received us; he had a large spot on his cheek 
 and that spot filled me with horror. He asked us 
 into a room which was just an ordinary room. 
 My uneasiness was growing. 
 
 " Could we have a room to rest in? " I asked. 
 
 *' Oh, yes, I have a very nice bedroom at your 
 disposal. A square room, newly whitewashed." 
 
 The fact of the little room being square was — 
 I remember it so well — most painful to me. It 
 had one window with a red curtain, a table of 
 birchwood and a sofa with a curved back and 
 arms. Sergius boiled the water in the samovar 
 and made the tea. I put a pillow on the sofa in 
 the meantime and lay down. I was not asleep; I 
 heard Sergius busy with the samovar and urging 
 me to have tea. I was afraid to get up from the 
 sofa, afraid of driving away sleep; and just to be 
 sitting in that room seemed awful. I did not get 
 up, but fell into a sort of doze. When I started 
 up out of it, nobody was in the room and it was
 
 236 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 
 
 quite dark. I woke up with the very same sensa- 
 tion I had the first time and knew sleep was gone. 
 " Why am I here? Where am I going? Just as 
 I am I must be for ever. Neither the Pensa nor 
 any other estate will add to or take anything away 
 from me. As for me, I am unbearably weary of 
 myself. I want to go to sleep, to forget — and I 
 cannot, I cannot get rid of self," 
 
 I went out into the passage. Sergius was sleep- 
 ing there on a narrow bench, his hand hanging 
 down beside it. He was sleeping soundly, and 
 the man with the spot on his cheek was also asleep. 
 I thought, by going out of the room, to get away 
 from what was tormenting me. But // followed 
 me and made everything seem dark and dreary. 
 My feeling of horror, instead of leaving me, was 
 increasing. 
 
 "What nonsense!" I said to myself. "Why 
 am I so dejected? What am I afraid of? " 
 " You are afraid of me " — I heard the voice of 
 Death— "I am here." 
 
 I shuddered. Yes, — Death ! Death will come, 
 it will come and it ought not to come. Even in 
 facing actual death I would certainly not feel any- 
 thing of what I felt now. Then it would be simply 
 fear, whereas now it was more than that. I was 
 actually seeing, feeling the approach of death, and 
 along with it I felt that death ought not to exist.
 
 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 237 
 
 My entire being was conscious of the necessity 
 of the right to live, and at the same time of the 
 Inevitability of dying. This inner conflict was 
 causing me unbearable pain. I tried to shake off 
 the horror; I found a half-burnt candle in a brass 
 candlestick and lighted it. The candle with its red 
 flame burnt down until it was not much taller than 
 the low candlestick. The same thing seemed to 
 be repeated over and over: nothing lasts, life is 
 not, all Is death — but death ought not to exist. 
 I tried to turn my thoughts to what had Interested 
 me before, to the estate I was to buy and to my 
 wife. Far from being a relief, these seemed noth- 
 ing to me now. To feel my life doomed to be 
 taken from me was a terror shutting out any other 
 thought. " I must try to sleep," I decided. I 
 went to bed, but the next Instant I jumped up, 
 seized with horror. A sickness overcame me, a 
 spiritual sickness not unlike the physical uneasi- 
 ness preceding actual illness — but in the spirit, 
 not In the body. A terrible fear similar to the 
 fear of death, when mingled with the recollec- 
 tions of my past life, developed Into a horror 
 as if life were departing. Life and death were 
 flowing into one another. An unknown power 
 was trying to tear my soul into pieces, but could 
 not rend it. Once more I went out Into the 
 passage to look at the two men asleep; once more
 
 238 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 
 
 I tried to go to sleep. The horror was always the 
 same — now red, now white and square. Some- 
 thing was tearing within hut could not be torn 
 apart. A torturing sensation! An arid hatred 
 deprived me of every spark of kindly feeling. 
 Just a dull and steady hatred against myself and 
 against that which had created me. What did 
 create mc? God? We say God. . . . "What 
 if I tried to pray?" I suddenly thought. I had 
 not said a prayer for more than twenty years and 
 I had no religious sentiment, although just for 
 formality's sake I fasted and partook of the com- 
 munion every year. I began saying prayers: 
 " God, forgive me," " Our Father," " Our Lady," 
 I was composing new prayers, crossing myself, 
 bowing to the earth, looking around me all the 
 while for fear I might be discovered in my de- 
 votional attitude. The prayers seemed to divert 
 my thoughts from the previous terror, but it was 
 more the fear of being seen by somebody that did 
 it. I went to bed again. But the moment I shut 
 my eyes the very same feeling of terror made me 
 jump up. I could not stand it any longer. I 
 called the hotel servant, roused Sergius from his 
 sleep, ordered him to harness the horses to the 
 carriage and we were soon driving on once more. 
 The open air and the drive made me feel much 
 better. But I realised that something new had
 
 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 239 
 
 come into my soul, and had poisoned the life I had 
 lived up to that hour. 
 
 We reached our destination in the evening. 
 The whole day long I remained struggling with 
 despair, and finally conquered It; but a horror re- 
 mained in the depth of my soul. It was as if a 
 misfortune had happened to me, and although 
 I was able to forget it for a while, it remained at 
 the bottom of my soul, and I was entirely domi- 
 nated by it. 
 
 The manager of the estate, an old man, received 
 us In a very friendly manner, though not exactly 
 with great joy; he was sorry that the estate was to 
 be sold. The clean little rooms with upholstered 
 furniture, a new, shining samovar on the tea-table, 
 nice large cups, honey served with the tea, — every- 
 thing was pleasant to see. I began questioning 
 him about the estate without any Interest, as if I 
 were repeating a lesson learned long ago and 
 nearly forgotten. It was so uninteresting. But 
 that night I was able to go to sleep without feel- 
 ing miserable. I thought this was due to having 
 said my prayers again before going to bed. 
 
 After that incident I resumed my ordinary life; 
 but the apprehension that this horror would again 
 come upon me was continual. I had to live my 
 usual life without any respite, not giving way to 
 my thoughts, just like a schoolboy who repeats
 
 240 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 
 
 by habit and without thinking the lesson learned 
 by heart. That was the only way to avoid being 
 seized again by the horror and the despair I had 
 experienced in Arzamas. 
 
 I had returned home safe from my journey; I 
 had not bought the estate — I had not enough 
 money. My life at home seemed to be just as 
 it had always been, save for my having taken to 
 saying prayers and to going to church. But 
 now, when I recollect that time, I see that I only 
 imagined my life to be the same as before. The 
 fact was I merely continued what I had previously 
 started, and was running with the same speed on 
 rails already laid; but I did not undertake any- 
 thing new. 
 
 Even in those things which I had already taken 
 in hand my interest had diminished. I was tired 
 of everything, and was growing very religious. 
 My wife noticed this, and was often vexed with 
 me for it. No new fit of distress occurred while 
 I was at home. But one day I had to go unex- 
 pectedly to Moscow, where a lawsuit was pending. 
 In the train I entered into conversation with a land- 
 owner from Kharkov. We were talking about the 
 management of estates, about bank business, about 
 the hotels in Moscow, and the theatres. We both 
 decided to stop at the " Moscow Court," in the 
 Miasnizkaia Street, and go that evening to the
 
 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 241 
 
 opera, to Faust. When we arrived I was shown 
 into a small room, the heavy smell of the passage 
 being still in my nostrils. The porter brought in 
 my portmanteau, and the maid lighted the candle, 
 the flame of which burned up brightly and then 
 flickered, as it usually does. In the room next to 
 mine I heard somebody coughing, probably an old 
 man. The maid went out, and the porter asked 
 whether I wished him to open my bag. In the 
 meanwhile the candle flame had flared up, throw- 
 ing its light on the blue wallpaper with yellow 
 stripes, on the partition, on the shabby table, on 
 the small sofa in front of it, on the mirror hang- 
 ing on the wall, and on the window. I saw what 
 the small room was like, and suddenly felt the 
 horror of the Arzamas night awakening within 
 me. 
 
 " My God! Must I stay here for the night? 
 How can I? " I thought. " Will you kindly un- 
 fasten my bag?" I said to the porter, to keep 
 him longer In the room. " And now I'll dress 
 quickly and go to the theatre," I said to myself. 
 
 When the bag had been untied I said to the 
 porter, " Please tell the gentleman in Number 8 
 — the one who came with me — that I shall be 
 ready presently, and ask him to wait for me." 
 
 The porter left, and I began to dress in haste, 
 afraid to look at the walls. •' But what non-
 
 242 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 
 
 sense ! " I said to myself. " Why am I frightened 
 like a child? I am not afraid of ghosts — " 
 Ghosts! — To be afraid of ghosts is nothing to 
 what I was afraid of! " But what is it? Abso- 
 lutely nothing. I am only afraid of myself. . . . 
 Nonsense ! " 
 
 I slipped into a cold, rough, starched shirt, stuck 
 in the studs, put on evening dress and new boots, 
 and went to call for the Kharkov landowner, who 
 was ready. We started for the opera house. He 
 stopped on the way to have his hair curled, while 
 I went to a French hairdresser to have mine cut, 
 where I talked a little to the Frenchwoman in the 
 shop and bought a pair of gloves. Everything 
 seemed all right. I had completely forgotten the 
 oblong room in the hotel, and the walls. 
 
 I enjoyed the Faust performance very much, 
 and when it was over my companion proposed 
 that we should have supper. This was contrary 
 to my habits; but just at that moment I remem- 
 bered the walls in my room, and accepted. 
 
 We returned home after one. I had two glasses 
 of wine — an unusual thing for me — in spite of 
 which I was feeling quite at ease. 
 
 But the moment we entered the passage with 
 the lowered lamp lighting it, the moment I was 
 surrounded by the peculiar smell of the. hotel, I 
 felt a cold shudder of horror running down my
 
 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 243 
 
 back. But there was nothing to be done. I shook 
 hands with my new friend, and stepped into my 
 room. 
 
 I had a frightful night — much worse than the 
 night at Arzamas; and it was not until dawn, when 
 the old man in the next room was coughing again, 
 that I fell asleep — and then not in my bed, but, 
 after getting in and out of it many times, on the 
 sofa. 
 
 I suffered the whole night unbearably. Once 
 more my soul and my body were tearing them- 
 selves apart within me. The same thoughts came 
 again: " I am living, I have lived up till now, I 
 have the right to live; but all around me is death 
 and destruction. Then why live? Vv'^hy not die? 
 Why not kill myself immediately? No; I could 
 not. I am afraid. Is it better to wait for death 
 to come when it will ? No, that is even worse ; and 
 I am also afraid of that. Then, I must live. But 
 what for? In order to die?" I could not get 
 out of that circle. I took a book, and began 
 reading. For a moment it made me forget my 
 thoughts. But then the same questions and the 
 same horror came again. I got into bed, lay 
 down, and shut my eyes. That made the horror 
 worse. God had created things as they are. But 
 why? They say, " Don't ask; pray." Well, I 
 did pray; I was praying now, just as I did at Arza-
 
 244 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 
 
 mas. At that time I had prayed simply, like a 
 child. Now my prayers had a definite meaning: 
 " If Thou exist, reveal Thy existence to me. To 
 what end am I created? What am I ? " I was 
 bowing to the earth, repeating all the prayers I 
 knew, composing new ones; and I was adding each 
 time, " Reveal Thy existence to me ! " I became 
 quiet, waiting for an answer. But no answer 
 came, as if there were nothing to answer. I was 
 alone, alone with myself and was answering my 
 own questions in place of Him who would not 
 answer. " What am I created for? " " To live 
 in a future life," T answered. " Then why this 
 uncertainty and torment? I cannot believe in 
 future life. I did believe when I asked, but not 
 with my whol& soul. Now I cannot, I cannot ! 
 If Thou didst exist, Thou wouldst reveal it to me, 
 to all men. But Thou dost not exist, and there 
 is nothing true but distress." But I cannot accept 
 that! I rebelled against it; I implored Him to 
 reveal His existence to me. I did all that every- 
 body does, but He did not reveal Himself to me. 
 " Ask, and it shall be given unto you," I remem- 
 bered, and began to entreat; in doing so I felt 
 no real comfort, but just surcease of despair. Per- 
 haps it was not entreaty on my part, but only denial 
 of Him. You retreat a step from Him, and He 
 goes from you a mile. I did not believe in Him,
 
 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 245 
 
 and yet here I was entreating Him. But He did 
 not reveal Himself. I was balancing my accounts 
 with Him, and was blaming Him. I simply did 
 not believe. 
 
 The next day I used all my endeavours to get 
 through with my affairs somehow during the day, 
 in order to be saved from another night In the 
 hotel room. Although I had not finished every- 
 thing, I left for home In the evening. 
 
 That night at Moscow brought a still greater 
 change Into my life, which had been changing ever 
 since the night at Arzamas. I was now paying 
 less attention to my affairs, and grew more and 
 more indifferent to everything around me. My 
 health was also getting bad. My wife urged me 
 to consult a doctor. To her my continual talk 
 about God and religion was a sign of Ill-health, 
 whereas I knew I was 111 and weak, because of the 
 unsolved questions of religion and of God. 
 
 I was trying not to let that question dominate 
 my mind, and continued living amid the old un- 
 altered conditions, filling up my time with incessant 
 occupations. On Sundays and feast days I went 
 to church; I even fasted as I had begun to do 
 since my journey to Pensa, and did not cease to 
 pray. I had no faith in my prayers, but somehow 
 I kept the demand note in my possession Instead
 
 246 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 
 
 of tearing it up, and was always presenting it for 
 payment, although I was aware of the impossibility 
 of getting paid. I did it just on the chance. I 
 occupied my days, not with the management of 
 the estate — I felt disgusted with all business be- 
 cause of the struggle it involved — but with the 
 reading of papers, magazines, and novels, and with 
 card-playing for small stakes. I he only outlet 
 for my energy was hunting. I had kept that up 
 from habit, having been fond of this sport all my 
 life. 
 
 One day in winter, a neighbour of mine came 
 with his dogs to hunt wolves. Having arrived at 
 the meeting-place, we put on snowshoes to walk 
 over the snow and move rapidly along. The hunt 
 was unsuccessful ; the wolves contrived to escape 
 through the stockade. As I became aware of 
 that from a distance, I took the direction of the 
 forest to follow the fresh track of a hare. This 
 led me far away into a field. There I spied the 
 hare, but he had disappeared before I could fire. 
 I turned to go back, and had to pass a forest of 
 huge trees. The snow was deep, the snowshoes 
 were sinking in, and the branches were entangling 
 me. The wood was getting thicker and thicker. 
 I wondered where I was, for the snow had 
 changed all the familiar places. Suddenly I re- 
 alised that I had lost my way. How should I get
 
 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 247 
 
 home or reach the hunting party? Not a sound 
 to guide me ! I was tired and bathed in perspira- 
 tion. If I stopped, I would probably freeze 
 to death; if I walked on, my strength would for- 
 sake me. I shouted, but all was quiet, and no an- 
 swer came. I turned in the opposite direction, 
 which was wrong again, and looked round. Noth- 
 ing but the wood on every hand. I could not tell 
 which was east or west. I turned back again, but 
 I could hardly mov-e a step. I was frightened, and 
 stopped. The horror I had experienced in Arza- 
 mas and in Moscow seized me again, only a hun- 
 dred times greater. My heart was beating, my 
 hands and feet were shaking. Am I to die here? 
 I don't wan't want to! Why death? What is 
 death? I was about to ask again, to reproach 
 God, when I suddenly felt I must not; I ought not. 
 I had not the right to present any account to Him ; 
 He had said all that was necessrry, and the fault 
 was wholly mine. I began to implore His forgive- 
 ness for I felt disgusted with myself. The horror, 
 however, did not last long. I stood still one mo- 
 ment, plucked up courage, took the direction which 
 seemed to be the right one, and was actually soon 
 out of the wood. I had not been far from its edge 
 when I lost my way. As I came out on the main 
 road, my hands and feet were still shaking, and 
 my heart was beating violently. But my soul was
 
 248 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 
 
 full of joy. I soon found my party, and we all 
 returned home together. 1 was not quite happy, 
 but I knew there was a joy within me which I 
 would understand later on; and that joy proved 
 real. I went to my study to be alone and prayed, 
 remembering my sins, and asking for forgiveness. 
 They did not seem to be numerous; but when I 
 thought of what they were they were hateful to 
 me. 
 
 Then I began to read the Scriptures. The Old 
 Testament I found incomprehensible but enchant- 
 ing, the New touching in its meekness. But my 
 favourite reading was now the lives of the saints; 
 they were consoling to me, affording examples 
 which seemed more and more possible to follow. 
 Since that time I have grown even less interested 
 in the management of affairs and in family matters. 
 These things even became repulsive to me. Ev- 
 erything was wrong in my eyes. I did not quite 
 realise why they were wrong, but I knew that the 
 things of which my whole life had consisted, now 
 counted for nothing. This was plainly revealed 
 to me again on the occasion of the projected pur- 
 chase of an estate, which was for sale In our neigh- 
 bourhood on very advantageous terms. I went to 
 inspect it. Everything was very satisfactory, the 
 more so because the peasants on that estate had no 
 land of their own beyond their vegetable gardens.
 
 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 249 
 
 I grasped at once that In exchange for the right of 
 using the landowner's pasture-grounds, they would 
 do all the harvesting for him; and the information 
 I was given proved that I was right, I saw how 
 important that was, and was pleased, as it was in 
 accordance with my old habits of thought. But 
 on my way home I met an old woman who asked 
 her way, and I entered into a conversation with 
 her, during which she told me about her poverty. 
 On returning home, when telling my wife about 
 the advantages the estate afforded, all at once I 
 felt ashamed and disgusted. I said I was not go- 
 ing to buy that estate, for its profits were based on 
 the sufferings of the peasants. I was struck at 
 that moment with the truth of what I was saying, 
 the truth of the peasants having the same desire to 
 live as ourselves, of their being our equals, our 
 brethren, the children of the Father, as the Gospel 
 says. But unexpectedly something which had been 
 gnawing within me for a long time became loos- 
 ened and was torn away, and something new 
 seemed to be born instead. 
 
 My wife was vexed with me and abused me. 
 But I was full of joy. This was the first sign of 
 my madness. My utter madness began to show 
 itself about a month later. 
 
 This began by my going to church; I was listen- 
 ing to the Mass with great attention and with
 
 250 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 
 
 a faithful heart, when I was suddenly given a 
 wafer; after which every one began to move for- 
 ward to kiss the Cross, pushing each other on all 
 sides. As I was leaving church, beggars were 
 ^standing on the steps. It became instantly clear 
 to me that this ought not to be, and in reality was 
 not. But if this is not, then there is no death and 
 no fear, and nothing is being torn asunder within 
 me, and I am not afraid of any calamity which may 
 come. 
 
 At that moment the full light of the truth was 
 kindled in me, and I grew into what I am now. 
 If all this horror does not necessarily exist around 
 me, then it certainly does not exist within me. I 
 distributed on the spot all the money I had among 
 the beggars in the porch, and walked home instead 
 of driving in my carriage as usual, and all the way 
 I talked with the peasants.
 
 TWO WAYFARERS
 
 * 
 
 TWO WAYFARERS 
 
 Two men with bundles over their shoulders were 
 walking along the dusty highroad that lies between 
 Moscow and Toula. The younger man wore a 
 short coat and velveteen trousers. Spectacles 
 gleamed out from under the brim of his new peas- 
 ant's hat. The other was a man of about fifty, 
 remarkably handsome, dressed in a monk's frock, 
 with a leather belt round his waist and a high 
 round black cap, such as novices wear in monas- 
 teries. His long dark beard and dark hair were 
 turning grey. 
 
 The younger man was pale and sallow, was 
 covered with dust, and seemed scarcely able to 
 drag one foot after the other. The old man 
 walked cheerfully along, swinging his arms, his 
 shoulders well thrown back. It seemed as though 
 dust dared not settle on his handsome face nor his 
 body feel fatigue. 
 
 The young man. Serge Vasilievich Borzin, was 
 a doctor of science of Moscow University. The 
 old man, Nicholas Petrovich Serpov, had been a 
 sub-lieutenant in an infantry regiment during the 
 
 253
 
 254 TWO WAYFARERS 
 
 reign of Alexander, then he had become a monk, 
 hut was expelled from the monastery for bad con- 
 duct. He had, however, retained the monastic 
 garb. The men had come together in this wise. 
 Borzin, after taking his doctor's degree, and after 
 writing several articles for the Moscow reviews, 
 went to stay in the country, to plunge into the 
 current of peasant life and to refresh himself in 
 the waves of the popular stream, as he put it. 
 After a month spent in the country in complete 
 solitude, he wrote the following letter to a literary 
 friend of his. who was editor of a journal: — 
 
 " My Mastkr and Friend Ivan Finogeich, 
 
 — It is not for us to predict — indeed we cannot 
 
 — the ultimate solution of those problems which 
 are solving themselves in the secrecy of the village 
 life of the Russian people. Various phases of the 
 Russian mind and its phenomena must be carefully 
 taken intn consideration — the seclusion of their 
 lives; the revolutionary reforms introduced by Pe- 
 ter; etc., etc." 
 
 The long and the short of it was that Borzin, 
 having been deeply impressed by the everyday life 
 of the people, had become convinced that the prob- 
 lem of determining the destiny of the Russian na- 
 tion was more difficult and complex than he had
 
 TWO WAYFARERS 255 
 
 been wont to imagine, and that in order to find its 
 solution he must traverse Russia on foot; so he 
 asked his friend iiot to discuss the question in his 
 journal pending his return, promising to set forth 
 all that he discovered in a series of articles. 
 
 Having written this letter, Borzin set about 
 making preparations for his journey. Though it 
 annoyed him, he had to consider such details as 
 what he should wear. He bought a coat, nailed 
 boots, and a hat such as the peasants wear, and, 
 shutting out his servants, studied himself for a 
 long time in his glass. He could not get rid of 
 his spectacles, as he was too near-sighted. After 
 this, the most essential thing was to get some 
 money. He needed at least 300 roubles. There 
 was no money in his cash-box, so Borzin summoned 
 his bailiff and accountant and went through his 
 books. Finding that he had 180 quarters of 
 oats, he ordered them to be sold, but the bailiff 
 remarked that the oats had been kept for seed. 
 In another column he found an entry of 160 quar- 
 ters of rye, and asked if that would suffice for 
 seed. The bailiff replied by asking if he wanted 
 them to sow last year's rye. The conversation 
 ended shortly after, the bailiff recognising that 
 Borzin knew as little about farming as a babe, 
 and Borzin realising that the rye had been sown 
 already, that new seed was usually used, and that 
 
 I
 
 256 TWO WAYFARERS 
 
 after deducting enough for daily needs from the 
 180 quarters of corn, the rest might be sold. 
 
 The money having been obtaiwed, Borzin made 
 up his mind one evening to start next day, when he 
 heard an unknown voice in the hall, and his fath- 
 er's old valet Stephen entered and announced 
 Nicholas Petrovich Serpov. 
 
 "Who is he?" 
 
 " Don't you remember the monk who used to 
 visit your father? " 
 
 " No, not at all. What does he want? '* 
 
 " He wishes to see you, but I don't think he is 
 quite himself," 
 
 Serpov entered the room, bowed, stamped his 
 foot and said, — 
 
 "Serpov — a wayfarer." They shook hands. 
 " Nothing but ignorance — no education. I ad- 
 monish Russia in vain. Russia is a fool. The 
 peasant is industrious but Russia is a fool. Don't 
 you agree? I knew your father. We used to sit 
 and chat, and he would say, ' You will get on.' 
 But why are you dressed like that? I am as plain- 
 spoken as a soldier, and I ask why? " 
 
 " I am going to make a journey on foot." 
 
 " I am on the road myself. I am a wayfarer. 
 I have been all the way to Greece, to the Athos 
 Monastery, but I never saw any one as honest as 
 our peasants."
 
 TWO WAYFARERS 257 
 
 Serpov sat down, asked for vodka, and then 
 went to bed. Borzin was puzzled. Next day 
 Serpov was the listener and, as Borzin liked to 
 talk, Serpov heard all about his theory and the aim 
 of his journey. Serpov thoroughly approved of 
 it, and ended by offering himself as companion, 
 which Borzin accepted; partly because he did not 
 know how to get rid of him; partly because, with 
 all his craziness, Serpov could flatter; partly, and 
 chiefly, because Borzin regarded the monk as a 
 remarkable, though somewhat complicated, phe- 
 nomenon of Russian life. 
 
 They set out, and when we found them on the 
 highroad they were nearing the place, where, ac- 
 cording to their plan, the first night was to be 
 spent. They had accomplished the first twenty- 
 two versts of their journey. 
 
 Serpov had a glass at the public-house and was 
 in good spirits. ,
 
 i 
 
 KHODINKA: AN INCIDENT OF THE 
 CORONATION OF NICHOLAS II.
 
 KHODINKA*: AN INCIDENT OF THE 
 CORONATION OF NICHOLAS 11. 
 
 " I CANNOT understand such obstinacy. Why 
 should you do without sleep and go ' with the 
 people,' when you can go straight to the pavilion 
 with your Aunt Vera, and see everything without 
 any trouble? I told you Behr had promised to 
 pass you through, though, as far as that's con- 
 cerned, you have the right of entry as a maid of 
 honour." 
 
 It was thus that Prince Paul Golitsln — known 
 in the aristocratic set as " Pigeon " — addressed 
 his twenty-three-year-old daughter Alexandra, 
 called for shortness' sake " Rina." 
 
 The conversation took place in Moscow on 
 17th May 1893 — on the eve of the popular fete 
 held to celebrate the coronation. Rina, a strong, 
 handsome girl, with a profile characteristic of 
 her race — the hooked nose of a bird of prey — 
 had long ceased to be passionately devoted to balls 
 
 *The Khodinka is a large plain outside Moscow where the 
 military often exercise. It was here that the people of Moscow 
 assembled to celebrate the Tsar's accession, and where many 
 hundreds were crushed to death. 
 
 261
 
 262 KHODINKA 
 
 or social functions, and was, or at least considered 
 herself to be, an " advanced " woman and a lover 
 of " the people." She was her father's only 
 daughter and his favourite, and always did what 
 she wished. In this particular Instance It occurred 
 to her that she would like to go to the popular 
 festival with her cousin, not at mid-day with the 
 Court, but together with the people, the porter and 
 the grooms of their own household, who Intended 
 to start In the early morning. 
 
 " But, father, I do not want to look at the peo- 
 ple; I want to be with them. I want to see how 
 they feel towards the young Tsar. Surely for 
 
 once . . ." 
 
 " Well, well, do as you like. I know how ob- 
 stinate you are." 
 
 " Don't be angry, father, dear. I promise to 
 be careful, and Alec will not leave my side." 
 
 Although the plan seemed wild and fantastic to 
 her father, he gave his consent. 
 
 " Yes, of course you may," he answered when 
 she asked If she might have the victoria. " Drive 
 to Khodinka and send it back." 
 
 " All right." 
 
 She went up to him, and he blessed her, as was 
 his custom, and she kissed his big white hand, and 
 they separated. 
 
 There was no talk of anything but the morrow's
 
 KHODINKA 263 
 
 festival among the cigarette-makers in the lodgings 
 let by the notorious Marie Yakovlevna. Several 
 of Emelian Tagodin's friends had met in his room 
 to discuss when they should start. 
 
 " It's not worth while going to bed at all. 
 You'll only oversleep yourself," said Yakov, a 
 bright youth who occupied a space behind a 
 wooden partition. 
 
 " Why not have a little sleep? " retorted Eme- 
 lian. " We'll start at dawn. Every one says 
 that's the thing to do." 
 
 " Well, if we are going to bed, it's tim.e we 
 
 went." 
 
 " But, Emelian, mind you call us if we don't 
 wake up in time." 
 
 Emelian promised he would, and, taking a reel 
 of silk from a drawer in the table, drew the lamp 
 nearer, and began to sew a missing button on his 
 summer overcoat. When he haa finished this job 
 he laid out his best clothes and cleaned his boots, 
 and, after saying several prayers — " Our Father," 
 " Hail Mary," etc., the meaning of which he had 
 never fathomed, and had not even been interested 
 in — he took off his boots, and lay down on the 
 crumpled, creaking bed. 
 
 "Why not?" he said to himself. "There is 
 such a thing as luck. Perhaps I shall get a lottery 
 ticket and win." The rumour had spread among
 
 264 KHODINKA 
 
 the people that, besides other gifts, some lottery 
 tickets were to be distributed. " Well, the 10,000 
 rouble prize is expecting too much, but one might 
 win 500 roubles. What couldn't I do with it? 
 I could send something to the old folk; I'd make 
 my wife leave her situation: it's no sort of exist- 
 ence living apart like this. I'd buy a good watch 
 and a fur coat. As it is, it's one long struggle, 
 and you're never out of your difficulties." 
 
 He began to dream that he and his wife were 
 walking around the Alexander Gardens, and that 
 the same policeman who had taken him up a year 
 ago for using bad language when he was drunk 
 was no longer a policeman, but a general, and that 
 this same general smiled at him and invited him 
 to go to a neighbouring public-house with him to 
 hear a mechanical organ. The organ sounded 
 just like a clock striking, and Emelian awoke to 
 find that the clock really was striking wheezily, 
 and that the landlady was coughing behind his 
 door. It was not quite so dark as it had been the 
 night before. 
 
 " Don't oversleep yourself." 
 
 Emelian got up, went barefooted across the 
 room to the wooden partition to awake Yasha, and 
 then proceeded to dress carefully, greasing and 
 brushing his hair before the broken mirror. 
 
 " I'm all right! That's why girls are so fond
 
 KHODINKA 265 
 
 of me. Only I don't want to get into mischief." 
 
 He went to the landlady, as arranged the day 
 before, to get some food. He put a meat pie, 
 two eggs, some ham, and a small bottle of vodka 
 into a bag, and then left the house with Yasha 
 and walked towards the Peter Park. 
 
 They were not alone. Some were in front; 
 others were hurrying up from behind. From all 
 sides happy men, women, and children, dressed in 
 their best, were collecting together, all going in 
 the same direction. At last they reached the field 
 called Khodinka. Its edges were black with peo- 
 ple. It was cold in the early dawn, and here 
 and there smoke was arising from the fires which 
 were made from such twigs and branches as were 
 available. Emelian found some friends who also 
 had a fire, and round which they were sitting pre- 
 paring their food and drink. The sun was rising 
 clear and bright, and the general merriment was 
 increasing. The air was filled with singing and 
 chattering, and with jokes and laughter. Every- 
 thing gave rise to pleasure, but still greater pleas- 
 ures were in store. Emelian had a drink, and, 
 lighting a cigarette, felt happier than ever. 
 
 The people were wearing their best clothes, but 
 several rich merchants, with their wives and chil- 
 dren, were also noticeable among the well-dressed 
 working men. Rina Golitsin, too, was remarka-
 
 266 KHODINKA 
 
 ble as she walked at her cousin's side between the 
 wood fires, happy and radiant at having got her 
 own way, and at the thought of celebrating with 
 the people the accession to the throne of a Tsar 
 who was adored by them. 
 
 " Here's to your health, good lady," cried a 
 factory hand to her, raising his glass to his lips. 
 " Don't refuse to break bread with us." 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 *' You ought to answer ' a good appetite to 
 you,' " whispered her cousin, showing off his 
 knowledge of popular customs, and they moved 
 on. 
 
 Accustomed to occupy the best places every- 
 where, they penetrated through the crowd, going 
 straight for the pavilion. The crowd was so dense 
 that, notwithstanding the bright weather, a thick 
 mist caused by the breath of the people, hung over 
 the field. But the police would not let them pass. 
 
 *' I'm rather glad," said Rina. " Let us re- 
 turn," and so they went back into the crowd. 
 
 " Lies, all lies," said Emelian, seated with his 
 companions in a circle round the food which was 
 spread out on white paper — in answer to a young 
 factory hand who, on approaching them, told them 
 that the distribution of gifts had begun. 
 
 " I tell you it is so. It's contrary to regula- 
 tions, but they have begun. I saw it myself.
 
 KHODINKA . 267 
 
 Each one receives a mug and a packet and away 
 they go." 
 
 " Of course, what do the crazy commissionaires 
 care? They give as they choose." 
 
 " But why should they, how can they — against 
 regulations? " 
 
 " You see they can." 
 
 " Let's go, friends. Why should we wait? " 
 
 They all rose. Emelian pocketed his bottle with 
 the remains of the vodka and advanced with his 
 comrades. They had not gone more than twenty 
 yards when the crowd became so dense that It was 
 difficult to stir. 
 
 " What are you pushing for? " 
 
 " You're pushing yourself." 
 
 " You're not the only one here." 
 
 " That'll do." 
 
 "Oh, Lord! I'm crushed!" cried a woman's 
 voice. a 
 
 A child could be heard screaming on the other 
 side. 
 
 " Go to — " 
 
 "How dare you? Are you the only one? 
 Everything will be taken before we get there. 
 But I'll be even with them, the beasts, the devils," 
 cried Emelian, squaring his stalwart shoulders and 
 elbowing his way forward as best he could. See- 
 ing every one else was elbowing and pushing he,
 
 268 KHODINKA 
 
 without knowing exactly why, also began to try to 
 force a way for himself through the crowd. On 
 every side people were crushing him, but those in 
 front did not move or let any one through their 
 ranks — and all were shouting and shrieking and 
 groaning. 
 
 Emelian silently clenched his strong teeth and 
 frowned, but without losing heart or strength he 
 steadily continued to push those In front, though 
 he made but little progress. 
 
 All at once there was a sudden agitation; the 
 steady surging and swaying was followed by a rush 
 forward to the right. Emelian looked to that side 
 and saw something whizz over his head and fall 
 among the crowd. One, two, three — he realised 
 what it meant, and a voice near him exclaimed: 
 
 " Cursed devils — they are throwing the things 
 among the crowd ! " 
 
 The sound of screaming, laughing and groaning 
 came from that part of the crowd where the bags 
 were falling. Some one gave Emelian a severe 
 blow In the ribs which made him even gloomier 
 and angrier, but before he had time to recover 
 from the blow some one else had trodden on his 
 foot. Then his coat, his new coat, caught and was 
 torn. With a feeling of maliciousness In his heart 
 he exerted all his strength to advance when some- 
 thing suddenly happened which he could not under-
 
 KHODINKA 269 
 
 stand; and he found himself in an open space and 
 could see the tents, where the mugs and packets of 
 sweets were to be distributed. Up to then he had 
 seen nothing but the backs of other people in front 
 of him. 
 
 He felt glad, but only for a moment, for he 
 realised that the reason he could see all these 
 was because those who were in front had reached 
 the trench and were slipping or rolling over into 
 it, and that he himself was knocked down on top 
 of a mass of people. He was tumbling on those 
 below, and others from behind him were in their 
 turn tumbling on him. For the first time he felt 
 afraid. As he fell, a woman in a woollen shawl 
 stumbled over him. Shaking her off, he tried to 
 turn round, but those behind prevented him and 
 his strength began to fail. Then some one 
 clutched his legs and screamed. He neither saw 
 nor heard anything, but fought his way through, 
 treading on human beings on all sides. 
 
 "Friends, help, — take my watch — my gold 
 watch," shrieked a man near him. 
 
 " Who wants a watch now? " thought Emelian, 
 climbing out to the other side of the trench. 
 
 His heart was divided between fear — fear for 
 himself and for his own life — and anger at those 
 wild creatures who were pushing him. In spite of 
 this, the aim with which he had set out — to reach
 
 270 KHODINKA 
 
 the tents and get hold of a packet with a lottery 
 ticket — still drew him on. 
 
 The tents were now close at hand. He could 
 see the distributors quite distinctly and could hear 
 the cries of those who had arrived at the tents 
 and the creaking of the boards on which the people 
 In front were crowding. 
 
 Emelian stumbled. lie had only about twenty 
 paces more to go when he heard a child's scream 
 under or rather between his feet. Emelian looked 
 down and saw a bare-headed boy in a torn shirt 
 lying face downwards, crying incessantly, and 
 clutching at his legs. He felt his heart stop beat- 
 ing. All fear for himself immediately disap- 
 peared and with it his anger against the rest. He 
 was sorry for the boy and, stooping down, put his 
 arm round his waist, but those behind him were 
 pushing so violently that he nearly fell and let go 
 the child. Summoning his strength for a supreme 
 effort he caught him up again and lifted him on 
 his shoulders. For a moment the crush became 
 less and Emelian managed to carry off the child. 
 
 " Give him to me," cried a coachman who was 
 at Emelian's side, and taking the boy, raised him 
 above the crowd. 
 
 " Run over the people." 
 
 Looking back, Emelian saw how the child 
 walked further and further away, over the heads
 
 KHODINKA 271 
 
 and shoulders of the swaying mass, now rising 
 above it, now vanishing in the crowd. 
 
 Emehan, however, continued to advance. He 
 could not help doing so; but he was no longer at- 
 tracted by the gifts and had no desire to reach the 
 tents. He thought of the little boy Yasha, of 
 those who had been trampled on, and of those 
 whom he had seen as he crossed the trench. 
 
 When he reached the pavilion at last he received 
 a mug and a packet of sweets, but they gave him 
 no pleasure. What pleased him was that the 
 crush was over, and that he could breathe and 
 move about; but his pleasure, however, only lasted 
 a moment, on account of the sight which met his 
 eyes. A woman, in a torn striped shawl and in 
 buttoned boots which stuck straight up, with her 
 brown hair loose and in disorder, was lying on her 
 back. One hand lay on the grass, the other, with 
 closed fingers, was folded below her breast. Her 
 face was white — that bluish white peculiar to 
 the dead. She was the first who had been crushed 
 to death and had been thrown over the fence right 
 in front of the Tsar's pavilion. 
 
 When Emelian caught sight of her, two police- 
 men were standing over her, and a police officer 
 was giving them directions. A minute after a few 
 Cossacks rode up and no sooner had their officer 
 given them some order, than they rode full speed
 
 272 KHODINKA 
 
 at Emelian and at the others who were standing 
 there, and drove them back into the crowd. Eme- 
 lian was again caught in the whirl. The crush 
 became worse than ever; and to add to the horror, 
 one and the same everlasting crying and groaning 
 of women and children, and men trampling their 
 fellows under foot — and not abl" to help doing 
 so. Emelian was no longer terrified or angry 
 with those who were crushing him. He had but 
 one desire — to get out, to be free, to have a smoke 
 and a drink, and to explain the meaning of those 
 feelings which arose in his mind. 
 
 He longed for a smoke and a drink, and when 
 at last he managed to get away from the throng, 
 he satisfied his craving for these. 
 
 It was not so with Alec and Rina. As they did 
 not expect anything, they moved about among the 
 people who were seated in groups, chatting with 
 the women and children, when the whole people 
 suddenly made a rush for the pavilion, the rumour 
 having spread that the sweets and mugs were being 
 given away contrary to regulations, and before 
 Rina had time to turn round, she was separated 
 from Alec and carried along by the crowd, and was 
 overcome by terror. She tried to be quiet, but 
 could not help screaming out for mercy. But 
 there was no mercy, for they pressed round her
 
 KHODINKA 273 
 
 more and more. Her dress was torn, and her hat 
 also fell off. She could not be quite sure, but she 
 thought some one snatched at her watch and chain. 
 Though she was a strong girl and might have 
 resisted, she was in mortal fear not being able 
 to breathe. Ragged and battered she just man- 
 aged to keep on her feet. 
 
 But the moment the Cossacks charged the crowd 
 to disperse it, Rina lost hope and directly she 
 yielded to despair, her strength failed her and she 
 fainted. Falling down she was not conscious of 
 anything further. 
 
 When she regained consciousness she was lying 
 on the grass. A bearded working man in a torn 
 coat was squatting beside her and squirting water 
 into her face as she opened her eyes; the man 
 crossed himself and spat out the water. It was 
 Emelian. 
 
 " Who are you ? Where am I ? " 
 
 " You're on Khodinka field. Who am I? I'm 
 a man, I've been badly crushed myself, but the 
 likes of us can stand a good deal," said Eme- 
 lian. 
 
 "What's this?" Rina asked, pointing to the 
 coppers that lay on her breast. 
 
 " That's because people thought you were dead, 
 they gave coppers for your burial. But I had a
 
 274 KHODINKA 
 
 good look at you and thought to myself: 'No, 
 she's alive,' and I got some water for you." 
 
 Rina glanced at herself and seeing her torn dress 
 and bare breast, felt ashamed. The man under- 
 stood and covered her. 
 
 " You're all right, .niss, you'll not die." 
 
 People came up and also a policeman, while 
 Rina sat up, and gave her father's name and ad- 
 dress, and Emelian went for the cab. The crowd 
 round her continued to increase. When Emelian 
 returned with the cab, she rose, and refusing help, 
 got into the vehicle by herself. She was so 
 ashamed of the condition she was in. 
 
 " Where is your cousin? " asked an old woman. 
 
 " I don't know. I don't know," said Rina in 
 despair. 
 
 (On reaching home she learnt that Alec had 
 managed to leave the crowd when the crush first 
 began and he returned home safely.) 
 
 " That man saved me," said Rina. " If It had 
 not been for him, I don't know what would have 
 happened." 
 
 "What is you name?" she said, turning to 
 Emelian. 
 
 " Mine? What does my name matter? " 
 
 " She's a princess," a woman whispered in his 
 ear. " Ri-i-i-ch." 
 
 " Come with me to my father, he will thank
 
 KHODINKA 275 
 
 you." Suddenly the heart of Emelian seemed to 
 be infused with a kind of strength so that he 
 would not have exchanged this feeling for a lottery 
 ticket worth 200,000 roubles. 
 
 " Nonsense, go home, miss. What is there to 
 thank me for? " 
 
 " Oh, no. I would so much rather. 
 
 " Good-bye, miss, God be with you. But, there, 
 don't take away my overcoat," and he showed his 
 white teeth with a merry smile which lived in 
 Rina's memory to console her for the most terrible 
 moments of her life.
 
 INTRODUCTION TO " A MOTHER " 

 
 INTRODUCTION TO " A MOTHER " 
 
 I HAD known Marie Alexandrovna ever since we 
 were children. As so often happens with young 
 people, there was no suggestion of love-mal<:ing 
 about our companionship, with the possible ex- 
 ception of one evening when she was at our house 
 and we played " Ladies and Gentlemen." She 
 was fifteen, with plump, rosy hands, beautiful 
 dark eyes, and a thick plait of black hair. I was 
 so impressed by her during that evening that I 
 Imagined that I was in love with her. But that 
 was the only time; during all the rest of our forty 
 years' acquaintance we were on those excellent 
 terms of friendship which exist between a man and 
 a woman who mutually respect each other, which 
 are so delightful when — as in our case — they 
 are free from any idea of love-making. 
 
 I got a lot of enjoyment out of our friendship, 
 and it taught me a great deal. I have never 
 known a woman who more perfectly typified the 
 good wife, the good mother. Through her I 
 learned much, and came to understand many 
 things. 
 
 279
 
 28o INTRODUCTION TO "A MOTHER" 
 
 I saw her for the last time last year, only a 
 month before her death, which neither of us ex- 
 pected. She had just settled down to live alone 
 with Barbara, her cook, in the grounds of a mon- 
 astery. It was very strange to see this mother 
 of eight children — this woman who had nearly 
 fifty grandchildren — living alone in that way. 
 But there was an evident finality about her deter- 
 mination to live by herself for the rest of her days 
 in spite of the more or less sincere invitations of 
 her family. As I knew her to be, I will not say a 
 free-thinker, for she never laid any stress on that, 
 but one who thought for herself with courage and 
 common sense, I was puzzled at first to see her 
 taking up her abode in the precincts of a monas- 
 tery. 
 
 I knew that her heart was too full of real feeling 
 to have any room for superstition, and I was well 
 aware of her hatred of hypocrisy and of every- 
 thing Pharisaical. Then suddenly came this house 
 close to the monastery, this regular attendance at 
 church services, and this complete submission to 
 the guidance of the priest, P'ather Nicodim, though 
 all this was done unostentatiously and with moder- 
 ation, as if she were somewhat ashamed of it. 
 
 When we met it was evident that she wished to 
 avoid all discussion of her reasons for choosing 
 a life of that sort. But I think that I understood.
 
 INTRODUCTION TO "A MOTHER" 281 
 
 Although she had a sceptical mind, It was dom- 
 inated by the fulness of her heart. When, after 
 forty years of household activity, she found that 
 all her children had outgrown the need for her 
 care, she was at a loose end, and it became neces- 
 sary to seek some fresh occupation for her heart, 
 some fresh outlet for her feelings. Since the 
 homes of her children could not satisfy her crav- 
 ings, she decided to go into retreat, hoping that 
 she would find the solace which others found in 
 seclusion, the consolation of religion. Though 
 her pride, both on her own account and for the 
 sake of her children, prevented her from giving 
 more than the merest hint of the truth, there could 
 be no doubt that she was unhappy. 
 
 I knew all her children, and when I Inquired 
 after them she answered reluctantly, for she never 
 blamed them. But I could see what a tragedy, 
 or rather, what a series of tragedies lay buried In 
 her heart. 
 
 " Yes, Volodia has done very well," she said. 
 " He is President of the Chamber, and has bought 
 an estate. . . . Yes, his children are growing up 
 — three boys and two girls," and as she stopped 
 talking her black eyebrows were contracted into 
 a frown, and I could see that she was making an 
 effort to prevent herself from expressing her 
 thoughts, trying to rid herself of them.
 
 282 INTRODUCTION TO "A MOTHER" 
 
 "Well, and Basil?" 
 
 " Basil is just the same; you know the sort of 
 man he is." 
 
 " Still devoted to society? " 
 1 es. 
 
 " Has he any children? " 
 
 " Three." 
 
 That is how we talked when her sons and 
 daughters were our subject of conversation. 
 
 She would rathej talk of Peter than of the 
 others. He was the failure of the family — he 
 had squandered all that he had, did not pay his 
 debts, and caused his mother more distress than 
 any of them. But he was her best-beloved in 
 spite of his waywardness, for she saw, as she put 
 it, his " heart of gold." 
 
 There is often a peculiar charm about the rem- 
 iniscences of those who have gone through hid- 
 den sorrows, and it was only when we touched 
 on the days of her careless youth that she let 
 herself go. Our last talk was the best of them 
 all, so delightful that I did not leave her home 
 until after midnight. It was full of tender sym- 
 pathy. It was about Peter Nikiforovich, the first 
 tutor her children ever had. He was a graduate 
 of Moscow University, and he died of consump- 
 tion in her house. He was a remarkable man, 
 and had exercised a great influence over her.
 
 INTRODUCTION TO "A MOTHER'^ 283 
 
 Though she did not realise it, he was the only man 
 whom she could, or did, love besides her husband. 
 
 We talked about him and about his theories of 
 life, views which I had known and shared at the 
 time. He was not exactly a disciple of Rousseau, 
 though he knew and approved of his theories, but 
 he had a mind of the same type. He very much 
 resembled our usual conception of the wise men 
 of antiquity. He was full of the gentle humility 
 of unconscious Christianity. Though he was con- 
 vinced that he hated the teachings of Christianity, 
 his whole life was one long self-sacrifice. He 
 was obviously wretched when he could find no 
 opportunity to deny him.self something for the 
 sake of others, and it must be something that 
 could only be relinquished with suffering and dil^- 
 culty. Then he was really happy. He was as in- 
 nocent as a child and as tender as a woman. 
 
 There may be some doubt as to whether she 
 loved him; but there could be absolutely no doubt 
 that she was his only love, his idol, for any one 
 who ever saw him in her presence. To banish 
 any shadow of question, it was quite enough to 
 watch his great, round, blue eyes following her 
 every movement, reflecting every shade of expres- 
 sion on her face; frail and attenuated as he was, 
 in his shapeless, ill-fitting coat, it was more than 
 enough to see him draw himself up, to note how
 
 284 INTRODUCTION TO "A MOTHER" 
 
 he bent or turned toward the spot which she occu- 
 pied. 
 
 Alexis Nicolaevich, her late husband, knew it, 
 and did not mind in the least, frequently leaving 
 him alone with her and the children for whole 
 evenings. The children knew it. They loved 
 both their mother and their tutor, and thought it 
 only natural that their mother and their tutor 
 should love one another. 
 
 Alexis Nicolaevich's only precaution was to call 
 him " Peter the Wise." He, too, loved him and 
 respected him; indeed, he could not help respect- 
 ing him for his exceptional affectionate devotion to 
 the children, and for the unusual loftiness of his 
 morality; and never for a moment did he think of 
 passion between him and his wife as a possibility. 
 But I am inclined to believe that she did love him. 
 His death was not only a deep grief, but a bereave- 
 ment. Certain sides of her nature, the best, the 
 fundamental, the most essential, withered away 
 after his death. 
 
 So we talked about him, and about his opinions 
 on life; how he had believed that the highest 
 morality lay in taking from others as little as 
 possible, and in giving to others as much as pos- 
 sible of oneself, of one's soul; and how, in order 
 that one might take as little as possible, he believed 
 that one should cultivate what Plato ranked as the
 
 INTRODUCTION TO "A MOTHER" 285 
 
 highest virtue, abstinence: that one should sleep 
 on a plank bed, wear the same clothing winter and 
 summer, have bread and water for one's nourish- 
 ment, or, as a great indulgence, milk. (That was 
 how he had lived, and Marie Alexandrovna thought 
 that that was how he had ruined his health.) He 
 had held that, to equip oneself for giving to others, 
 it was essential to develop one's spiritual forces, 
 chief among which was love, dynamic love, de- 
 voted to service in life, to uplifting of life. He 
 would have brought up the children on these lines 
 if he could have had his way; but their parents 
 insisted upon some concession to convention, and 
 an excellent compromise was adopted. But un- 
 fortunately, his regime did not last long, as he 
 only lived with them for four years, 
 
 " Just think of it," said Marie Alexandrovna, 
 " I have taken to reading rel'gious tracts, I listen 
 to Father Nicodim's sermons, and believe me " — 
 here her smiling eyes shone with a glance so bright 
 that it brought to mind the independence of 
 thought which was so characteristic of her — " be- 
 lieve me, all these pious exhortations are infinitely 
 inferior to the sayings of Peter Nikiforovich. 
 They deal with the same things, but on a much 
 lower plane. But, above all, he taught one not 
 so much by precept as by practice. And how 
 did he do it? Why, his whole life was a flame,
 
 286 INTRODUCTION TO "A MOTHER" 
 
 and it consumed him. Do you remember when 
 Mitia and Vera had scarlatina — you were stay- 
 ing with us — do you remember how he sat up at 
 night with them, but insisted upon going on with 
 his lessons with the older children during the day? 
 He regarded it as a sacred duty. And then, when 
 Barbara's boy was ill, he did the same thing, and 
 was quite angry because we would not have the 
 child moved to our house. Barbara was talking 
 about him only the other day. Then when Vania, 
 the page boy, broke his bust of some sage or other, 
 do you remember how, after scolding him, he went 
 out of his way to atone for his anger, begged the 
 boy's pardon, and bought him a ticket for the 
 circus. He was a wonderful man. He insisted 
 that the sort of life we led was not worth living, 
 and begged my husband to give up our land to the 
 peasants and to live by his own labour. Alexan- 
 der only laughed. But the advice had been given 
 quite earnestly, from a sense of duty. 
 
 " He had arrived at that conclusion, and he was 
 right. Yet we went on living just as others did, 
 and what was the result ? I made a round of visits 
 last year, to all my children except Peter. Well, 
 what did I find? Were they happy? Still it was 
 not possible to alter everything as he wanted. It 
 was not for nothing that the first man fell and that 
 sin came into the world."
 
 INTRODUCTION TO "A MOTHER" 287 
 
 That was our last talk. " I have done a great 
 deal of thinking in my loneliness," she said; " in- 
 deed, I have done more than thinking; I have done 
 some writing," and she smiled at me with an air of 
 embarrassment that gave her aged face a sweet, 
 wistful expression. " I have put down my 
 thoughts about all these things, or rather, the out- 
 come of my experiences. I kept a diary before I 
 was married, and afterwards too, for a time. 
 But I gave it up later, when it all began, about ten 
 years ago." She did not say what had begun, 
 but I knew that she meant the strained relations 
 with her older children, the misunderstandings, 
 and the contentions. She had had the entire con- 
 trol of the family estate after her husband's death. 
 " In looking through my possessions here I found 
 my old diaries and re-read them. There is a good 
 deal In them that is silly, but there is a good deal 
 that is good, and " — again the same smile — " in- 
 structive, too. I could not make up my mind at 
 first whether to burn them or not, so I asked 
 Father Nicodim, and he said, ' Burn them.' But 
 that was all nonsense, you know. He could not 
 understand. So I didn't burn them." How well 
 I recognised her characteristic illogical consistency. 
 She was obedient to Father Nicodim in most 
 things, and had settled near the monastery to be 
 under his guidance; but when she thought that his
 
 288 INTRODUCTION TO "A MOTHER" 
 
 judgment was irrational, she did what seemed best 
 to her. 
 
 " Not only did I not burn them, I wrote two 
 more volumes. There is nothing to do here, so I 
 wrote what I thought about it all, and when I die 
 — I don't mean to die yet: my mother lived to be 
 seventy, and my father eighty — but when I do die 
 these books are to be sent to you. You are to 
 read them and to decide whether there is anything 
 of real value in them, and if there is, you will let 
 others share it. For no one seems to know. We 
 go on suffering incessantly for our children, from 
 before their birth until the time comes when they 
 begin to insist on their rights. Think of the 
 sleepless nights, the anxiety, the pain and the 
 despair we go through. It would not matter if 
 they really loved us, or even if they were happy. 
 But they don't, and they aren't. I don't care what 
 you say, there is something wrong somewhere. 
 That is what I have written about. You will read 
 it when I am dead. But I have said enough about 
 
 it." 
 
 I promised, though I assured her that I did not 
 expect to outlive her. We parted, and a month 
 later I received the news of her death. Feeling 
 faint at vespers, she had sat down on a little fold- 
 ing stool she carried with her, leaned her head 
 against the wall, and died. It was some sort of
 
 INTRODUCTION TO "A MOTHER" 289 
 
 heart trouble. I went to the funeral. All the chil- 
 dren were there except Helen, who was abroad, 
 and Mitia — the one who had had scarlatina — 
 who could not go because he was in the Caucasus 
 undergoing a cure for a serious illness. 
 
 It was an ostentatious funeral, and its display 
 inspired the monks with more respect for her than 
 they had felt while she was alive. Her belongings 
 were divided up rather as keepsakes than with a 
 view to any intrinsic value. In memory of our 
 friendship, I received her malachite paper-weight 
 as well as six old leather-bound diaries and four 
 new ordinary manuscript books in which, as she 
 had said, she had written " about it all " while 
 living near the monastery. 
 
 The book contains this remarkable woman's 
 touching and instructive story. 
 
 As I knew her and her husband throughout their 
 life together, and watched the growth and devel- 
 opment of her children from the time of their 
 birth to the time of their marriage, I have been 
 able to fill in any omission in her memoirs from 
 my own reminiscences whenever it has seemed 
 necessary to make the story more clear.
 
 i 
 
 THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER
 
 THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER 
 
 It is the 3rd of May 1857, and I begin a new 
 diary. My old one covers a long period, but I 
 did not write it properly; there was too much in- 
 trospection, too much sentimentality and nonsense 
 — about being in love with Ivan Zakharovich — 
 the desire to be famous, or to enter a convent. I 
 have just read over a good deal that was nice, 
 written when I was fifteen or sixteen. But now 
 it is quite different. I am twenty, and I really am 
 in love and in a state of ecstasy. I do not worry 
 myself with fears as to whether it is real, or 
 whether this is what true love should be, or 
 whether my love is inadequate; on the contrary, 
 I am afraid that this is the real thing, fate; that 
 I love far, far too much, and cannot help loving, 
 and I am afraid. There is something serious and 
 dignified about him — his face, the sound of his 
 voice, his cheery word — in spite of the fact that 
 he is always bright and laughing, and can turn 
 everything round so that it becomes graceful, 
 clever, and humorous. Every one is amused, and 
 so am I; yet there is something solemn about it. 
 
 293
 
 294 THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER 
 
 Our eyes meet; they pierce deep, deep down into 
 the other's, and go farther and farther. I am 
 frightened, and I see that he is too. 
 
 But I will describe it all in order. He is the 
 son of Anna Pavlovna Lutkovsky, and is related 
 to the Obolenskys and the Mikashins; his eldest 
 brother is the Lutkovsky who distinguished him- 
 self at the siege of Sevastopol, and he himself, 
 Alexis,* is mine, yes mine! He was in Sevas- 
 topol, too, but only because he did not want to 
 be safe at home when other men were dying 
 there. He is above ambition. After the cam- 
 paign he left the army, and did some sort of work 
 in Petersburg; now he has come to our province, 
 and is on the Committee. He is young, but 
 he is liked and appreciated. Michel brought 
 him to our house, and he became intimate with us 
 at once. Mother took a fancy to him, and was 
 very friendly. Father, as usual with all young 
 men who wished to marry his daughters, received 
 him coldly. He at once began to pay attention 
 to Madia, the sort of attention men do pay to girls 
 of sixteen; but In my innermost heart I knew at 
 once that it was I, only I did not dare to own 
 it even to myself. He used to come often; and 
 from the first day, although nothing was said, I 
 knew that it was all over — that it was he. Yes- 
 
 * " Peter " is the original.
 
 THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER 295 
 
 terday, on leaving, he pressed my hand. We 
 were on the landing of the staircase. I do not 
 know why, but I felt that I was blushing. He 
 looked at me, and he blushed also; and lost his 
 head so completely that he turned round and ran 
 downstairs, dropped his hat, picked it up, and 
 stopped outside in the porch. 
 
 I went upstairs and looked out of the window. 
 His carriage drove up, but he did not get in. I 
 leaned out to look into the porch. He was stand- 
 ing there, stroking his beard into his mouth, and 
 biting it. I was afraid he might turn round, and 
 so I moved away from the window, and at the 
 same moment I heard his step on the stairs. He 
 was running up quickly, impetuously. How I 
 knew I cannot say, but I went to the door and 
 stood still, waiting. My heart ceased to beat; It 
 seemed to stand still, and my breast heaved pain- 
 fully, yet joyfully. Why 1 knew I cannot say. 
 But I knew. He might very well have run up- 
 stairs and said, " I beg your pardon, I forgot my 
 cigarettes," or something like that. That might 
 very well have happened. What should I have 
 done then? But no, that was impossible. What 
 was to be — was. His face was solemn, timid, 
 determined, and joyful. His eyes shone, his lips 
 quivered. He had his overcoat on, and held his 
 hat in his hand. We were alone — every one
 
 296 THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER 
 
 was on the veranda, " Marie Alexandrovna," * 
 he said, stopping on the last step, " it's best to 
 have it over once for all than to go on In misery, 
 and perhaps to upset you." I felt 111 at ease, but 
 painfully happy. Those dear eyes, that beautiful 
 forehead, those trembling lips, so much more used 
 to smiling, and the timidity of the strong energetic 
 figure! I felt sobs rising to my throat. I expect 
 he saw the expression on my face. 
 
 " Marie Alexandrovna,* you know what I want 
 to tell you, don't you? " 
 
 " I don't know "... I began. " Yes, I do." 
 
 " Yes," he went on, " you know what I mean 
 to ask you, and do not dare." He broke off, and 
 then, suddenly, as though angry with himself: 
 " Well, what is to be, will be. Can you love me 
 as I love you; be my wife. Yes or no? " 
 
 I could not spSak. Joy suffocated me. I held 
 out my hand. He took it and kissed it. " Is it 
 really yes? Truly? Yes? You knew, didn't 
 you. I have suffered so long. I need not go 
 
 away .f^ 
 
 " No, no." 
 
 I said that I loved him, and we kissed; and that 
 first kiss seemed strange and unpleasant rather than 
 pleasant, our lips just touching the other's face, 
 
 ♦"Barbara Nicolaevna " in the original.
 
 THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER 297 
 
 as though by chance. He went down and sent 
 away his carriage, and I ran off to mother. She 
 went to father, who came out of his room. It 
 was all over — we were engaged. It was past 
 one when he left, and he will come again to- 
 morrow, and the wedding will be in a month. 
 He wanted it to be next week, but mother would 
 not hear of It. 
 
 It was fifty-seven years ago. The war was just 
 over. The Voronov household was busy with 
 wedding preparations. The second daughter, 
 Marie,* was engaged to Alexis Lutkovsky.f 
 They had known each other since childhood.^ 
 They had played and danced together. Now he 
 had returned from Sevastopol, with the rank of 
 lieutenant. 
 
 At the very height of the war he had left the 
 civil service to join a regiment as an ensign. On 
 his return he could not make up his mind what to 
 do. He felt nothing but contempt for military 
 service, especially in the Guards, and did not want 
 to go on with it in time of peace. But an uncle 
 wanted him to be his aide-de-camp in Kiev. A 
 cousin offered him a post at Constantinople. His 
 
 *" Barbara" in the original, 
 t " Evgraf Lotukhine " in the original. 
 
 t See p. 294 where she says, " Michel introduced him to our 
 house," etc.
 
 298 THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER 
 
 ex-chief asked him to go back to his former post. 
 He had plenty of friends and relatives, and they 
 were all fond of him. They were not quite fond 
 enough of him to miss him when he was not 
 there, but they were fond enough to say when he 
 appeared (at least most of them), " Ah, Alexis! * 
 how jolly!" He was never in any one's way, 
 and most people liked to have him about, though 
 for very different reasons. He could tell stories, 
 and sing or play the guitar in first-rate fashion. 
 But, above all, he never gave himself any airs. 
 He was clever, good-looking, good-natured, and 
 sympathetic. While he was looking round and 
 discussing where and with whom he should work, 
 and while he was thinking the matter over and 
 weighing it very carefully, notwithstanding his 
 seeming indifference, he met the Voronovs in 
 Moscow. They invited him to their country- 
 house, where he went and stayed a week; then left, 
 and a week later returned and proposed. 
 
 He was accepted with great pleasure. It was a 
 good match. He became engaged. 
 
 " There's nothing to be particularly pleased 
 about," said old Voronov to his wife, who was 
 standing near his desk looking at him wist- 
 fully. 
 
 " He is good-natured." 
 
 * " Grisha " in the original.
 
 THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER 299 
 
 " Good-natured, indeed! That's not the point. 
 But, as a matter of fact, he has lived: he has lived 
 a good deal. I know the Lutkovsky * stock. 
 What has he got except good intentions and 
 his service? What we can give them will not 
 provide for them." 
 
 " But they love one another, and they have 
 been so frank about it," she said. She was so 
 gentle and so mild. 
 
 " Yes, of course, he's all right. They're all 
 alike, but I wanted some one better for Marie. f 
 She is such an open-hearted, tender little soul, 
 There was something else I had wished for. But 
 It can't be helped. Come." And they left the 
 room together. 
 
 Just at first father seemed displeased. No, not 
 exactly displeased, but sad, not quite himself. I 
 know him. Tust as though he did not like him. 
 I cannot understand it; I am not the only one. It 
 is not because I am engaged to him, but nobility, 
 truthfulness, and purity are so clearly written all 
 over his being that one could not find more of 
 them anywhere. It is evident that what is In his 
 mind is on his tongue: he has nothing to hide. 
 He only hides his own noble qualities. He will 
 not, he cannot bear to speak of his Sevastopol ex- 
 
 * " Lotukhine " in the original, 
 t " Barbara " in the original.
 
 300 THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER 
 
 plolts, nor about Michel. He blushed when I 
 spoke of him. I thank Thee, Lord. I desire 
 nothing, nothing more. 
 
 Tutkovsky * went to Moscow to make prepar- 
 ations for the wedding. He stopped at the chev- 
 alier, and there on the stairway he met Souschov. 
 " Ah, Alexis, t is it true that you are going to get 
 married? " 
 
 " Yes, it is true." 
 
 " I congratulate you. I know them. It is a 
 charming family. I knew your bride too. She 
 is beautiful. Let us have dinner together." 
 
 They dined together, and had first one bottle, 
 then a second. 
 
 " Let's be off. Let's drive somewhere; there's 
 nothing else to do." 
 
 They drove to the Hermitage, which had only 
 just been opened. As they approached the thea- 
 tre they met Anna. Anna did not know; but 
 even if she had known he was going to be mar- 
 ried, she would not have altered her manner, and 
 would have smiled and shown her dimples with 
 even more delight. 
 
 "Oh, there, how dull you are; come along! " 
 She took his hand. 
 
 *"Lotukhine" in the original. 
 t " Grisha " in the original.
 
 THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER 301 
 
 " Take care," said Souschov behind them. 
 " Directly, directly." 
 
 Lutkovsky * walked as far as the theatre with 
 her, and then handed her over to Basil, whom he 
 happened to meet there. 
 
 " No, it is wrong. I will go home. Why did 
 I come? " 
 
 Notwithstanding urgent requests to remain, he 
 went home. In his hotel room he drank two 
 glasses of seltzer water, and sat down at the table 
 to make up his accounts. In the morning he had 
 to go out on business — to borrow money. His 
 brother had refused to lend him any, and so he 
 had got it from a money-lender. He sat there 
 making his calculations, and all the while his 
 thoughts returned to Anna, and he felt annoyed 
 that he had refused her, though he felt proud that 
 he had done so. « 
 
 He took out Marie's f photograph. She was 
 a strong, well-developed, slender Russian beauty. 
 He looked at the picture with admiration, then 
 put it in front of him and went on with his 
 work. 
 
 Suddenly in the corridor he heard the voices of 
 Anna and Souschov. He was leading her 
 straight to his door. 
 
 * " Lotukhine " in the original, 
 t " Barbara's " in the original.
 
 302 THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER 
 
 " Alexis,* how could you? " 
 
 She entered his room. 
 
 Next morning Lutkovsky j went to breakfast 
 with Souschov, who reproached him. 
 
 " You must know how terribly this would grieve 
 her." 
 
 " Of course I do. Don't worry. I am as dumb , 
 as a fish. May I — Alexis | has returned from 
 Moscow, the same clear, child-like soul. I see he 
 is unhappy because he is not rich, for my sake — 
 only for my sake. Last night the conversation 
 turned on children, on our future children. I can- 
 not believe I shall have children, or even one 
 child. It is impossible. I shall die of happi- 
 ness. Oh, but if I had them, how could I love 
 them and him? The two things do not go to- 
 gether. Well, what is to be will be." 
 
 A month later the wedding took place. In the 
 autumn Lutkovsky § got a post in the Civil Serv- 
 ice, and they went to St. Petersburg. In Septem- 
 ber they discovered that she was going to be a 
 mother, and in March her first son was born. 
 
 The accouchement, as is usually the case, was 
 unexpected, and confusion ensued just because 
 
 *"Grisha" in the original, 
 t " Lotukhine " in the original. 
 t " Grisha " in the original. 
 § " Lotukhine '' in the original.
 
 THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER 303 
 
 every one had wanted to foresee everything, and 
 things actually turned out quite different. 
 
 [This is only a fragment, and contains some inconsistencies 
 and some confusion in the names, 'which have been corrected. — 
 Editor.]
 
 I 
 
 I
 
 FATHER VASILY: A FRAGMENT
 
 FATHER VASTLY: A FRAGMENT 
 
 It was autumn. Before daybreak a cart rattled 
 over the road, which was in bad repair, and drove 
 up to Father Vasily's double-fronted thatched 
 house. A peasant in a cap, with the collar of his 
 kaftan turned up, jumped out of the cart, and, 
 turning his horse round, knocked with his big whip 
 at the window of the room which he knew to be 
 that of the priest's cook. 
 
 "Who's there?" 
 
 *' I want the priest." 
 
 "What for?" , . 
 
 " For some one who is sick." 
 
 " Where do you come from? " 
 
 " From Vozdrevo." 
 
 A man struck a light, and, coming out into the 
 yard, opened the gate for the peasant. 
 
 The priest's wife — a short, stout woman, 
 dressed in a quilted jacket, with a shawl over her 
 head and felt boots on her feet — came out and 
 began to speak in an angry, hoarse voice. 
 
 "What evil spirit has brought you here? " 
 
 " I have come for the priest." 
 
 307
 
 3o8 FATHER VASILY 
 
 " What are you servants thinking about? You 
 haven't Ht the fire yet." 
 
 " Is it time yet?" 
 
 " If it were not time I shouldn't say anything." 
 
 The peasant from Vozdrevo went to the 
 kitchen, crossed himself before the ikon, and, mak- 
 ing a low bow to the priest's wife, sat down on a 
 bench near the door. 
 
 The peasant's wife had been suffering a long 
 time; and, having given birth to a still-born child, 
 was now at the point of death. 
 
 While gazing at what was going on in the hut 
 he sat busily thinking how he should carry off the 
 priest. Should he drive him across the Kossoe, as 
 he had come, or should he go round another way? 
 The road was bad near the village. The river 
 was frozen over, but was not strong enough to 
 bear. He had hardly been able to get across. 
 
 A labourer came in and threw down an armful 
 of birch logs near the stove, asking the peasant to 
 break up some of it to light the lire, whereupon 
 the peasant took off his coat and set to work. 
 
 The priest awoke, as he always did, full of life 
 and spirits. While still in bed, he crossed himself 
 and said his favourite prayer, " To the King of 
 Heaven," and repeated " Lord have mercy on us " 
 several times. Getting up, he washed, brushed 
 his long hair, put on his boots and an old cassock.
 
 FATHER VASILY 309 
 
 and then, standing before the ikons, began his 
 morning prayers. When he reached the middle 
 of the Lord's Prayer, and had come to the words, 
 " Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them 
 that trespass against us," he stopped, remember- 
 ing the deacon who was drunk the day before, 
 and who on meeting him muttered audibly, " Hyp- 
 ocrite, Pharisee." These words, Pharisee and 
 hypocrite, pained Father Vasily particularly be- 
 cause, although conscious of having many faults, 
 he did not believe hypocrisy to be one of them. 
 He was angry with the deacon. " Yes, I for- 
 give," he said to himself; " God be with him," 
 and he continued his prayers. The words, " Lead 
 us not into temptation," reminded him how he had 
 felt when hot tea with rum had been handed to 
 him the night before after vespers in the house of 
 a rich landowner. *" 
 
 Having said his prayers he glanced at himself 
 in a little mirror which distorted everything, and 
 passed his hands over his smooth, fair hair, which 
 grew in a circle round a moderately large bald 
 patch, and then he looked with pleasure at his 
 broad, kind face, with its thin beard, which looked 
 young in spite of his forty-two years. After this 
 he went into the sitting-room, where he found his 
 wife hurriedly and with difficulty bringing in the 
 samovar, which was on the point of boiling over.
 
 3IO FATHER VASTLY 
 
 "Why do you do that yourself? Where's 
 Thekla?" 
 
 "Why do you do it yourself?" mocked his 
 wife. " Who else is to do it? " 
 
 " But why so early? " 
 
 " A man from Vozdrevo has come to fetch you. 
 His wife is dying." 
 
 " Has he been here long? " 
 
 " Yes, some time." 
 
 " Why was I not called before? " 
 
 Father Vasily drank his tea without milk (it 
 was Friday) ; and then, taking the sacred elements, 
 put on his fur coat and cap and went out into the 
 porch with a resolute air. The peasant was 
 awaiting for him there. " Good-morning, Mi- 
 tri," said Father Vasily, and turning up his sleeve, 
 made the sign of the cross, after which he 
 stretched out his small strong hand with its short 
 cut nails for him to kiss, and walked out on to the 
 steps. The sun had risen, but was not yet visible 
 behind the overhanging clouds. The peasant 
 brought the cart out from the yard, and drove 
 up to the* front door. Father Vasily stepped 
 quickly on the axle of the back wheel and sat down 
 on ihe seat, which was bound round with hay. 
 Mitri getting in beside him, whipped up the big- 
 barrelled mare with its drooping ears, and the 
 cart rattled over the frozen mud. A fine snow 
 was falling.
 
 FATHER VASILY 311 
 
 II 
 
 Father Vaslly's family consisted of his wife, 
 her mother — (the widow of the former priest of 
 the parish), and three children — two sons and a 
 daughter. The eldest son had finished his course 
 at the seminary, and was now preparing to enter 
 the university; the second son — the mother's fa- 
 vourite, a boy of fifteen — was still at the semi- 
 nary, and his sixteen-year-old daughter, Lena, lived 
 at home, though discontented with her lot, do- 
 ing little to help her mother. Father Vasily him- 
 self had studied at the seminary in his youth, 
 and had done so brilliantly that, when he left in 
 1840, he was at the top of his class. He then 
 began to prepare for entrance into the ecclesiasti- 
 cal academy, and even dreamt of a professor- 
 ship, or of a bishopric. But his mother, the 
 widow of a verger, with three daughters and an 
 elder son who drank — lived in the greatest pov- 
 erty. The step he took at that time gave a sug- 
 gestion of self-sacrifice and renunciation to his 
 whole life. To please his mother he left the 
 academy, and became a village priest. He did 
 this out of love for his mother though he never 
 confessed it to himself, but ascribed his decision 
 to indolence and dislike for intellectual pursuits. 
 The place to which he was presented was a living
 
 312 FATHER VASILY 
 
 in a small village, and was offered to him on con- 
 dition that he would marry the former priest's 
 daughter.* The living was not a rich one, for 
 the old priest had been poor and had left a widow 
 and two daughters in distress. Anna, by whose 
 aid he was to obtain the living, was a plain girl, 
 but bright in every sense of the word. She liter- 
 ally fascinated Vasily and forced him to marry 
 her, which he did. So he became Father Vasily, 
 first wearing his hair short and afterwards long, 
 and he lived happily with his wife, Anna Tik- 
 honovna, for twenty-two years. Notwithstand- 
 ing her romantic attachment to a student, the son 
 of a former deacon, he was as kind to her as ever, 
 as if he loved her still more tenderly, and wished 
 to atone for the angry feelings which her attach- 
 ment to the student had awakened in him. 
 
 It had afforded him an opportunity for the same 
 self-sacrifice and self-denial; the result of which 
 was that he gave up the academy, and felt a calm, 
 almost unconscious, inner joy. 
 
 Ill 
 
 At first the two men drove on in silence. The 
 road through the village was so uneven that al- 
 
 * The custom of giving a living to a son-in-law is universal 
 in Russia. The living is usually the dowry of the youngest 
 daughter.
 
 FATHER VASTLY 313 
 
 though they moved slowly the cart was thrown 
 from side to side, while the priest kept sliding off 
 his seat, settling himself again and wrapping his 
 cloak round him. 
 
 It was only after they had left the village be- 
 hind, and crossed over the trench into the meadow 
 that the priest spoke. 
 
 " Is your wife very bad? " he asked. 
 
 " We don't expect her to live," answered the 
 peasant reluctantly. 
 
 " It is in God's, not man's hands. It is God's 
 will," said the priest. " There is nothing for it 
 but to submit." 
 
 The peasant raised his head and glanced at the 
 priest's face. Apparently he was on the point of 
 making an angry rejoinder, but the kind look 
 which met his eyes disarmed him — so shaking 
 his head he only said: " It may be God's will, 
 but it is very hard on me, Father. I am alone. 
 What will become of my little ones? " 
 
 " Don't be faint-hearted — God will protect 
 them." The peasant did not reply, but swearing 
 at the mare, who had changed from a trot into a 
 slow walk, he pulled the rope reins sharply. 
 
 They entered a forest where the tracks were all 
 equally bad, and drove along in silence for some 
 time, trying to pick out the best of them. It was 
 only after they had passed through the forest,
 
 314 FATHER VASILY 
 
 and were on the high road which led through 
 fields bright with springing shoots of the autumn- 
 sown corn, that the priest spoke again. 
 
 " There is promise of a good crop," he said. 
 
 " Not bad," answered the peasant, and was 
 silent. All further attempts at conversation on 
 the part of the priest were in vain. 
 
 They reached the patient's house about break- 
 fast-time. 
 
 The woman, who was still alive, had ceased 
 to suffer, but lay on her bed too weak to move, 
 her expressive eyes alone showing that life was 
 not yet extinct. She gazed at the priest with a 
 look of entreaty, and kept her eyes fixed on him 
 alone. An old woman stood near her, and the 
 children were up on the stove. The eldest girl, 
 a child of ten, dressed in a loose shirt, was stand- 
 ing, as if she were grown up, at a table near the 
 bed, and resting her chin on her right hand, and 
 supporting the right arm with her left, silently 
 stared at her mother. The priest went to the bed- 
 side and administered the sacrament, and turning 
 towards the ikon, began to pray. The old woman 
 drew near to the dying woman, and looking at 
 her shook her head and then covered her face 
 with a piece of linen; after which she approached 
 the priest, and put a coin Into his hand. He knew
 
 FATHER VASILY 315 
 
 It was a five kopek * piece, and accepted It. At 
 that moment the husband came into the hut. 
 
 " Is she dead? " he asked. 
 
 " She is dying," said the old woman. 
 
 On hearing this the girl burst into tears, mut- 
 tering something. The three children on the 
 stove began to howl in chorus. 
 
 The peasant crossed himself, and going up to 
 his wife, uncovered her face and looked at her. 
 The white face was calm and still. He stood 
 over the dead woman for a few minutes, then ten- 
 derly covered the face again, and crossing himself 
 several times, turned to the priest and said, — 
 
 "Shall we start?" 
 
 " Yes, we had better go." 
 
 " All right. I'll just water the mare." And 
 he left the hut. 
 
 The old woman began a wailing chant about the 
 orphans left motheiless, with no one to feed or 
 clothe them, comparing them to young- birds who 
 have fallen from their nest. At every verse of 
 her chant she breathed heavily, and was more and 
 more carried away by her own wailing. The 
 priest listened, and became sad and sorry for the 
 children and wanted to help them. He felt for 
 his purse in the pocket of his cassock, remember- 
 
 * About three half-pence.
 
 3i6 FATHER VASTLY 
 
 ing that he had a half-rouble (about a shilling) 
 coin in it, which he had received from the land- 
 owner at whose house he had said vespers the 
 evening before. He had not found time to hand 
 it over to his wife, as he always did with his 
 money; and, regardless of the consequences, he 
 took out the coin, and showing it to the old 
 woman, put It on the window-slll. 
 
 The peasant came In without his coat on and 
 said that he had asked a friend to drive the priest 
 back, as he had to go himself to fetch some boards 
 for the coffin. 
 
 IV 
 
 Theodore, the friend who drove Father Vaslly 
 back, was a sociable, merry giant with red hair 
 and a red beard. His son had just been taken as 
 a recruit, and to celebrate the event, Theodore 
 had had a drink, and was therefore in a particu- 
 larly happy frame of mind. 
 
 " Mitrl's mare was tired out," he said; "why 
 not help a friend? Why not help a friend? We 
 ought to be kind to one another, oughtn't we? 
 Now then, my beauty! " he shouted to the bay 
 horse with Its tightly plaited tail, and touched It 
 with the whip.
 
 FATHER VASILY 317 
 
 " Gently, gently," said Father Vasily, shaken 
 as he was by the jolting. 
 
 " Well, we can go slower. Is she dead? " 
 
 " Yes, she is at rest," said the priest. 
 
 The red-haired man wanted to express his sym- 
 pathy, but he also wanted to have a joke. 
 
 " God's taken one wife. He'll send another," he 
 said, wishing to have a laugh, 
 
 " Oh, it is terribly sad for the poor fellow! " 
 said the priest. 
 
 " Of course it Is. He Is poor and has no one 
 to help him. He came to me and said, ' Take the 
 priest home, will you; my mare can't do any 
 more.' We must help one another, mustn't we? " 
 
 " You've been drinking, I see. It's wrong of 
 you, Theodore. It's a working-day." 
 
 " Do you think I drank at the expense of oth- 
 ers? I drank at my own. I was seeing my son 
 off. Forgive me, Father, for God's sake." 
 
 " It is not my business to forgive. I only say 
 it Is better not to drink." 
 
 " Of course It Is, but what am I to do? If I 
 were just nobody — but, thank God, I am well off. 
 I live openly. I am sorry for Mitrl. Who could 
 help being sorry for him? Why, only last year 
 some one stole his horse. Oh, you have to keep 
 a sharp eye on folk nowadays." 
 
 Theodore began a long story about some horses
 
 31 S FATHER VASTLY 
 
 that were stolen from a fair; how one was killed 
 for the sake of its skin — but the thief was caught 
 and w^as beaten black and blue, said Theodore, 
 with evident satisfaction. 
 
 " They ought not to have beaten him." 
 
 " Do you think they ought to have patted him 
 on the back? " 
 
 While conversing in this manner they reached 
 Father Vasily's house. 
 
 Father Vasily wanted to go to his room and 
 rest, but during his absence two letters had come 
 — one from his son, one from the bishop. The 
 bishop's circular was of no importance, but the 
 son's letter gave rise to a stormy scene, which in- 
 creased when his wife asked him for the half- 
 rouble and found that he had given it away. Her 
 anger grew, but the real cause was the boy's letter 
 and their inability to satisfy his demands — due 
 entirely to her husband's carelessness, she thought. 
 
 THE END
 
 THE FORGED COUPON
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
 i
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Introduction 3 
 
 The Forged Coupon 59 
 
 After the Dance . . . 185 
 
 Alyosha the Pot 205 
 
 My Dream T.aiy 
 
 There are no Guilty People 241 
 
 The Young Tsar 263
 
 i 
 
 I
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 In an age of materialism like our own the phe- 
 nomenon of spiritual power is as significant and 
 inspiring as it is rare. No longer associated with 
 the " divine right " of kings, it has survived the 
 downfall of feudal and theocratic systems as a 
 mystic personal emanation in place of a coercive 
 weapon of statecraft. 
 
 Freed from its ancient shackles of dogma and 
 despotism it eludes analysis. We know not how 
 to gauge its effect on others, nor even upon our- 
 selves. Like the wind, it permeates the atmos- 
 phere we breathe, and baffles while it stimulates 
 the mind with its intangible but compelling force. 
 
 This psychic power, which the dead weight of 
 materialism is impotent to suppress, is revealed 
 in the lives and writings of men of the most di- 
 verse creeds and nationalities. Apart from those 
 who, like Buddha and Mahomet, have been raised 
 to the height of demi-gods by worshipping mil- 
 lions, there are names which leap inevitably to the 
 mind — such names as Savonarola, Luther, Cal- 
 vm, Rousseau — which stand for types and ex- 
 emplars of spiritual aspiration. To this high
 
 4 INTRODUCTION 
 
 priesthood of the quick among the dead, who can 
 doubt that time will admit Leo Tolstoy — a genius 
 whose greatness has been obscured from us rather 
 than enhanced by his duality; a realist who strove 
 to demolish the mysticism of Christianity, and be- 
 came himself a mystic in the contemplation of 
 Nature; a man of ardent temperament and robust 
 physique, keenly susceptible to human passions 
 and desires, who battled with himself from early 
 manhood until the spirit, gathering strength with 
 years, inexorably subdued the flesh. 
 
 Tolstoy the realist steps without cavil into the 
 front rank of modern writers; Tolstoy the ideal- 
 ist has been constantly derided and scorned by 
 men of like birth and education with himself — 
 his altruism denounced as impracticable, his 
 preaching compared with his mode of life to prove 
 him inconsistent, if not insincere. This is the 
 prevailing attitude of politicians and literary men. 
 
 Must one conclude that the mass of mankind 
 has lost touch with idealism? On the contrary, 
 in spite of modern materialism, or even because of 
 it, many leaders of spiritual thought have arisen 
 in our times, and have won the ear of vast audi- 
 ences. Their message Is a call to a simpler life, 
 to a recognition of the responsibilities of wealth, 
 to the avoidance of war by arbitration, and sink- 
 ing of class hatred in a deep sense of universal 
 brotherhood.
 
 INTRODUCTION 5 
 
 Unhappily, when an idealistic creed is formu- 
 lated in precise and dogmatic language, it invari- 
 ably loses something of its pristine beauty in the 
 process of transmutation. Hence the Positlvist 
 philosophy of Comte, though embodying noble 
 aspirations, has had but a limited influence. 
 Again, the poetry of Robert Browning, though 
 less frankly altruistic than that of Cowper or 
 Wordsworth, is inherently ethical, and reveals 
 strong sympathy with sinning and suffering hu- 
 manity, but it is masked by a manner that is 
 sometimes uncouth and frequently obscure. Ow- 
 ing to these, and other instances, idealism sug- 
 gests to the world at large a vague sentimentality 
 peculiar to the poets, a bloodless abstraction toyed 
 with by philosophers, which must remain a closed 
 book to struggling humanity. 
 
 Yet Tolstoy found true idealism in the toiling 
 peasant who believed in God, rather than in his 
 intellectual superior who believed in himself in the 
 first place, and gave a conventional assent to the 
 existence of a deity in the second. For the peas- 
 ant was still religious at heart with a naive unques- 
 tioning faith — more characteristic of the four- 
 teenth or fifteenth century than of to-day — and 
 still fervently aspired to God although sunk in su- 
 perstition and held down by the despotism of the 
 Greek Church. It was the cumbrous ritual and 
 dogma of the orthodox state religion which roused
 
 6 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Tolstoy to impassioned protests, and led him step 
 by step to separate the core of Christianity from 
 its sacerdotal shell, thus bringing upon himself 
 the ban of excommunication. 
 
 The signal mark of the reprobation of " Holy 
 Synod " was slow in coming — it did not, in fact, 
 become absolute until a couple of years after the 
 publication of " Resurrection," in 1901, in spite 
 of the attitude of fierce hostility to Church and 
 State which Tolstoy had maintained for so long. 
 This hostility, of which the seeds were primarily 
 sown by the closing of his school and inquisition 
 of his private papers in the summer of 1862, soon 
 grew to proportions far greater than those arising 
 from a personal wrong. The dumb and submis- 
 sive moujik found in Tolstoy a living voice to ex- 
 press his sufferings. 
 
 Tolstoy was well fitted by nature and circum- 
 stances to be the peasant's spokesman. He had 
 been brought into intimate contact with him in the 
 varying conditions of peace and war, and he knew 
 him at his worst and best. The old home of the 
 family, Yasnaya Polyana, where Tolstoy, his 
 brothers and sister, spent their early years in 
 charge of two guardian aunts, was not only a halt- 
 ing-place for pilgrims journeying to and from the 
 great monastic shrines, but gave shelter to a num- 
 ber of persons of enfeebled minds belonging to
 
 INTRODUCTION 7 
 
 the peasant class, with whom the devout and 
 kindly Aunt Alexandra spent many hours daily in 
 religious conversation and prayer. 
 
 In " Childhood " Tolstoy apostrophises with 
 feeling one of those " innocents," a man named 
 Grisha, " whose faith was so strong that you felt 
 the nearness of God, your love so ardent that the 
 words flowed from your lips uncontrolled by your 
 reason. And how did you celebrate his Majesty 
 when, words failing you, you prostrated yourself 
 on the ground, bathed in tears." This picture of 
 humble religious faith was amongst Tolstoy's 
 earliest memories, and it returned to comfort him 
 and uplift his soul when it was tossed and en- 
 gulfed by seas of doubt. But the affection he 
 felt in boyhood towards the moujiks became 
 tinged with contempt when his attempts to im- 
 prove their condition — some of which are de- 
 scribed in " Anna Karenina " and in the " Land- 
 lord's Morning " — ended in failure, owing to 
 the ignorance and obstinacy of the people. It 
 was not till he passed through the ordeal of war 
 in Turkey and the Crimea that he discovered in 
 the common soldier who fought by his side an un- 
 conscious heroism, an unquestioning faith in God, 
 a kindliness and simplicity of heart rarely pos- 
 sessed by his commanding ofl'icer. 
 
 The Impressions made upon Tolstoy during
 
 8 INTRODUCTION 
 
 this period of active service gave vivid reality to 
 the battle-scenes in " War and Peace," and are 
 traceable in the reflections and conversation of the 
 two heroes, Prince Andre and Pierre Besukhov. 
 On the eve of the battle of Borodino, Prince 
 Andre, talking with Pierre in the presence of his 
 devoted soldier-servant Timokhine, says, — 
 
 Success cannot possibly be, nor has it ever 
 been, the result of strategy or fire-arms or num- 
 bers.' 
 
 Then what does it result from? ' said Pierre. 
 
 From the feeling that is in me, that is in 
 him ' — pointing to Timokhine — ' and that is in 
 each individual soldier.' 
 
 5 )5 
 
 He then contrasts the different spirit animating 
 the officers and the men. 
 
 (( ( 
 
 The former,' he says, * have nothing in view 
 but their personal Interests. The critical moment 
 for them Is the moment at which they are able to 
 supplant a rival, to win a cross or a new order. I 
 see only one thing. To-morrow one hundred 
 thousand Russians and one hundred thousand 
 Frenchmen will meet to fight; they who fight the 
 hardest and spare themselves the least will win 
 the day.' 
 
 There's the truth, your Excellency, the real 
 
 a (
 
 INTRODUCTION 9 
 
 truth,' murmurs Timokhine; ' it is not a time to 
 spare oneself. Would you believe it, the men of 
 my battalion have not tasted brandy? " It's not 
 a day for that," they said.' " 
 
 During the momentous battle which followed, 
 Pierre was struck by the steadfastness under fire 
 which has always distinguished the Russian soldier. 
 
 " The fall of each man acted as an increasing 
 stimulus. The faces of the soldiers brightened 
 more and more, as if challenging the storm let 
 loose on them." 
 
 In contrast with this picture of fine " morale " 
 is that of the young white-faced ofl^cer, looking 
 nervously about him as he walks backwards with 
 lowered sword. 
 
 In other places Tolstoy does full justice to the 
 courage and patriotism of all grades in the Rus- 
 sian army, but it is constantly evident that his 
 sympathies are most heartily with the rank and 
 file. What genuine feeling and affection rings in 
 this sketch of Plato, a common soldier, in " War 
 and Peace ! " 
 
 " Plato Karataev was about fifty, judging by 
 the number of campaigns in which he had served; 
 he could not have told his exact age himself, and 
 when he laughed, as he often did, he showed two 
 rows of strong, white teeth. There was not a
 
 lo INTRODUCTION 
 
 grey hair on his head or in his beard, and his 
 bearing wore the stamp of activity, resolution, and 
 above all, stoicism. His face, though much 
 lined, had a touching expression of simplicity, 
 youth, and innocence. When he spoke, in his soft 
 sing-song voice, his speech flowed as from a well- 
 spring. He never thought about what he had 
 said or was going to say next, and the vivacity 
 and the rhythmical inflections of his voice gave it 
 a penetrating persuasiveness. Night and morn- 
 ing, when going to rest or getting up, he said, ' O 
 God, let me sleep like a stone and rise up like a 
 loaf,' And, sure enough, he had no sooner lain 
 down than he slept like a lump of lead, and in the 
 morning on waking he was bright and lively, and 
 ready for any work. He could do anything, just 
 not very well nor very ill; he cooked, sewed, 
 planed wood, cobbled his boots, and was always 
 occupied with some job or other, only allowing 
 himself to chat and sing at night. He sang, not 
 like a singer who knows he has listeners, but as 
 the birds sing to God, the Father of all, feeling it 
 as necessary as walking or stretching himself. 
 His singing was tender, sweet, plaintive, almost 
 feminine, in keeping with his serious countenance. 
 When, after some weeks of captivity his beard 
 had grown again, he seemed to have got rid of 
 all that was not his true self, the borrowed face.
 
 INTRODUCTION ii 
 
 which his soldiering life had given him, and to 
 have become, as before, a peasant and a man of 
 the people. In the eyes of the other prisoners 
 Plato was just a common soldier, whom they 
 chaffed at times and sent on all manner of er- 
 rands; but to Pierre he remained ever after the 
 personification of simplicity and truth, such as he 
 had divined him to be since the first night spent 
 by his side." 
 
 This clearly is a study from life, a leaf from 
 Tolstoy's " Crimean Journal." It harmonises 
 with the point of view revealed in the " Letters 
 from Sebastopol " (especially in the second and 
 third series), and shows, like them, the change 
 effected by the realities of war in the intolerant 
 young aristocrat, who previously excluded all but 
 the comme-il-faut from his consideration. With 
 widened outlook and new ideals he returned to St. 
 Petersburg at the close of the Crimean campaign, 
 to be welcomed by the elite of letters and courted 
 by society. A few years before he would have 
 been delighted with such a reception. Now it 
 jarred on his awakened sense of the tragedy of 
 existence. He found himself entirely out of sym- 
 pathy with the group of literary men who gath- 
 ered round him, with Turgenev at their head. 
 In Tolstoy's eyes they were false, paltry, and
 
 12 INTRODUCTION 
 
 immoral, and he was at no pains to disguise his 
 opinions. Dissension, leading to violent scenes, 
 soon broke out between Turgenev and Tolstoy; 
 and the latter, completely disillusioned both in 
 regard to his great contemporary and to the lit- 
 erary world of St. Petersburg, shook off the dust 
 of the capital, and, after resigning his commission 
 in the army, went abroad on a tour through Ger- 
 many, Switzerland, and France. 
 
 In France his growing aversion from capital 
 punishment became intensified by his witnessing a 
 public execution, and the painful thoughts aroused 
 by the scene of the guillotine haunted his sensitive 
 spirit for long. He left France for Switzerland, 
 and there, among beautiful natural surroundings, 
 and in the society of friends, he enjoyed a respite 
 from mental strain. 
 
 " A fresh, sweet-scented flower seemed to have 
 blossomed in my spirit; to the weariness and in- 
 difference to all things which before possessed 
 me had succeeded, without apparent transition, 
 a thirst for love, a confident hope, an inexplicable 
 joy to feel myself alive." 
 
 Those halcyon days ushered in the dawn of an 
 intimate friendship between himself and a lady 
 who in the correspondence which ensued usually 
 styled herself his aunt, but was in fact a second
 
 Tolstoy as an Officer.
 
 INTRODUCTION 13 
 
 cousin. This lady, the Countess Alexandra A. 
 Tolstoy, a Maid of Honour of the Bedchamber, 
 moved excluslv'ely in Court circles. She was in- 
 telligent and sympathetic, but strictly orthodox 
 and mondaine, so that, while Tolstoy's view of 
 life gradually shifted from that of an aristocrat 
 to that of a social reformer, her own remained 
 unaltered; with the result that at the end of some 
 forty years of frank and affectionate interchange 
 of ideas, they awoke to the painful consciousness 
 that the last link of mutual understanding had 
 snapped and that their friendship was at an end. 
 But the letters remain as a valuable and inter- 
 esting record of one of Tolstoy's rare friendships 
 with women, revealing in his unguarded confi- 
 dences fine shades of his many-sided nature, and 
 throwing light on the impression he made both on 
 his intimates and on those to whom he was only 
 known as a writer, while his moral philosophy 
 was yet in embryo. They are now about to ap- 
 pear in book form under the auspices of M. 
 Stakhovich, to whose kindness in giving me free 
 access to the originals I am indebted for the ex- 
 tracts which follow. From one of the countess's 
 first letters we learn that the feelings of affection, 
 hope, and happiness which possessed Tolstoy in 
 Switzerland Irresistibly communicated themselves 
 to those about him.
 
 14 INTRODUCTION 
 
 " You are good in a very uncommon way," I 
 
 she writes, " and that is why it is difficult to feel | 
 
 unhappy in your company. I have never seen 
 you without wishing to he a better creature. 
 Your presence is a consoling idea. ... I 
 know all the elements in you that revive one's 
 heart, possibly without your being even aware 
 of it." 
 
 A few years later she gives him an amusing 
 account of the impression his writings had already 
 made on an eminent statesman. 
 
 " I owe you a small episode. Not long ago, 
 when lunching with the Emperor, I sat next our 
 little Bismarck, and in a spirit of mischief I began 
 sounding him about you. But I had hardly ut- 
 tered your name when he went off at a gallop 
 with the greatest enthusiasm, firing off the list of 
 your perfections left and right, and so long as he 
 declaimed your praises with gesticulations, cut 
 and thrust, powder and shot, it was all very well 
 and quite In character; but seeing that I listened 
 with interest and attention my man took the bit 
 in his teeth, and flung himself into a psychic apoth- 
 eosis. On reaching full pitch he began to get 
 muddled, and floundered so helplessly in his own 
 phrases! all the while chewing an excellent cutlet 
 to the bone, that at last I realised nothing but the 
 tips of his ears — those two great ears of his.
 
 INTRODUCTION 15 
 
 What a pity I can't repeat It verbatim I but how? 
 There was nothing left but a jumble of confused 
 sounds and broken words." 
 
 Tolstoy on his side is equally expansive, and in 
 the early stages of the correspondence falls occa- 
 sionally into the vein of self-analysis which in later 
 days became habitual. 
 
 " As a child I believed with passion and with- 
 out any thought. Then at the age of fourteen I 
 began to think about life and preoccupied myself 
 with religion, but it did not adjust itself to my 
 theories and so I broke with it. Without it I 
 was able to live quite contentedly for ten years 
 everything in my life was evenly dis- 
 tributed, and there was no room for religion. 
 Then came a time when everything grew intelli- 
 gible; there were no more secrets in life, but life 
 itself had lost its significance." 
 
 He goes on to tell of the two years that he spent 
 in the Caucasus before the Crimean War, when 
 his mind, jaded by youthful excesses, gradually 
 regained its freshness, and he awoke to a sense 
 of communion with Nature which he retained to 
 his life's end. 
 
 " I have my notes of that time, and now read-
 
 i6 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Ing them over I am not able to understand how a 
 man could attain to the state of mental exaltation 
 which I arrived at. It was a torturing but a 
 happy time," 
 
 Further on he writes, — 
 
 " In those two years of intellectual work, I dis- 
 covered a truth which is ancient and simple, but 
 which yet I know better than others do. I found 
 out that immortal life is a reality, that love is a 
 reality, and that one must live for others if one 
 would be unceasingly happy." 
 
 At this point one realises the gulf which divides 
 the Slavonic from the English temperament. No 
 average Englishman of seven-and-twenty (as Tol- 
 stoy was then) would pursue reflections of this 
 kind, or if he did, he would in all probability keep 
 them sedulously to himself. 
 
 To Tolstoy and his aunt, on the contrary. It 
 seemed the most natural thing in the world to 
 indulge in egoistic abstractions and to expatiate 
 on them; for a Russian feels none of the Anglo- 
 Saxon's mauvaise honle in describing his spiritual 
 condition, and is no more daunted by metaphysics 
 than the latter is by arguments on politics and 
 sport.
 
 INTRODUCTION 17 
 
 To attune the Anglo-Saxon reader's mind to 
 sympathy with a mentality so alien to his own, 
 requires that Tolstoy's environment should be de- 
 scribed more fully than most of his biographers 
 have cared to do. This prefatory note aims, 
 therefore, at being less strictly biographical than 
 illustrative of the contributory elements and cir- 
 cumstances which sub-consciously influenced Tol- 
 stoy's spiritual evolution, since it is apparent that 
 in order to judge a man's actions justly one must 
 be able to appreciate the motives from which they 
 spring; those motives in turn requiring the key 
 which lies in his temperament, his associations, his 
 nationality. Such a key is peculiarly necessary to 
 English or American students of Tolstoy, because 
 of the marked contrast existing bet\/een the Rus- 
 sian and the Englishman or American in these 
 respects, a contrast by which Tolstoy himself was 
 forcibly struck during the visit to Switzerland, of 
 which mention has been already made. It is diffi- 
 cult to restrain a smile at the poignant mental dis- 
 comfort endured by the sensitive Slav in the 
 company of the frigid and silent English frequent- 
 ers of the Schweitzerhof ("Journal of Prince D. 
 Nekhludov." Lucerne, 1857), whose reserve, 
 he realised, was " not based on pride, but on the 
 absence of any desire to draw nearer to each 
 other"; while he looked back regretfully to the
 
 1 8 INTRODUCTION 
 
 pensioji In Paris where the table d' hole was a scene 
 of spontaneous gaiety. The problem of British 
 taciturnity passed his comprehension; but for us 
 the enigma of Tolstoy's temperament Is half 
 solved If we see film not harshly silhouetted 
 against a blank wall, but suffused with his native 
 atmosphere, amid his native surroundings. Not 
 till we understand the main outlines of the Rus- 
 sian temperament can we realise the Individuality 
 of Tolstoy himself: the personality that made him 
 lovable, the universality that made him great. 
 
 So vast an agglomeration of races as that which, 
 constitutes the Russian empire cannot obviously 
 be represented by a single type, but It will suffice 
 for our purposes to note the characteristics of the 
 Inhabitants of Great Russia among whom Tolstoy 
 spent the greater part of his lifetime and to whom 
 he belonged by birth and natural affinities. 
 
 It may be said of the average Russian that In 
 exchange for a precocious childhood he retains 
 much of a child's lightness of heart throughout 
 his later years, alternating with attacks of morbid 
 despondency. He Is usually very susceptible to 
 feminine charm, an ardent but unstable lover, 
 whose passions are apt to be as shortlived as they 
 are violent. Story-telling and long-winded dis- 
 cussions give him keen enjoyment, for he is gar- 
 rulous, metaphysical, and argumentative. In
 
 INTRODUCTION 19 
 
 money matters careless and extravagant, dilatory 
 and venal in affairs; fond, especially in the peas- 
 ant class, of singing, dancing, and carousing; but 
 his irresponsible gaiety and heedlessness of conse- 
 quences balanced by a fatalistic courage and en- 
 durance in the face of suffering and danger. 
 Capable, besides, of high, flights of idealism, 
 which result in epics, but rarely in actions, owing 
 to the Slavonic inaptitude for sustained and or- 
 ganised effort. The Englishman by contrast ap- 
 pears cold and calculating, incapable of rising 
 above questions of practical utility; neither inter- 
 ested in other men's antecedents and experiences 
 nor willing to retail his own. The catechism 
 which Plato puts Pierre through on their first en- 
 counter ("War and Peace") as to his family, 
 possessions, and what not, are precisely similar 
 to those to which I have been subjected over and 
 over again by chance acquaintances in country- 
 houses or by fellow travellers on journeys by boat 
 or train. The naivete and kindliness of the ques- 
 tioner makes it impossible to resent, though one 
 may feebly try to parry his probing. On the 
 other hand he offers you free access to the inmost 
 recesses of his own soul, and stupefies you with 
 the candour of his revelations. This, of course, 
 relates more to the landed and professional classes 
 than to the peasant, who is slower to express him-
 
 20 INTRODUCTION 
 
 self, and combines In a curious way a firm belief 
 in the omnipotence and wisdom of his social su- 
 periors with a rooted distrust of their intentions 
 regarding himself. He is like a beast of burden 
 who flinches from every approach, expecting al- 
 ways a kick or a blow. On the other hand, his 
 affection for the animals who share his dally work 
 is one of the most attractive points In his char- 
 acter, and one which Tolstoy never wearied of 
 emphasising — describing, with the simple pathos 
 of which he was master, the moujik Inured to his 
 own privations but pitiful to his horse, shielding 
 him from the storm with his own coat, or saving 
 him from starvation with his own meagre ration; 
 and mindful of him even in his prayers, invoking, 
 like Plato, the blessings of Florus and Laura, pa- 
 tron saints of horses, because " one mustn't forget 
 the animals." 
 
 The characteristics of a people so embedded in 
 the soil bear a closer relation to their native land- 
 scape than our own migratory populations, and 
 patriotism with them has a deep and vital mean- 
 ing, which is expressed unconsciously in their 
 lives. 
 
 This spirit of patriotism which Tolstoy repudi- 
 ated is none the less the animating power of the 
 noble epic, " War and Peace," and of his peasant- 
 tales, of his rare gift of reproducing the expressive
 
 INTRODUCTION 21 
 
 Slav vernacular, and of his magical art of infusing 
 his pictures of Russian scenery not merely with 
 beauty, but with spiritual significance. I can 
 think of no prose writer, unless it be Thoreau, so 
 wholly under the spell of Nature as Tolstoy; and 
 while Thoreau was preoccupied with the normal 
 phenomena of plant and animal life, Tolstoy, 
 coming near to Pantheism, found responses to his 
 moods in trees, and gained spiritual expansion 
 from the illimitable skies and plains. He fre- 
 quently brings his heroes into touch with Nature, 
 and endows them with all the innate mysticism of 
 his own temperament, for to him Nature was " a 
 guide to God." So in the two-fold incident of 
 Prince Andre and the oak tree ("War and 
 Peace ") the Prince, though a man of action 
 rather than of sentiment and habitually cynical, 
 is ready to find in the aged oak by the roadside, 
 in early spring, an animate embodiment of his 
 own despondency. 
 
 " ' Springtime, love, happiness? — are you still 
 cherishing those deceptive illusions?' the old oak 
 seemed to say. ' Isn't it the same fiction ever? 
 There is neither spring, nor love, nor happiness! 
 Look at those poor weather-beaten firs, always the 
 same . . . look at the knotty arms issuing 
 from all up my poor mutilated trunk — here I
 
 22 INTRODUCTION 
 
 am, such as they have made me, and I do not be- 
 lieve either in your hopes or in your illusions.' " 
 
 And after thus exercising his imagination. Prince 
 Andre still casts backward glances as he passes by, 
 
 " but the oak maintained its obstinate and sullen 
 immovability in the midst of the flowers and grass 
 growing at its feet. ' Yes, that oak is right, right 
 a thousand times over. One must leave illusions 
 to youth. But the rest of us know what life Is 
 worth; it has nothing left to offer us.' " 
 
 Six weeks later he returns homeward the same 
 way, roused from his melancholy torpor by his 
 recent meeting with Natasha. 
 
 *' The day was hot, there was storm in the air; 
 a slight shower watered the dust on the road and 
 the grass in the ditch; the left side of the wood 
 remained in the shade; the right side, lightly 
 stirred by the wind, glittered all wet In the sun; 
 everything was In flower, and from near and far 
 the nightingales poured forth their song. ' I 
 fancy there was an oak here that understood me,' 
 said Prince Andre to himself, looking to the left 
 and attracted unawares by the beauty of the very 
 tree he sought. The transformed old oak spread
 
 INTRODUCTION 23 
 
 out in a dome of deep, luxuriant, blooming ver- 
 dure, which swayed in a light breeze in the rays 
 of the setting sun. There were no longer cloven 
 branches nor rents to be seen; its former aspect 
 of bitter defiance and sullen grief had disap- 
 peared; there were only the young leaves, full of 
 sap that had pierced through the centenarian 
 bark, making the beholder question with surprise 
 if this patriarch had really given birth to them. 
 ' Yes, it is he, indeed ! ' cried Prince Andre, and 
 he felt his heart suffused by the intense joy which 
 the springtime and this new life gave him . . . 
 'No, my life cannot end at thirty-one! . . . 
 It is not enough myself to feel what is within me, 
 others must know it too ! Pierre ana that " slip " 
 of a girl, who would have fled into cloudland, 
 must learn to know me! My life must colour 
 theirs, and their lives must mingle with mine ! 
 
 » 55 
 
 In letters to his wife, to intimate friends, and 
 in his diary, Tolstoy's love of Nature is often- 
 times expressed. The hair shirt of the ascetic 
 and the prophet's mantle fall from his shoulders, 
 and all the poet in him wakes when, " with a feel- 
 ing akin to ecstasy," he looks up from his 
 smooth-running sledge at " the enchanting, starry 
 winter sky overhead," or in early spring feels on 
 a ramble " intoxicated by the beauty of the morn-
 
 24 INTRODUCTION 
 
 ing," while he notes that the buds are swelling on 
 the lilacs, and " the birds no longer sing at ran- 
 dom," but have begun to converse. 
 
 But though such allusions abound in his diary 
 and private correspondence, we must turn to 
 " The Cossacks," and " Conjugal Happiness " for 
 the exquisitely elaborated rural studies, which give 
 those early romances their fresh idyllic charm. 
 
 What is interesting to note is that this artistic 
 freshness and joy in Nature coexisted with acute 
 intermittent attacks of spiritual lassitude. In 
 " The Cossacks," the doubts, the mental gropings 
 of Olenine — whose personality but thinly veils 
 that of Tolstoy — haunt him betimes even among 
 the delights of the Caucasian woodland; Serge, 
 the fatalistic hero of " Conjugal Happiness," 
 calmly acquiesces in the inevitableness of " love's 
 sad satiety " amid the scent of roses and the songs 
 of nightingales. 
 
 Doubt and despondency, increased by the vexa- 
 tions and failures attending his philanthropic en- 
 deavours, at length obsessed Tolstoy to the verge 
 of suicide. 
 
 " The disputes over arbitration had become so 
 painful to me, the schoolwork so vague, my doubts 
 arising from the wish to teach others, while dis- 
 sembling my own ignorance of what should be
 
 INTRODUCTION 25 
 
 taught, were so heartrending that I fell ill. I 
 might then have reached the despair to which I 
 all but succumbed fifteen years later, if there had 
 not been a side of life as yet unknown to me which 
 promised me salvation: this was family life" 
 ("My Confession"). 
 
 In a word, his marriage with Mademoiselle 
 Sophie Andreevna Bers (daughter of Dr. Bers 
 of Moscow) was consummated in the autumn of 
 1862 — after a somewhat protracted courtship, 
 owing to her extreme youth — and Tolstoy entered 
 upon a period of happiness and mental peace 
 such as he had never known. His letters of this 
 period to Countess A. A. Tolstoy, his friend Fet, 
 and others, ring with enraptured allusions to his 
 new-found joy. Lassitude and indecision, mysti- 
 cism and altruism, all were swept aside by the im- 
 petus of triumphant love and of all-sufficing 
 conjugal happiness. When in June of the follow- 
 ing year a child was born, and the young wife, 
 her features suffused with " a supernatural 
 beauty " lay trying to smile at the husband who 
 knelt sobbing beside her, Tolstoy must have real- 
 ised that for once his prophetic intuition had been 
 unequal to its task. If his imagination could 
 have conceived in prenuptial days what depths of 
 emotion might be wakened by fatherhood, he
 
 26 INTRODUCTION 
 
 would not have treated the birth of Masha's first 
 child in " Conjugal Happiness " as a trivial ma- 
 terial event, in no way atiecting the mutual rela- 
 tions of the disillusioned pair. He would have 
 understood that at this supreme crisis, rather than 
 in the vernal hour of love's avowal, the heart is 
 illumined with a joy which is fated " never to re- 
 turn. 
 
 The parting of the ways, so soon reached by 
 Serge and Masha, was in fact delayed in Tolstoy's 
 own life by his wife's intelligent assistance in his 
 literary work as an untiring amanuensis, and in 
 the mutual anxieties and pleasures attending the 
 care of a large family of young children. Wider 
 horizons opened to his mental vision, his whole 
 being was quickened and invigorated. "War 
 and Peace," " Anna Karenina," all the splendid 
 fruit of the teeming years following upon his mar- 
 riage, bear witness to the stimulus which his genius 
 had received. His dawning recognition of the 
 power and extent of female influence appears in- 
 cidentally in the sketches of high society in those 
 two masterpieces as well as in the eloquent closing 
 passages of "What then must we do?" (1886). 
 Having affirmed that " it is women who form pub- 
 lic opinion, and in our day women are particu- 
 larly powerful," he finally draws a picture of the 
 ideal wife who shall urge her husband and train
 
 INTRODUCTION 27 
 
 her children to self-sacrifice. " Such women rule 
 men and are their guiding stars. O women — ■ 
 mothers! The salvation of the world lies in your 
 hands!" In that appeal to the mothers of the 
 world there lurks a protest which in later writings 
 developed into overwhelming condemnation. 
 True, he chose motherhood for the type of self- 
 sacrificing love in the treatise " On Life," which 
 appeared soon after "What then must we do?" 
 but maternal love, as exemplified in his own home 
 and elsewhere, appeared to him as a noble in- 
 stinct perversely directed. 
 
 The roots of maternal love are sunk deep in 
 conservatism. The child's physical well-being is 
 the first essential in the mother's eyes — the 
 growth of a vigorous body by which a vigorous 
 mind may be fitly tenanted — and this form of 
 materialism which Tolstoy as a father accepted, 
 Tolstoy as idealist condemned; while the penury 
 he courted as a lightening of his soul's burden was 
 averted by the strenuous exertions of his wife. 
 So a rift grew without blame attaching to either, 
 and Tolstoy henceforward wandered solitary in 
 spirit through a wilderness of thought, seeking 
 rest and finding none, coming perilously near to 
 suicide before he reached haven. 
 
 To many it will seem that the finest outcome 
 of that period of mental groping. Internal strug-
 
 28 INTRODUCTION 
 
 gle, and contending with current ideas, lies in the 
 above-mentioned "What then must we do?" 
 Certain it is that no human document ever re- 
 vealed the soul of its author with greater sincer- 
 ity. Not for its practical suggestions, but for its 
 impassioned humanity, its infectious altruism, 
 " What then must we do? " takes its rank among 
 the world's few living books. It marks that stage 
 of Tolstoy's evolution when he made successive 
 essays in practical philanthropy which filled him 
 with discouragement, yet were " of use to his 
 soul " in teaching him how far below the surface 
 lie the seeds of human misery. The slums of 
 Moscow, crowded with beings sunk beyond re- 
 demption; the famine-stricken plains of Samara 
 where disease and starvation reigned, notwith- 
 standing the stream of charity set flowing by Tol- 
 stoy's appeals and notwithstanding his untiring 
 personal devotion, strengthened further the con- 
 viction, so constantly affirmed in his writings, of 
 the impotence of money to alleviate distress. 
 Whatever negations of this dictum our own sys- 
 tems of charitable organizations may appear to 
 offer, there can be no question but that in Russia 
 It held and holds true. 
 
 The social condition of Russia is like a tideless 
 sea, whose sullen quiescence is broken from time 
 to time by terrific storms which spend themselves
 
 INTRODUCTION 29 
 
 in unavailing fury. Reaction follows upon every 
 forward motion, and the advance made by each 
 succeeding generation is barely perceptible. 
 
 But in the period of peace following upon the 
 close of the Crimean War the soul of the Russian 
 people was deeply stirred by the spirit of Prog- 
 ress, and hope rose high on the accession of Alex- 
 ander 11. 
 
 The emancipation of the serfs was only one 
 among a number of projected reforms which en- 
 gaged men's minds. The national conscience 
 awoke and echoed the cry of the exiled patriot 
 Herzen, "Now or never!" Educational enter- 
 prise was aroused, and some forty schools for 
 peasant children were started on the model of 
 that opened by Tolstoy at Yasnaya Polyana 
 (1861). The literary world throbbed with new 
 life, and a brilliant company of young writers 
 came to the surface, counting among them names 
 of European celebrity, such as Dostoevsky, Ne- 
 krassov, and Saltykov. Unhappily the reign of 
 Progress was short. The bureaucratic circle hem- 
 ming in the Czar took alarm, and made haste to 
 secure their ascendency by fresh measures of op- 
 pression. Many schools were closed, including 
 that of Tolstoy, and the nascent liberty of 
 the Press was stifled by the most rigid censor- 
 ship.
 
 30 INTRODUCTION 
 
 In this lamentable manner the history of Rus- 
 sia's internal misrule and disorder has continued 
 to repeat itself for the last sixty years, revolving 
 in the same vicious circle of fierce repression and 
 persecution and utter disregard of the rights of 
 individuals, followed by fierce reprisals on the 
 part of the persecuted; the voice of protest no 
 sooner raised than silenced in a prison cell or 
 among Siberian snow-fields, yet rising again and 
 again with inextinguishable reiteration; appeals 
 for political freedom, for constitutional govern- 
 ment, for better systems and wider dissemination 
 of education, for liberty of the Press, and for an 
 enlightened treatment of the masses, callously re- 
 ceived and rejected. The answer with which 
 these appeals have been met by the rulers of Rus- 
 sia is only too well known to the civilised world, 
 but the obduracy of Pharoah has called forth the 
 plagues of Egypt. Despite the unrivalled 
 agrarian fertility of Russia, famines recur with 
 dire frequency, with disease and riot in their train, 
 while the ignominious termination of the Russo- 
 Japanese war showed that even the magnificent 
 morale of the Russian soldier had been under- 
 mined and was tainted by the rottenness of the 
 authorities set over him. What in such circum- 
 stances as these can a handful of philanthropists 
 achieve, and what avails alms-giving or the scat-
 
 INTRODUCTION 31 
 
 tering of largesse to a people on the point of spir- 
 itual dissolution? 
 
 In these conditions Tolstoy's abhorrence of 
 money, and his assertion of Its futility as a pana- 
 cea for human suffering, appears not merely com- 
 prehensible but Inevitable, and his renunciation 
 of personal property the strictly logical outcome 
 of his conclusions. The partition of his estates 
 between his wife and children, shortly before the 
 outbreak of the great famine in 1892, served to 
 relieve his mind partially; and the writings of 
 Henry George, with which he became acquainted 
 at this critical time, were an additional Incentive 
 to concentrate his thoughts on the land question. 
 He began by reading the American propagandist's 
 " Social Problems," which arrested his attention 
 by Its main principles and by the clearness and 
 novelty of his arguments. Deeply Impressed by 
 the study of this book, no sooner had he finished 
 it than he possessed himself of Its forerunner, 
 " Progress and Poverty," in which the essence of 
 George's revolutionary doctrines Is worked out. 
 
 The plan of land nationalisation there explained 
 provided Tolstoy with well thought-out and log- 
 ical reasons for a policy that was already more 
 than sympathetic to him. Here at last was a 
 means of ensuring economic equality for all, from 
 the largest landowner to the humblest peasant — ■
 
 32 INTRODUCTION 
 
 a practical suggestion how to reduce the inequali- 
 ties between rich and poor. 
 
 Henry George's ideas and methods are easy of 
 comprehension. The land was made by God for 
 every human creature that was born into the 
 world, and therefore to confme the ownership of 
 land to the few is wrong. If a man wants a piece 
 of land, he ought to pay the rest of the community 
 for the enjoyment of it. This payment or rent 
 should be the only tax paid into the Treasury of 
 the State. Taxation on men's own property (the 
 produce of their own labour) should be done away 
 with, and a rent graduated according to the site- 
 - value of the land should be substituted. Monop- 
 olies would cease without violently and unjustly 
 disturbing society with confiscation and redistribu- 
 tion. No one would keep land idle if he were 
 taxed according to its value to the community, 
 and not according to the use to which he individ- 
 ually wished to put it. A man would then read- 
 ily obtain possession of land, and could turn it to 
 account and develop it without being taxed on his 
 own industry. All human beings would thus be- 
 come free in their lives and in their labour. 
 They would no longer be forced to toil at demor- 
 alising work for low wages; they would be inde- 
 pendent producers instead of earning a living by 
 providing luxuries for the rich, who had enslaved
 
 INTRODUCTION 33 
 
 them by monopolising the land. The single tax 
 thus created would ultimately overthrow the pres- 
 ent " civilisation " which Is chiefly built up on 
 wage-slavery. 
 
 Tolstoy gave his whole-hearted adhesion to 
 this doctrine, predicting a day of enlightenment 
 when men would no longer tolerate a form of 
 slavery which he considered as revolting as that 
 which had so recently been abolished. Some long 
 conversations with Henry George, while he was 
 on a visit to Yasnaya Polyana, gave additional 
 strength to Tolstoy's conviction that in these 
 theories lay the elem.ents essential to the trans- 
 formation and rejuvenation of human nature, go- 
 ing far towards the levelling of social inequalities. 
 But to Inoculate the landed proprietors of Russia 
 as a class with those theories was a task which 
 even his genius could not hope to accomplish. 
 
 He recognised the necessity of proceeding from 
 the particular to the general, and that the perfect- 
 ing of human institutions was Impossible without 
 a corresponding perfection In the Individual. To 
 this end therefore the remainder of his life was 
 dedicated. He had always held in aversion what 
 he termed external epidemic Influences: he now 
 endeavoured to free himself not only from all 
 current conventions, but from every association 
 which he had formerly cherished. Self-analysis
 
 34 INTRODUCTION 
 
 and general observation had taught him that men 
 are sensual beings, and that sensualism must die 
 for want of food if it were not for sex instincts, 
 if it were not for Art, and especially for Music. 
 This view of life he forcibly expressed in the 
 *' Kreutzer Sonata," in which Woman and Music, 
 the two magnets of his youth, were impeached as 
 powers of evil. Already, in " War and Peace " 
 and in " Anna Karenina," his descriptions of fe- 
 male charms resembled catalogues of weapons 
 against which a man must arm himself or perish. 
 The beautiful Princess Helena, with her gleam- 
 ing shoulders, her faultless white bosom, and her 
 eternal smile is evidently an object of aversion to 
 her creator; even as the Countess Betsy, with her 
 petty coquetries and devices for attracting atten- 
 tion at the Opera and elsewhere, is a target for 
 his contempt. " Woman is a stumbling-block in 
 a man's career," remarks a philosophical husband 
 in " Anna Karenina." " It is difficult to love a 
 woman and do any good work, and the only way 
 to escape being reduced to inaction is to marry." 
 Even in his correspondence with the Countess 
 A. A. Tolstoy this slighting tone prevails. " A 
 woman has but one moral weapon instead of the 
 whole male arsenal. That is love, and only with 
 this weapon is feminine education successfully car- 
 ried forward." Tolstoy, in fact, betrayed a touch
 
 INTRODUCTION 35 
 
 of orientalism in his attitude towards women. 
 In part no doubt as a result of his motherless 
 youth, in part to the fact that his idealism was 
 never stimulated by any one woman as it was by 
 individual men, his views retained this colouring 
 on sex questions w4iile they became widened and 
 modified in almost every other field of human 
 philosophy. It was only that, with a revulsion 
 of feeling not seldom experienced by earnest 
 thinkers, attraction was succeeded by a repulsion 
 which reached the high note of exasperation 
 when he wrote to a man friend, " A woman in 
 good health — why, she Is a regular beast of 
 prey ! " 
 
 None the less, he showed great kindness and 
 sympathy to the women who sought his society, 
 appealing to him for guidance. One of these (an 
 American, and herself a practical philanthropist). 
 Miss Jane Addams, expressed with feeling her 
 sense of his personal Influence. " The glimpse 
 of Tolstoy has made a profound impression on 
 me, not so much by what he said, as the life, the 
 gentleness, the soul of him. I am sure you will 
 understand my saying that I got more of Tolstoy's 
 philosophy from our conversations than I had 
 gotten from our books." (Quoted by i\ylmer 
 Maude In his " Life of Tolstoy.") 
 
 As frequently happens In the lives of reformers,
 
 36 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Tolstoy found himself more often in affinity with 
 strangers than with his own kin. The estrange- 
 ment of his ideals from those of his wife neces- 
 sarily affected their conjugal relations, and the 
 decline of mutual sympathy inevitably induced 
 physical alienation. The stress of mental anguish 
 arising from these conditions found vent in pages 
 of his diaries (much of which I have been per- 
 mitted to read), pages containing matter too sa- 
 cred and intimate to use. The diaries shed a 
 flood of light on Tolstoy's ideas, motives, and 
 manner of life, and have modified some of my 
 opinions, explaining many hitherto obscure points, 
 while they have also enhanced my admiration for 
 the man. They not only touch on many delicate 
 subjects — on his relations to his wife and family 
 — but they also give the true reasons for leaving 
 his home at last, and explain why he did not do 
 so before. The time, it seems to me, is not ripe 
 for disclosures of this nature, which so closely 
 concern the living. 
 
 Despite a strong rein of restraint his mental 
 distress permeates the touching letter of fare- 
 well which he wrote some sixteen years before his 
 death. He, however, shrank from acting upon 
 it, being unable to satisfy himself that it was a 
 right step. This letter has already appeared in 
 foreign publications,* but it is quoted here because 
 
 *And in Birukov's short Life of Tolstoy, 1911.
 
 INTRODUCTION 37 
 
 of the light which it throws on the character and 
 disposition of the writer, the workings of his mind 
 being of greater moment to us than those impul- 
 sive actions by which he was too often judged, 
 
 " I have suffered long, dear Sophie, from the 
 discord between my life and my beliefs. 
 
 " I cannot constrain you to alter your life or 
 your accustomed ways. Neither have I had the 
 strength to leave you ere this, for I thought my 
 absence might deprive the little ones, still so 
 young, of whatever influence I may have over 
 them, and above all that I should grieve you. 
 But I can no longer live as I have lived these last 
 sixteen years, sometimes battling with you and Ir- 
 ritating you,* sometimes myself giving way to the 
 Influences and seductions to which I am accus- 
 tomed and which surround me. I have now re- 
 solved to do what I have long desired: to go away 
 Even as the Hindoos, at the age of sixty, 
 betake themselves to the jungle; even as every 
 aged and religious-minded man desires to conse- 
 crate the last years of his life to God and not to 
 Idle talk, to making jokes, to gossiping, to lawn- 
 tennis; so I, having reached the age of seventy, 
 long with all my soul for calm and solitude, and if 
 not perfect harmony, at least a cessation from this 
 horrible discord between my whole life and my 
 conscience.
 
 38 INTRODUCTION 
 
 " If I had gone away openly there would have 
 been entreaties, discussions: I should have wa- 
 vered, and perhaps failed to act on my decision, 
 whereas it must be so. I pray of you to forgive 
 me if my action grieves you. And do you, Sophie, 
 in particular let me go, neither seeking me out, 
 nor bearing me ill-will, nor blaming me . . . 
 the fact that I have left you does not mean that I 
 have cause of complaint against you ... I 
 know you were not able, you were incapable of 
 thinking and seeing as I do, and therefore you 
 could not change your life and make sacrifices to 
 that which you did not accept. Besides, I do not 
 blame you ; on the contrary, I remember with love 
 and gratitude the thirty-five long years of our life 
 in common, and especially the firsf half of the 
 time when, with the courage and devotion of your 
 maternal nature, you bravely bore what you re- 
 garded as your mission. You have given largely 
 of maternal love and made some heavy sacrifices 
 , . . but during the latter part of our life to- 
 gether, during the last fifteen years, our ways have 
 parted. I cannot think myself the guilty one; I 
 know that if I have changed it is not owing to 
 you, or to the world, but because I could not do 
 otherwise; nor can I judge you for not having 
 followed me, and I thank you for what you have 
 given me and will ever remember it with affection.
 
 INTRODUCTION 39 
 
 " Adieu, my dear Sophie, I love you." 
 
 The personal isolation he crave,d was never to 
 be his; but the isolation of spirit essential to 
 leadership, whether of thought or action, grew 
 year by year, so that in his own household he was 
 veritably " in it but not of it." 
 
 At times his loneliness weighed upon him, as 
 when he wrote : " You would find it difficult to 
 imagine how isolated I am, to what an extent my 
 true self is despised by those who surround me." 
 But he must, none the less, have realised, as all 
 prophets and seers have done, that solitariness 
 of soul and freedom from the petty complexities 
 of social life are necessary to the mystic whose 
 constant endeavour is to simplify and to winnow 
 the transient from the eternal. 
 
 Notwithstanding the isolation of his inner life 
 he remained — or it might more accurately be 
 said he became- — the most accessible of men. 
 
 Appeals for guidance came to him from all 
 parts of the world — America, France, China, 
 Japan — while Yasnaya Polyana was the frequent 
 resort of those needing advice, sympathy, or prac- 
 tical assistance. None appealed to him in vain; 
 at the same time, he was exceedingly chary of ex- 
 plicit rules of conduct. It might be said of Tol- 
 stoy that he became a spiritual leader in spite of
 
 40 INTRODUCTION 
 
 himself, so averse was he from assuming author- 
 ity. His aim was ever to teach his followers 
 themselves to hear the inward monitory voice, 
 and to obey it of their own accord. " To know 
 the meaning of Life, you must first know the 
 meaning of Love," he would say; " and then see 
 that you do what love bids you." His distrust 
 of " epidemic ideas " extended to religious com- 
 munities and congregations. 
 
 " We must not go to meet each other, but go 
 each of us to God. You say it is easier to go all 
 together? Why yes, to dig or to mow. But 
 one can only draw near to God in isolation 
 I picture the world to myself as a vast 
 temple, in which the light falls from above in the 
 very centre. To meet together all must go to- 
 wards the light. There we shall find ourselves, 
 gathered from many quarters, united with men 
 we did not expect to see; therein is joy." 
 
 The humility which had so completely sup- 
 planted his youthful arrogance, and which made 
 him shrink from impelling others to follow in his 
 steps, endued him also with the teachableness of 
 a child towards those whom he accepted as his 
 spiritual mentors. It was a peasant noncom- 
 formist writer, Soutaev, who by conversing with
 
 INTRODUCTION 41 
 
 him on the revelations of the Gospels helped him 
 to regain his childhood's faith, and incidentally 
 brought him into closer relations with religious, 
 but otherwise untaught, men of the people. He 
 saw how instead of railing against fate after the 
 manner of their social superiors, they endured 
 sickness and misfortune with a calm confidence 
 that all was by the will of God, as it must be and 
 should be. From his peasant teachers he drew 
 the watchwords Faith, Love, and Labour, and by 
 their light he established that concord in his own 
 life without which the concord of the universe re- 
 mains impossible to realise. The process of in- 
 ward struggle — told with unsparing truth in 
 "Confession" — is finely painted in "Father 
 Serge," whose life story points to the conclusion 
 at which Tolstoy ultimately arrived, namely, that 
 not in withdrawal from the common trials and 
 temptations of men, but in sharing them, lies our 
 best fulfilment of our duty towards mankind and 
 towards God. Tolstoy gave practical effect to 
 this principle, and to this long-felt desire to be of 
 use to the poor of the country, by editing and pub- 
 lishing, aided by his friend Chertkov,* popular 
 
 * In Russia and out of it Mr. Chertkov has been the subject of 
 violent attack. Many of the misunderstandings of Tolstoy's later 
 years have also been attributed by critics, and by those who hate 
 or belittle his ideas, to the influence of this friend. These at- 
 tacks are very regrettable and require a word of protests From
 
 42 INTRODUCTION 
 
 tales, suited to the means and Intelligence of the 
 humblest peasant. The undertaking was initiated 
 In 1885, and continued for many years to occupy 
 much of Tolstoy's time and energies. He threw 
 himself with ardour into his editorial duties; read- 
 ing and correcting manuscripts, returning them 
 sometimes to the authors with advice as to their 
 reconstruction, and making translations from for- 
 eign works — all this In addition to his own orig- 
 inal contributions, in which he carried out the 
 principle which he constantly laid down for his 
 collaborators, that literary graces must be set 
 aside, and that the mental calibre of those for 
 whom the books were primarily intended must 
 be constantly borne in mind. He attained a 
 splendid fulfilment of his own theories, employing 
 the moujik's expressive vernacular in portraying 
 his homely wisdom, religious faith, and goodness 
 of nature. Sometimes the prevailing simplicity 
 of style and motive is tinged with a vague colour- 
 ing of oriental legend, but the personal accent is 
 marked throughout. No similar achievement in 
 
 the beginning Mr. Cliertkov has striven to spread the ideas of 
 Tolstoy, and has won neither glory nor money from his faithful 
 and single-hearted devotion. He has carried on his work with a 
 rare love and sympathy in spite of difficulties. No one appre- 
 ciated or valued his friendship and self-sacrifice more than 
 Tolstoy himself, who was firmly attached to him from the date 
 of his first meeting, consulting him and confiding in him at every 
 moment, even during Mr. Chertkov's long exile.
 
 INTRODUCTION 43 
 
 modern literature has awakened so universal a 
 sense of sympathy and admiration, perhaps be- 
 cause none has been so entirely a labour of love. 
 
 The series of educational primers which Tol- 
 stoy prepared and published concurrently with the 
 " Popular Tales " have had an equally large, 
 though exclusively Russian, circulation, being ad- 
 mirably suited to their purpose — that of teach- 
 ing young children the rudiments of history, 
 geography, and science. Little leisure remained 
 for the service of Art. 
 
 The history of Tolstoy as a man of letters 
 forms a separate page of his biography, and one 
 into which it is not possible to enter in the brief 
 compass of this introduction. It requires, how- 
 ever, a passing allusion. Tolstoy even in his early 
 days never seems to have approached near to that 
 manner of life which the literary man leads: 
 neither to have shut himself up in his study, nor 
 to have barred the entrance to disturbing friends. 
 On the one hand, he was fond of society, and dur- 
 ing his brief residence in St. Petersburg was never 
 so engrossed in authorship as to forego the pleas- 
 ure of a ball or evening entertainment. Little 
 wonder, when one looks back at the brilliant young 
 officer surrounded and petted by the great hos- 
 tesses of Russia. On the other hand, he was no 
 devotee at the literary altar. No patron of lit-
 
 44 INTRODUCTION 
 
 crature could claim him as his constant visitor; 
 no inner circle of men of letters monopolised his 
 idle hours. Afterwards, when he left the capital 
 and settled in the country, he was almost entirely 
 cut off from the association of literary men, and 
 never seems to have sought their companionship. 
 Nevertheless, he had all through his life many fast 
 friends, among them such as the poet Fet, the nov- 
 elist Chekhov, and the great Russian librarian 
 Stassov, who often came to him. These visits 
 always gave him pleasure. The discussions, 
 whether on the literary movements of the day or 
 on the merits of Goethe or the humour of Gogol, 
 were welcome interruptions to his ever-absorbing 
 metaphysical studies. In later life, also, though 
 never in touch with the rising generation of 
 authors, we find him corresponding with them, 
 criticising their style and subject matter. When 
 Andreev, the most modern of all modern Russian 
 writers, came to pay his respects to Tolstoy some 
 months before his death, he was received with 
 cordiality, although Tolstoy, as he expressed him- 
 self afterwards, felt that there was a great gulf 
 jfixed between them. 
 
 Literature, as literature, had lost its charm for 
 him. " You are perfectly right," he writes to a 
 friend; " I care only for the idea, and I pay no 
 attention to my style." The idea was the impor- 

 
 INTRODUCTION 45 
 
 tant thing to Tolstoy in everything that he read 
 or wrote. When his attention was drawn to an 
 illuminating essay on the poet Lermontov he was 
 pleased with it, not because it demonstrated Ler- 
 montov's position in the literary history of Rus- 
 sia, but because it pointed out the moral aims 
 which underlay the wild Byronism of his works. 
 He reproached the novelist Leskov, who had sent 
 him his latest novel, for the " exuberance " of his 
 flowers of speech and for his florid sentences — 
 beautiful in their way, he says, but inexpedient 
 and unnecessary. He even counselled the younger 
 generation to give up poetry as a form of expres- 
 sion and to use prose instead. Poetry, he main- 
 tained, was always artificial and obscure. His 
 attitude towards the art of writing remained to 
 the end one of hostility. Whenever he caught 
 himself working for art he was wont to reproach 
 himself, and his diaries contain many recrimina- 
 tions against his own weakness in yielding to this 
 besetting temptation. Yet to these very lapses 
 we are indebted for this collection of fragments. 
 
 The greater number of stories and plays con- 
 tained in these volumes date from the years fol- 
 lowing upon Tolstoy's pedagogic activity. Long 
 intervals, however, elapsed in most cases between 
 the original synopsis and the final touches. Thus 
 " Father Serge," of which he sketched the outline
 
 46 INTRODUCTION 
 
 to Mr. Chertkov in 1890, was so often put aside 
 to make way for purely ethical writings that not 
 till 1898 does the entry occur in his diary, "To- 
 day, quite unexpectedly, I finished Serge." A 
 year previously a dramatic incident had come to 
 his knowledge, which he elaborated in the play 
 entitled " The Man who was dead." It ran on 
 the lines familiarised by Enoch Arden and similar 
 stories, of a wife deserted by her husband and 
 supported in his absence by a benefactor, whom 
 she subsequently marries. In this instance the 
 supposed dead man was suddenly resuscitated as 
 the result of his own admissions in his cups, the 
 wife and her second husband being consequently 
 arrested and condemned to a term of imprison- 
 ment. Tolstoy seriously attacked the subject 
 during the summer of 1900, and having brought 
 it within a measurable distance of completion in a 
 shorter time than was usual with him, submitted 
 it to the judgment of a circle of friends. The 
 drama made a deep impression on the privileged 
 few who read it, and some mention of it appeared 
 in the newspapers. 
 
 Shortly afterwards a young man came to see 
 ■ Tolstoy in private. He begged him to refrain 
 from publishing " The Man who was dead," as it 
 was the history of his mother's life, and would dis- 
 tress her gravely, besides possibly occasioning
 
 INTRODUCTION 47 
 
 further police intervention. Tolstoy promptly 
 consented, and the play remained, as it now ap- 
 pears, in an unfinished condition. He had al- 
 ready felt doubtful whether " it was a thing God 
 would approve," Art for Art's sake having in his 
 eyes no right to existence. For this reason a 
 didactic tendency is increasingly evident in these 
 later stories. " After the Ball " gives a painful 
 picture of Russian military cruelty; " The Forged 
 Coupon *' traces the cancerous growth of evil, 
 and demonstrates with dramatic force the cumu- 
 lative misery resulting from one apparently trivial 
 act of wrongdoing. 
 
 Of the three plays included in these volumes, 
 " The Light that shines in Darkness " has a spe- 
 cial claim to our attention as an example of auto- 
 biography in the guise of drama. It is a speci- 
 men of Tolstoy's gift of seeing himself as others 
 saw him, and viewing a question in all its bear- 
 ings. It presents not actions but ideas, giving 
 with entire impartiality the opinions of his home 
 circle, of his friends, of the Church and of the 
 State, in regard to his altruistic propaganda and 
 to the anarchism of which he has been accused. 
 The scene of the renunciation of the estates of the 
 hero may be taken as a literal version of what 
 actually took place in regard to Tolstoy himself, 
 while the dialogues by which the piece is carried
 
 48 INTRODUCTION 
 
 foi-vard are more like verbatim records than im- 
 aginary conversations. 
 
 This play was, in addition, a medium by which 
 Tolstoy emphasised his abhorrence of military 
 service, and probably for this reason its produc- 
 tion is absolutely forbidden in Russia. A word 
 may be said here on Tolstoy's so-called Anarchy, 
 a term admitting of grave misconstruction. In 
 that he denied the benefit of existing governments 
 to the people over whom they ruled, and in that 
 he stigmatised standing armies as " collections of 
 disciplined murderers," Tolstoy was an Anarchist; 
 but in that he reprobated the methods of violence, 
 no matter how righteous the cause at stake, and 
 upheld by word and deed the gospel of Love and 
 submission, he cannot be judged guilty of Anar- 
 chism in its full significance. He could not, how- 
 ever, suppress the sympathy which he felt with 
 those whose resistance to oppression brought them 
 into deadly conflict with autocracy. He found 
 in the Caucasian chieftain, Hadji Murat, a sub- 
 ject full of human interest and dramatic possibili- 
 ties; and though some eight years passed before 
 he corrected the manuscript for the last time (in 
 1903), it is evident from the numbers of entries 
 in his diary that it had greatly occupied his 
 thoughts so far back even as the period which he 
 spent in Tiflis prior to the Crimean war. It was
 
 INTRODUCTION 49 
 
 then that the final subjugation of the Caucasus 
 took place, and Shamil and his devoted band 
 made their last struggle for freedom. After the 
 lapse of half a century, Tolstoy gave vent In 
 " Hadji Murat " to the resentment which the 
 military despotism of Nicholas I. had roused in 
 his sensitive and fearless spirit. 
 
 Courage was the dominant note In Tolstoy's 
 character, and none have excelled him In portray- 
 ing brave men. His own fearlessness was of the 
 rarest, in that It was both physical and moral. 
 The mettle tried and proved at Sebastopol sus- 
 tained him when he had drawn on himself the 
 bitter animosity of " Holy Synod " and the relent- 
 less anger of Czardom. In spite of his non- 
 resistance doctrine, Tolstoy's courage was not of 
 the passive order. It was his natural bent to 
 rouse his foes to combat, rather than wait for 
 their attack, to put on the defensive every false- 
 hood and every wrong of which he was cognisant. 
 Truth In himself and in others was what he most 
 desired, and that to which he strove at all costs 
 to attain. He was his own severest critic, weigh- 
 ing his own actions, analysing his own thoughts, 
 and baring himself to the eyes of the world with 
 unflinching candour. Greatest of autoblogra- 
 phers, he extenuates nothing: you see the whole 
 man with his worst faults and best qualities; weak-
 
 so INTRODUCTION 
 
 nesses accentuated by the energy with which they 
 are charactered, apparent waste of mental forces 
 bent on solving the insoluble, inherited tastes and 
 prejudices, altruistic impulses and virile passions, 
 egoism and idealism, all strangely mingled and 
 continually warring against each other, until from 
 the death-throes of spiritual conflict issued a new 
 birth and a new life. In the ancient Scripture 
 " God is love " Tolstoy discerned fresh meaning, 
 and strove with superhuman energy to bring home 
 that meaning to the world at large. His doctrine 
 in fact appears less as a new light in the darkness 
 than as a revival of the pure flame of " the Mystic 
 of the Galilean hills," whose teaching he accepted 
 while denying His divinity. 
 
 Of Tolstoy's beliefs in regard to the Christian 
 religion it may be said that with advancing years 
 he became more and more disposed to regard 
 religious truth as one continuous stream of spirit- 
 ual thought flowing through the ages of man's 
 history, emanating principally from the inspired 
 prophets and seers of Israel, India, and China. 
 Finally, in 1909, in a letter to a friend he summed 
 up his conviction in the following words: — 
 
 " For me the doctrine of Jesus Is simply one of 
 those beautiful religious doctrines which we have 
 received from Egyptian, Jewish, Hindoo, Chi-
 
 INTRODUCTION 51 
 
 nese, and Greek antiquity. The two great prin- 
 ciples of Jesus: love of God — in a word absolute 
 perfection — and love of one's neighbour, that is 
 to say, love of all men without distinction, have 
 been preached by all the sages of the world — 
 Krishna, Buddha, Lao-tse, Confucius, Socrates, 
 Plato, Epictetus, Marcus Aurelius, and among 
 the moderns, Rousseau, Pascal, Kant, Emerson, 
 Channing, and many others. Religious and 
 moral truth is everywhere and always the same. I 
 have no predilection whatever for Christianity. 
 If I have been particularly interested in the doc- 
 trine of Jesus it is, firstly, because I was born In 
 that religion and have lived among Christians; 
 secondly, because I have found a great spiritual 
 joy in freeing the doctrine in its purity from 
 the astounding falsifications wrought by the 
 Churches." 
 
 Tolstoy's life-work was indeed a splendid striv- 
 ing to free truth from falsehood, to simplify the 
 complexities of civilisation and demonstrate their 
 futility. Realists as gifted have come and gone 
 and left but little trace. It is conceivable that 
 the great trilogy of " Anna Karenina," " War and 
 Peace," and " Resurrection " may one day be for- 
 gotten, but Tolstoy's teaching stands on firmer 
 foundations, and has stirred the hearts of thou-
 
 52 INTRODUCTION 
 
 sands who are Indifferent to the finest display of 
 psychic analysis. He has taught men to venture 
 beyond the limits set by reason, to rise above the 
 actual^ and to find the meaning of life in love. It 
 was his mission to probe our moral ulcers to the 
 roots and to raise moribund ideals from the dust, 
 breathing his own vitality into them, till they rose 
 before our eyes as living aspirations. The spir- 
 itual joy of which he wrote was no rhetorical 
 hyperbole; it was manifest in the man himself, 
 and was the fount of the lofty idealism which 
 made him not only " the Conscience of Russia " 
 but of the civilised world. 
 
 Idealism is one of those large abstractions 
 which are Invested by various minds with varying 
 shades of meaning, and which find expression In 
 an infinite number of forms. Ideals bred and fos- 
 tered In the heart of man receive at birth an im- 
 press from the life that engenders them, and when 
 that life Is tempest-tossed the thought that springs 
 from It must bear a birth-mark of the storm. 
 That birth-mark Is stamped on all Tolstoy's utter- 
 ances, the simplest and the most metaphysical. 
 But though he did not pass scathless through the 
 purging fires, nor escape with eyes undimmed from 
 the mystic light which flooded his soul, his ideal 
 Is not thereby invalidated. It was, he admitted.
 
 INTRODUCTION 53 
 
 unattainable, but none the less a state of perfec- 
 tion to which we must continually aspire, un- 
 daunted by partial failure. 
 
 " There is nothing wrong in not living up to 
 the Ideal which you have made for yourself, but 
 what is wrong is, if on looking back, you cannot 
 see that you have made the least step nearer to 
 your ideal." 
 
 How far Tolstoy's doctrines may influence suc- 
 ceeding generations it is impossible to foretell; 
 but when time has extinguished what is merely 
 personal or racial, the divine spark which he re- 
 ceived from his great spiritual forerunners in other 
 times and countries will undoubtedly be found 
 alight. His universality enabled him to unite 
 himself closely with them in mental sympathy; 
 sometimes so closely, as in the case of J. J. Rous- 
 seau, as to raise analogies and comparisons de- 
 signed to show that he merely followed in a well- 
 worn pathway. Yet the similarity of Tolstoy's 
 ideas to those of the author of the " Contrat So- 
 cial " hardly goes beyond a mutual distrust of 
 Art and Science as aids to human happiness and 
 virtue, and a desire to establish among mankind 
 a true sense of brotherhood. For the rest, the
 
 54 INTRODUCTION 
 
 appeals which they individually made to Human- 
 ity were as dissimilar as the currents of their lives, 
 and equally dissimilar in effect. 
 
 The magic flute of Rousseau's eloquence 
 breathed fanaticism into his disciples, and a desire 
 to mass themselves against the foes of liberty. 
 Tolstoy's trumpet-call sounds a deeper note. It 
 pierces the heart, summoning each man to the in- 
 quisition of his own conscience, and to justify his 
 existence by labour, that he may thereafter sleep 
 the sleep of peace. 
 
 The exaltation which he awakens owes nothing 
 to rhythmical language nor to subtle interpreta- 
 tions of sensuous emotion; it proceeds from a per- 
 ception of eternal truth, the truth that has love, 
 faith, courage, and self-sacrifice for the corner- 
 stones of its enduring edifice. 
 
 C. HAGBERG WRIGHT. 
 
 Note. — Owing to circumstances entirely outside the control of 
 the editor some of these translations have been done in haste and 
 there has not been sufficient time for revision. 
 
 The translators were chosen by an agent of the executor and 
 not by the editor.
 
 List of Posthumous Works, giving Date 
 when each was finished or length of 
 Time occupied in Writing. 
 
 Father Serge. 1890-98. 
 
 Introduction to the History of a Mother. 1894. 
 
 Memoirs of a Mother. 1894. 
 
 The Young Czar. 1894. 
 
 Diary of a Lunatic. 1896. 
 
 Hadji Murat. 1896- 1904. 
 
 The Light that shines in Darkness. 1 898-1 901. 
 
 The Man who was dead. 1900. 
 
 After the Ball. 1903. 
 
 The Forged Coupon. 1904. 
 
 Alexis. 1905. 
 
 Diary of Alexander /. 1905. 
 
 The Dream. 1906. 
 
 Father Vassily. 1906. 
 
 There are no Guilty People. 1909. 
 
 The fFisdom of Children. 1909. 
 
 The Cause of it All. 19 10. 
 
 Chodynko. 19 10. 
 
 Two Travellers. Date uncertain.
 
 THE FORGED COUPON
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 FART FIRST 
 
 I 
 
 Fedor Mihailovich Smokovnikov, the presi- 
 dent of the local Income Tax Department, a man 
 of unswerving honesty — and proud of it, too — 
 a gloomy Liberal, a free-thinker, and an enemy 
 to every manifestation of religious feeling, which 
 he thought a relic of superstition, came home from 
 his office feeling very much annoyed. The Gov- 
 ernor of the province had sent him an extraordi- 
 narily stupid minute, almost assuming that his 
 dealings had been dishonest. 
 
 Fedor Mihailovich felt embittered, and wrote 
 at once a sharp answer. On his return home 
 everything seemed to go contrary to his wishes. 
 
 It was five minutes to five, and he expected the 
 dinner to be served at once, but he was told It was 
 not ready. He banged the door and went to his 
 study. Somebody knocked at the door. " Who 
 the devil is that? " he thought; and shouted, — 
 
 59
 
 6o THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 "Who is there?" 
 
 The door opened and a boy of fifteen came in, 
 the son of Fedor NFihailovich, a pupil of the fifth 
 class of the local school. 
 
 "What do you want? '' 
 
 " It is the first of the month to-day, father." 
 
 " Well ! You want your money? " 
 
 It had been arranged that the father should pay 
 his son a monthly allowance of three roubles as 
 pocket money. Fedor Mihailovich frowned, took 
 out of his pocket-book a coupon of two roubles 
 fifty kopeks which he found among the bank- 
 notes, and added to it fifty kopeks in silver out of 
 the loose change in his purse. The boy kept si- 
 lent, and did not take the money his father prof- 
 fered him. 
 
 " Father, please give me some more in ad- 
 vance." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " I would not ask for it, but I have borrowed a 
 small sum from a friend, and promised upon my 
 word of honour to pay it off. My honour is dear 
 to me, and that is why I want another three rou- 
 bles. I don't like asking you; but, please, father, 
 give me another three roubles." 
 
 " I have told you — " 
 
 " I know, father, but just for once." 
 
 " You have an allowance of three roubles and
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 6i 
 
 you ought to be content. I had not fifty kopeks 
 when I was your age." 
 
 " Now, all my comrades have much more. 
 Petrov and Ivanitsky have fifty roubles a month." 
 
 "And I tell you that if you behave like them 
 you will be a scoundrel. Mind that." 
 
 "What is there to mind? You never under- 
 stand my position. I shall be disgraced if I don't 
 pay my debt. It is all very well for you to speak 
 as you do." 
 
 "Be off, you silly boy! Be off ! " 
 
 Fedor Mihailovich jumped from his seat and 
 pounced upon his son. "Be off, I say!" he 
 shouted. " You deserve a good thrashing, all 
 you boys ! " 
 
 His son was at once frightened and embittered. 
 The bitterness was even greater than the fright. 
 With his head bent down he hastily turned to the 
 door. Fedor Mihailovich did not intend to strike 
 him, but he was glad to vent his wrath, and went 
 on shouting and abusing the boy till he had closed 
 the door. 
 
 When the maid came in to announce that din- 
 ner was ready, Fedor Mihailovich rose. 
 
 " At last! " he said. " I don't feel hungry any 
 longer." 
 
 He went to the dining-room with a sullen face. 
 At table his wife made some remark, but he gave
 
 62 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 her such a short and angry answer that she ab- 
 stained from further speech. The son also did 
 not lift his eyes from his plate, and was silent all 
 the time. The trio finished their dinner in si- 
 lence, rose from the table and separated, without 
 a word. 
 
 After dinner the boy went to his room, took the 
 coupon and the change out of his pocket, and 
 threw the money on the table. After that he 
 took off his uniform and put on a jacket. 
 
 He sat down to work, and began to study Latin 
 grammar out of a dog's-eared book. After a 
 while he rose, closed and bolted the door, shifted 
 the money into a drawer, took out some ciga- 
 rette papers, rolled one up, stuffed it with cotton 
 wool, and began to smoke. 
 
 He spent nearly two hours over his grammar 
 and writing books without understanding a word 
 of what he saw before him; then he rose and be- 
 gan to stamp up and down the room, trying to 
 recollect all that his father had said to him. xMl 
 the abuse showered upon him, and worst of all 
 his father's angry face, were as fresh in his mem- 
 ory as if he saw and heard them all over again. 
 "Silly boy! You ought to get a good thrash- 
 ing! " And the more he thought of it the angrier 
 he grew. He remembered also how his father 
 said: " I see what a scoundrel you will turn out.
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 63 
 
 I know you will. You are sure to become a cheat, 
 if you go on like that. . . ." He had cer- 
 tainly forgotten how he felt when he was young! 
 "What crime have I committed, I wonder? I 
 wanted to go to the theatre, and having no money 
 borrowed some from Petia Grouchetsky. Was 
 that so very wicked of me? Another father 
 would have been sorry for me; would have asked 
 how it all happened; whereas he just called me 
 names. He never thinks of anything but himself. 
 When It is he who has not got something he wants 
 — that is a different matter ! Then all the house 
 is upset by his shouts. And I — I am a scoundrel, 
 a cheat, he says. No, I don't love him, although 
 he is my father. It may be wrong, but I hate 
 him." 
 
 There was a knock at the door. The servant 
 brought a letter — a message from his friend. 
 " They want an answer," said the servant. 
 
 The letter ran as follows: " I ^sk you now for 
 the third time to pay me back the six roubles you 
 have borrowed; you are trying to avoid me. 
 That is not the way an honest man ought to be- 
 have. Will you please send the amount by my 
 messenger? I am myself in a frightful fix. Can 
 you not get the money somewhere? — Yours, ac- 
 cording to whether you send the money or not, 
 with scorn, or love, Grouchetsky."
 
 64 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 "There we have it! Such a pig! Could he 
 not wait a while? I will hav-e another try." 
 
 Mitia went to his mother. This was his last 
 hope. His mother was very kind, and hardly 
 ever refused him anything. She would probably 
 have helped him this time also out of his trouble, 
 but she was in great anxiety: her younger child, 
 Petia, a boy of two, had fallen ill. She got angry 
 with Mitia for rushing so noisily into the nursery, 
 and refused him almost without listening to what 
 he had to say. Mitia muttered something to him- 
 self and turned to go. The mother felt sorry 
 for him. " Wait, Mitia," she said; " I have not 
 got the money you want now, but I will get it for 
 you to-morrow." 
 
 But Mitia was still raging against his father. 
 
 " What is the use of having it to-morrow, when 
 I want it to-day? I am going to see a friend. 
 That is all I have got to say." 
 
 He went o^t, banging the door. 
 " Nothing else is left to me. He will tell me how 
 to pawn my watch," he thought, touching his 
 watch in his pocket. 
 
 Mitia went to his room, took the coupon and 
 the watch from the drawer, put on his coat, and 
 went to Mahin.
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 65 
 
 II 
 
 Mahin was his schoolfellow, his senior, a grown- 
 up young man with a moustache. He gambled, 
 had a large feminine acquaintance, and always had 
 ready cash. He lived with his aunt. Mitia 
 quite realised that Mahin was not a respectable 
 fellow, but when he was in his company he could 
 not help doing what he wished. Mahin was in 
 when Mitia called, and was just preparing to go 
 to the theatre. His untidy room smelt of scented 
 soap and eau-de-Cologne. 
 
 "That's awful, old chap," said Mahin, when 
 Mitia telling him about his troubles, showed the 
 coupon and the fifty kopeks, and added that he 
 wanted nine roubles more. " We might, of 
 course, go and pawn your watch. But we might 
 do something far better." And Mahin winked 
 an eye. 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 " Something quite simple." Mahin took the 
 coupon in his hand. " Put one before the 2.50 
 and it will be 12.50." 
 
 "But do such coupons exist?" 
 
 "Why, certainly; the thousand roubles notes 
 have coupons of 12.50. I have cashed one in 
 the same way."
 
 66 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 " You don't say so? " 
 
 "Well, yes or no?" asked Mahln, taking the 
 pen and smoothing the coupon with the fingers of 
 his left hand. 
 
 " But it is wrong." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " 
 
 " Nonsense, indeed," thought Mitia, and again 
 his father's hard words came back to his memory. 
 "Scoundrel! As you called me that, I might as 
 well be it." He looked into Mahin's face. 
 Mahin looked at him, smiling with perfect ease. 
 . "Well?" he said. 
 
 " All right. I don't mind." 
 
 Mahin carefully wrote the unit in front of 2. 50. 
 
 "Now let us go to the shop across the road; 
 they sell photographers' materials there. I just 
 happen to want a frame — for this young person 
 here." He took out of his pocket a photograph 
 of a young lady with large eyes, luxuriant hair, 
 and an uncommonly well-developed bust. 
 
 " Is she not sweet? Eh? " 
 
 " Yes, yes ... of course . 
 
 " Well, you see. — But let us go." 
 
 Mahin took his coat, and they left the house.
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 67 
 
 III 
 
 The two boys, having rung the door-bell, entered 
 the empty shop, which had shelves along the walls 
 and photographic appliances on them, together 
 with show-cases on the counters. A plain woman, 
 with a kind face, came through the inner door and 
 asked from behind the counter what they required. 
 
 " A nice frame, if you please, madam." 
 
 " At what price? " asked the woman; she wore 
 mittens on her swollen fingers with which she rap- 
 idly handled picture-frames of different shapes. 
 
 "These are fifty kopeks each; and these are a 
 little more expensive. There is rather a pretty 
 one, of quite a new style; one rouble and twenty 
 kopeks." 
 
 " All right, I will have this. But could not 
 you make it cheaper? Let us say one rouble." 
 
 " We don't bargain in our shop," said the 
 shopkeeper with a dignified air. 
 
 " Well, I will take it," said Mahin, and put 
 the coupon on the counter. " Wrap up the frame 
 and give me change. But please be quick. We 
 must be off to the theatre, and it is getting late." 
 
 " You have plenty of time," said the shop- 
 keeper, examining the coupon very closely because 
 of her shortsightedness.
 
 68 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 " It will look lovely In that frame, don't you 
 think so? " said Mahin, turning to Mitia. 
 
 " Have you no small change? " asked the shop- 
 woman. 
 
 " I am sorry, I have not. My father gave me 
 that, so I have to cash it." 
 
 "But surely you have one rouble twenty?" 
 
 " I have only fifty kopeks In cash. But what 
 are you afraid of? You don't think, I suppose, 
 that we want to cheat you and give you bad 
 money? " 
 
 "Oh, no; I don't mean anything of the 
 sort." 
 
 " You had better give it to me back. We will 
 cash it somewhere else." 
 
 " How much have 1 to pay you back? Eleven 
 and something." 
 
 She made a calculation on the counter, opened 
 the desk, took out a ten-roubles note, looked for 
 change and added to the sum six twenty-kopeks 
 coins and two five-kopek pieces. 
 
 " Please make a parcel of the frame," said 
 Mahin, taking the money in a leisurely fashion. 
 
 "Yes, sir." She made a parcel and tied it 
 with a string. 
 
 Mitia only breathed freely when the door bell 
 rang behind them, and they were again in the 
 street.
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 69 
 
 " There are ten roubles for you, and let me 
 have the rest. I will give it back to you." 
 
 Mahin went off to the theatre, and Mitia called 
 on Grouchetsky to repay the money he had bor- 
 rowed from him. 
 
 IV 
 
 An hour after the boys were gone Eugene Mihail- 
 ovich, the owner of the shop, came home, and be- 
 gan to count his receipts. 
 
 "Oh, you clumsy fool! Idiot that you are!" 
 he shouted, addressing his wife, aftei having seen 
 the coupon and noticed the forgery. 
 
 " But I have often seen you, Eugene, accepting 
 coupons in payment, and precisely twelve rouble 
 ones," retorted his wife, very humiliated, grieved, 
 and all but bursting into tears. " I really don't 
 know how they contrived to cheat me," she went 
 on. "They were pupils of the school, in uni- 
 form. One of them was quite a handsome boy, 
 and looked so comme il faut." 
 
 " A comme il faut fool, that is what you are! " 
 The husband went on scolding her, while he 
 counted the cash. ..." When I accept 
 coupons, I see what is written on them. And you 
 probably looked only at the boys' pretty faces.
 
 70 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 You had better behave yourself in your old age." 
 
 His wife could not stand this, and got into a 
 fury. 
 
 "That is just like you men! Blaming every- 
 body around you. But when it is you who lose 
 fifty-four roubles at cards — that is of no conse- 
 quence in your eyes." 
 
 " That is a different matter — " 
 
 " I don't want to talk to you," said his wife, 
 and went to her room. There she began to re- 
 mind herself that her family was opposed to her 
 marriage, thinking her present husband far below 
 her in social rank, and that it was she who insisted 
 on marrying him. Then she went on thinking of 
 the child she had lost, and how indifferent her 
 husband had been to their loss. She hated him 
 so intensely at that moment that she wished for 
 his death. Her wish frightened her, however, 
 and she hurriedly began to dress and left the 
 house. When her husband came from the shop 
 to the inner rooms of their flat she was gone. 
 Without waiting for him she had dressed and 
 gone off to friends — a teacher of French in the 
 school, a Russified Pole, and his wife — who had 
 invited her and her husband to a party in their 
 house that evening.
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 71 
 
 The guests at the party had tea and cakes offered 
 to them, and sat down after that to play whist at 
 a number of card-tables. 
 
 The partners of Eugene Mihallovich's wife 
 were the host himself, an officer, and an old and 
 very stupid lady in a wig, a widow who owned a 
 music-shop; she loved playing cards and played 
 remarkably well. But it was Eugene Mihallo- 
 vich's wife who was the winner all the time. The 
 best cards were continually in her hinds. At her 
 side she had a plate with grapes and a pear and 
 was in the best of spirits. 
 
 "And Eugene Mihailovich? Why is he so 
 late?" asked the hostess, who played at another 
 table. 
 
 " Probably busy settling accounts," said Eugene 
 Mihailovich's wife. " He has to pay off the 
 tradesmen, to get in firewood." The quarrel she 
 had with her husband revived in her memory; 
 she frowned, and her hands, from which she had 
 not taken off the mittens, shook with fury against 
 him. 
 
 " Oh, there he is. — We have just been speak- 
 ing of you," said the hostess to Eugene Mihailo-
 
 72 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 vich, who came In at that very moment. " Why 
 are you so late? " 
 
 *' I was busy," answered Eugene Mihailovich, 
 in a gay voice, rubbing his hands. And to his 
 wife's surprise he came to her side and said, — 
 
 " You know, I managed to get rid of the cou- 
 pon." 
 
 "No! You don't say so!" 
 
 " Yes, I used it to pay for a cart-load of fire- 
 wood I bought from a peasant." 
 
 And Eugene Mihailovich related with great in- 
 dignation to the company present — his wife add- 
 ing more details to his narrative — how his wife 
 had been cheated by two unscrupulous schoolboys. 
 
 " Well, and now let us sit down to work," he 
 said, taking his place at one of the whist-tables 
 when his turn came, and beginning to shuffle the 
 cards. 
 
 VI 
 
 Eugene Mihailovich had actually used the cou- 
 pon to buy firewood from the peasant Ivan Mi- 
 ronov, who had thought of setting up in business 
 on the seventeen roubles he possessed. He hoped 
 in this way to earn another eight roubles, and with 
 the twenty-five roubles thus amassed he intended 
 to buy a good strong horse, which he would want 
 in the spring for work in the fields and for driv-
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 73 
 
 ing on the roads, as his old horse was almost 
 played out. 
 
 Ivan Mironov's commercial method consisted 
 in buying from the stores a cord of wood and di- 
 viding it into five cartloads, and then driving 
 about the town, selling each of these at the price 
 the stores charged for a quarter of a cord. That 
 unfortunate day Ivan Mironov drove out very 
 early with half a cartload, which he soon sold. 
 He loaded up again with another cartload which 
 he hoped to sell, but he looked in vain for a cus- 
 tomer; no one woujd buy it. It was his bad luck 
 all that day to come across experienced towns- 
 people, who knew all the tricks of the peasants in 
 selling firewood, and would not believe that he 
 had actually brought the wood from the country 
 as he assured them. He got hungry, and felt 
 cold in his ragged woollen coat. It was nearly 
 below zero when evening came on ; his horse 
 which he had treated without mercy, hoping soon 
 to sell it to the knacker's yard, refused to move a 
 step. So Ivan Mironov was quite ready to sell 
 his firewood at a loss when he met Eugene Mihail- 
 ovich, who was on his way home from the tobac- 
 conist. 
 
 " Buy my cartload of firewood, sir. I will give 
 it to you cheap. My poor horse is tired, and can't 
 go any farther."
 
 74 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 "Where do you come from?" 
 
 " From the country, sir. This firewood is 
 from our place. Good dry wood, I can assure 
 you." 
 
 "Good wood indeed! I know your tricks. 
 Well, what Is your price?" 
 
 Ivan Mironov began by asking a high price, 
 but reduced it once, and finished by selling the 
 cartload for just what it had cost him. 
 
 " I'm giving it to you cheap, just to please you, 
 sir. — Besides, I am glad It is not a long way to 
 your house," he added. 
 
 Eugene Mihailovich did not bargain very much. 
 He did not mind paying a little more, because he 
 was delighted to think he could make use of the 
 coupon and get rid of it. With great difficulty 
 Ivan Mironov managed at last, by pulling the 
 shafts himself, to drag his cart into the courtyard, 
 where he was obliged to unload the firewood un- 
 aided and pile it up in the shed. The yard-porter 
 was out. Ivan Mironov hesitated at first to ac- 
 cept the coupon, but Eugene Mihailovich insisted, 
 and as he looked a very Important person the peas- 
 ant at last agreed. 
 
 He went by the backstairs to the servants' 
 room, crossed himself before the Ikon, wiped his 
 beard which was covered wMth icicles, turned up 
 the skirts of his coat, took out of his pocket a
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 75 
 
 leather purse, and out of the purse eight roubles 
 and fifty kopeks, and handed the change to Eu- 
 gene Mihailovich. Carefully folding the coupon, 
 he put it in the purse. Then, according to cus- 
 tom, he thanked the gentleman for his kindness, 
 and, using the whip-handle instead of the lash, he 
 belaboured the half-frozen horse that he had 
 doomed to an early death, and betook himself to 
 a public-house. 
 
 Arriving there, Ivan Mironov called for vodka 
 and tea for which he paid eight kopeks. Com- 
 fortable and warm after the tea, he chatted in the 
 very best of spirits with a yard-porter who was 
 sitting at his table. Soon he grew communicative 
 and told his companion all about the conditions of 
 his life. He told him he came from the village 
 Vassilievsky, twelve miles from town, and also 
 that he had his allotment of land given to him 
 by his family, as he wanted to live apart from his 
 father and his brothers; that he had a wife and 
 two children; the elder boy went to school, and 
 did not yet help him in his work. He also said he 
 lived in lodgings and intended going to the horse- 
 fair the next day to look for a good horse, and, 
 may be, to buy one. He went on to state that he 
 had now nearly twenty-five roubles — only one 
 rouble short — and that half of it was a coupon. 
 He took the coupon out of his purse to show to his
 
 76 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 new friend. The yard-porter was an illiterate 
 man, but he said he had had such coupons given 
 him by lodgers to change; that they were good; 
 but that one might also chance on forged ones; 
 so he advised the peasant, for the sake of security, 
 to change it at once at the counter. Ivan Mironov 
 gave the coupon to the waiter and asked for 
 change. The waiter, however, did not bring the 
 change, but came back with the manager, a bald- 
 headed man with a shining face, who was holding 
 the coupon in his fat hand. 
 
 " Your money is no good," he said, showing the 
 coupon, but apparendy determined not to give it 
 back. 
 
 " The coupon must be all right. I got it from 
 a gentleman." 
 
 " It is bad, I tell you. The coupon is forged." 
 
 " Forged? Give it back to me." 
 
 " I will not. You fellows have got to be pun- 
 ished for such tricks. Of course, you did it your- 
 self — you and some of your rascally friends." 
 
 " Give me the money. What right have 
 you — " 
 
 "Sidor! Call a policeman," said the barman 
 to the waiter. Ivan Mironov was rather drunk, 
 and in that condition was hard to manage. He 
 seized the manager by the collar and began to 
 shout.
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 77 
 
 ** Give me back my money, I say. I will go to 
 the gentleman who gave it to me. I know where 
 he lives." 
 
 The manager had to struggle with all his force 
 to get loose from Ivan Mironov, and his shirt was 
 torn, — 
 
 " Oh, that's the way you behave ! Get hold of 
 him." 
 
 The waiter took hold of Ivan Mironov; at that 
 moment the policeman arrived. Looking very 
 important, he Inquired what had happened, and 
 unhesitatingly gave his orders: 
 
 " Take him to the police-station." 
 
 As to the coupon, the policeman put it in his 
 pocket; Ivan Mironov, together with his horse, 
 was brought to the nearest station. 
 
 VII 
 
 Ivan Mironov had to spend the night in the po- 
 lice-station, in the company of drunkards and 
 thieves. It was noon of the next day when he 
 was summoned to the police officer; put through 
 a close examination, and sent in the care of a po- 
 liceman to Eugene Mlhailovich's shop. Ivan Mi- 
 ronov remembered the street and the house. 
 The policeman asked for the shopkeeper.
 
 78 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 showed him the coupon and confronted him with 
 Ivan Mironov, who declared that he had received 
 the coupon in that very place. Eugene Mihallo- 
 vich at once assumed a very severe and astonished 
 air. 
 
 " You are mad, my good fellow," he said. " I 
 have never seen this man before In my life," he 
 added, addressing the policeman. 
 
 " It Is a sin, sir," said Ivan Mironov. " Think 
 of the hour w^hen you will die." 
 
 "Why, you must be dreaming! You have 
 sold your firewood to some one else," said Eu- 
 gene Mlhallovlch. " But wait a minute. I will 
 go and ask my wife whether she bought any fire- 
 wood yesterday." Eugene Mlhallovlch left them 
 and immediately called the yard-porter Vasslly, a 
 strong, handsome, quick, cheerful, well-dressed 
 man. 
 
 He told Vasslly that if any one should inquire 
 where the last supply of firewood was bought, he 
 was to say they'd got it from the stores, and not 
 from a peasant in the street. 
 
 " A peasant has come," he said to Vasslly, 
 " who has declared to the police that I gave him 
 a forged coupon. He is a fool and talks non- 
 :.ense, but you are a clever man. Mind you say 
 that we always get the firewood from the stores. 
 And, by the way, I've been thinking some time of
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 79 
 
 giving you money to buy a new jacket," added Eu- 
 gene Mlhailovich, and gave the man five roubles. 
 Vassily looking with pleasure first at the five rou- 
 ble note, then at Eugene Mihailovich's face, shook 
 his head and smiled. 
 
 " I know, those peasant folks have no brains. 
 Ignorance, of course. Don't you be uneasy. I 
 know what I have to say." 
 
 Ivan Mironov, with tears in his eyes, implored 
 Eugene Mihailovich over and over again to ac- 
 knowledge the coupon he had given him, and the 
 yard-porter to believe what he said, but it proved 
 quite useless; they both insisted that they had 
 never bought firewood from a peasant in the 
 street. The policeman brought Ivan Mironov 
 back to the police-station, and he was charged with 
 forging the coupon. Only after taking the ad- 
 vice of a drunken ofl'ice clerk in the same cell with 
 him, and bribing the police officer with five rou- 
 bles, did Ivan Mironov get out of jail, without 
 the coupon, and with only seven roubles left out 
 of the twenty-five he had the day before. 
 
 Of these seven roubles he spent three in the 
 public-house and came home to his wife dead 
 drunk, with a bruised and swollen face. 
 
 . His wife was expecting a child, and felt very 
 ill. She began to scold her husband; he pushed 
 her away, and she struck him. Without answer-
 
 8o THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 ing a word he lay down on the plank and began 
 to weep bitterly. 
 
 Not till the next day did he tell his wife what 
 had actually happened. She believed him at 
 once, and thoroughly cursed the dastardly rich 
 man who had cheated Ivan. He was sobered 
 now, and remembering the advice a workman had 
 given him, with whom he had many a drink the 
 day before, decided to go to a lawyer and tell him 
 of the wrong the owner of the photograph shop 
 had done him. 
 
 VIII 
 
 The lawyer consented to take proceedings on be- 
 half of Ivan Mironov, not so much for the sake 
 of the fee, as because he believed the peasant, and 
 was revolted by the wrong done to him. 
 
 Both parties appeared in the court when the 
 case was tried, and the yard-porter Vassily was 
 summoned as witness. They repeated in the 
 court all they had said before to the police officials. 
 Ivan Mironov again called to his aid the name of 
 the Divinity, and reminded the shopkeeper of the 
 hour of death. Eugene Mihailovich, although 
 quite aware of his wickedness, and the risks he 
 was running, despite the rebukes of his conscience, 
 could not now change his testimony, and went on
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 8i 
 
 calmly to deny all the allegations made against 
 him. 
 
 The yard-porter Vassily had received another 
 ten roubles from his master, and, quite unper- 
 turbed, asserted with a smile that he did not know 
 anything about Ivan Mironov. And when he 
 was called upon to take the oath, he overcame his 
 inner qualms, and repeated with assumed ease 
 the terms of the oath, read to him by the old 
 priest appointed to the court. By the holy Cross 
 and the Gospel, he swore that he spoke the whole 
 truth. 
 
 The case was decided against Ivan Mironov, 
 who was sentenced to pay five roubles for expenses. 
 This sum Eugene Mihailovich generously paid 
 for him. Before dismissing Ivan Mironov, the 
 judge severely admonished him, saying he ought 
 to take care in the future not to accuse respectable 
 people, and that he also ought to be thankful that 
 he was not forced to pay the costs, and that he had 
 escaped a prosecution for slander, for which he 
 would have been condemned to three months' im- 
 prisonment. 
 
 " I offer my humble thanks," said Ivan Mi- 
 ronov; and, shaking his head, left the court with 
 a heavy sigh. 
 
 The whole thing seemed to have ended well for 
 Eugene Mihailovich and the yard-porter Vassily.
 
 82 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 But only in appearance. Something had hap- 
 pened which was not noticed by any one, but which 
 was much more important than all that had been 
 exposed to view. 
 
 Vassily had left his village and settled in town 
 over two years ago. As time went on he sent 
 less and less money to his father, and he did not 
 ask his wife, who remained at home, to join him. 
 He was in no need of her; he could in town have 
 as many wives as he wished, and much better ones 
 too than that clumsy, village-bred woman. Vas- 
 sily, with each recurring year, became more and 
 more familiar with the ways of the town people, 
 forgetting the conventions of a country life. 
 There everything was so vulgar, so grey, so poor 
 and untidy. Here, in town, all seemed on the 
 contrary so refined, nice, clean, and rich; so or- 
 derly too. And he became more and more con- 
 vinced that people in the country live just like 
 wild beasts, having no idea of what life is, and 
 that only life in town is real. He read books 
 written by clever writers, and went to the perform- 
 ances in the Peoples' Palace. In the country, 
 people would not see such wonders even in dreams. 
 In the country old men say: " Obey the law, and 
 live with your wife; work; don't eat too much; 
 don't care for finery," while here, in town, all the 
 clever and learned people — those, of course, 

 
 THE FORGED COUPON 83 
 
 who know what In reality the law is — only pur- 
 sue their own pleasures. And they are the bet- 
 ter for It. 
 
 Previous to the incident of the forged coupon, 
 Vassily could not actually believe that rich people 
 lived without any moral law. But after that, 
 still more after having perjured himself, and not 
 being the worse for it in spite of his fears — on 
 the contrary, he had gained ten roubles out of it 
 — Vassily became firmly convinced that no moral 
 laws whatever exist, and that the only thing to do 
 is to pursue one's own interests and pleasures. 
 This he 'now made his rule in life. He accord- 
 ingly got as much profit as he could out of pur- 
 chasing goods for lodgers. But this did not pay 
 all his expenses. Then he took to stealing, when- 
 ever chance offered — money and all sorts of val- 
 uables. One day he stole a purse full of money 
 from Eugene Mihailovich, but was found out. 
 Eugene Mihailovich did not hand him over to the 
 police, but dismissed him on the spot. 
 
 Vassily had no wish whatever to return home 
 to his village, and remained in Moscow with his 
 sweetheart, looking out for a new job. He got 
 one as yard-porter at a grocer's, but with only 
 small wages. The next day after he had entered 
 that service he was caught stealing bags. I'he 
 grocer did not call in the police, but gave him a
 
 84 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 good thrashing and turned him out. After that 
 he could not Hnd work. The money he had left 
 was soon gone; he had to sell all his clothes and 
 went about nearly in rags. His sweetheart left 
 him. But notwithstanding, he kept up his high 
 spirits, and when the spring came he started to 
 walk home. 
 
 IX 
 
 Peter Nikolaevich Sventizky, a short man In 
 black spectacles (he had weak eyes, and was 
 threatened with complete blindness), got up, as 
 was his custom, at dawn of day, had a cup of tea, 
 and putting on his short fur coat trimmed with 
 astrachan, went to look after the work on his es- 
 tate. 
 
 Peter Nikolaevich had been an official in the 
 Customs, and had gained eighteen thousand rou- 
 bles during his service. About twelve years ago 
 he quitted the service — not quite of his own ac- 
 cord: as a matter of fact he had been compelled 
 to leave — and bought an estate from a young 
 land-owner who had dissipated his fortune. Peter 
 Nikolaevich had married at an earlier period, 
 while still an official In the Customs. His wife, 
 who belonged to an old noble family, was an 
 orphan, and was left without money. She was
 
 ' THE FORGED COUPON 85 
 
 a tall, stoutish, good-looking woman. They had 
 no children. Peter Nikolaevich had considerable 
 practical talents and a strong will. He was the 
 son of a Polish gentleman, and knew nothing 
 about agriculture and land management; but 
 when he acquired an estate of his own, he man- 
 aged it so well that after fifteen years the waste 
 piece of land, consisting of three hundred acres, 
 became a model estate. All the buildings,- from 
 the dwelling-house to the corn stores and the shed 
 for the fire engine were solidly built, had iron 
 roofs, and were painted at the right time. In the 
 tool house carts, ploughs, harrows, stood in per- 
 fect order, the harness was well cleaned and oiled. 
 The horses were not very big, but all home-bred, 
 grey, well fed, strong and devoid of blemish. 
 
 The threshing machine worked in a roofed 
 barn, the forage was kept in a separate shed, and 
 a paved drain was made from the stables. The 
 cows were home-bred, not very large, but giving 
 plenty of milk; fowls were also kept in the poultry 
 yard, and the hens were of a special kind, laying 
 a great quantity of eggs. In the orchard the fruit 
 trees were well whitewashed and propped on poles 
 to enable them to grow straight. Everything was 
 looked after — solid, clean, and in perfect order. 
 Peter Nikolaevich rejoiced in the perfect condi- 
 tion of his estate, and was proud to have achieved
 
 86 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 it — not by oppressing the peasants, but, on the 
 contrary, by the extreme fairness of his dealings 
 with them. 
 
 Among the nobles of his province he belonged 
 to the advanced party, and was more inclined to 
 liberal than conservative views, always taking the 
 side of the peasants against those who were still 
 in favour of serfdom. " Treat them well, and 
 they -will be fair to you," he used to say. Of 
 course, he did not overlook any carelessness on 
 the part of those who worked on his estate, and 
 he urged them on to work if they were lazy; but 
 then he gave them good lodging, with plenty of 
 good food, paid their wages without any delay, 
 and gave them drinks on days of festival. 
 
 Walking cautiously on the melting snow — for 
 the time of the year was February — Peter Nikol- 
 aevich passed the stables, and made his way to 
 the cottage where his workmen were lodged. 
 It was still dark, the darker because of the dense 
 fog; but the windows of the cottage were lighted. 
 The men had already got up. His intention was 
 to urge them to begin work. He had arranged 
 that they should drive out to the forest and bring 
 back the last supply of firewood he needed before 
 spring. 
 
 "What is that?" he thought, seeing the door 
 of the stable wide open. " Hallo, who is there? "
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 87 
 
 No answer. Peter NIkolaevich stepped into 
 the stable. It was dark; the ground was soft 
 under his feet, and the air smelt of dung; on the 
 right side of the door were two loose boxes for 
 a pair of grey horses. Peter Nikolaevich 
 stretched out his hand in their direction — one *■ 
 box was empty. He put out his foot — the horse 
 might have been lying down. But his foot did 
 not touch anything solid. " Where could they 
 have taken the horse?" he thought. They cer- 
 tainly had not harnessed it; all the sledges stood 
 still outside. Peter Nikolaevich went out of the 
 stable. 
 
 " Stepan, come here!" he called. 
 
 Stepan was the head of the workmen's gang. 
 He was just stepping out of the cottage. 
 
 " Here I am ! " he said, in a cheerful voice. 
 "Oh, is that you, Peter Nikolaevich? Our men 
 are coming." 
 
 " Why is the stable door open? " 
 
 " Is it? I don't know anything about it. I 
 say, Proshka, bring the lantern ! " 
 
 Proshka came with the lantern. They all went 
 to the stable, and Stepan knew at once what had 
 happened. 
 
 " Thieves have been here, Peter Nikolaevich," 
 he said. " The lock is broken." 
 
 " No; you don't say so! "
 
 88 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 "Yes, the brigands! 1 don't see ' Mashka.' 
 ' Hawk ' is here. But ' Beauty ' is not. Nor yet 
 ' Dapple-grey.' " 
 
 Three horses had been stolen ! 
 
 Peter Nikolaevich did not utter a word at first. 
 He only frowned and took deep breaths. 
 
 " Oh," he said after a while. " If only I could 
 lay hands on them ! Who was on guard ? " 
 
 " Peter. He evidently fell asleep." 
 
 Peter Nikolaevich called in the police, and 
 making an appeal to all the authorities, sent his 
 men to track the thieves. But the horses were 
 not to be found. 
 
 " Wicked people," said Peter Nikolaevich. 
 "How could they! I was always so kind to 
 them. Now, wait! Brigands! Brigands the 
 whole lot of them. I will no longer be kind." 
 
 X 
 
 In the meanwhile the horses, the grey ones, had 
 all been disposed of; Mashka was sold to the gip- 
 sies for eighteen roubles; Dapple-grey was ex- 
 changed for another horse, and passed over to 
 another peasant who lived forty miles away from 
 the estate; and Beauty died on the way. The man 
 who conducted the whole affair was — Ivan Mi- 
 ronov. He had been employed on the estate, and
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 89 
 
 knew all the whereabouts of Peter Nikolaevich. 
 He wanted to get back the money he had lost, and 
 stole the horses for that reason. 
 
 After his misfortune with the forged coupon, 
 Ivan Mironov took to drink; and all he possessed 
 would have gone on drink if it had not been for 
 his wife, who locked up his clothes, the horses' 
 collars, and all the rest of what he would other- 
 wise have squandered in public-houses. In his 
 drunken state Ivan Mironov was continually 
 thinking, not only of the man who had wronged 
 him, but of all the rich people who live on robbing 
 the poor. One day he had a drink with some 
 peasants from the suburbs of Podolsk, and was 
 walking home together with them. On the way 
 the peasants, who were completely drunk, told him 
 they had stolen a horse from a peasant's cottage. 
 Ivan Mironov got angry, and began to abuse the 
 horse-thieves. 
 
 " What a shame ! " he said. " A horse is like 
 a brother to the peasant. And you robbed him of 
 it? It is a great sin, I tell you. If you go in for 
 stealing horses, steal them from the landowners. 
 They are worse than dogs, and deserve anything.'' 
 
 The talk went on, and the peasants from Po- 
 dolsk told him that it required a great deal of 
 cunning to steal a horse on an estate. 
 
 " You must know all the ins and outs of the
 
 90 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 place, and must have somebody on the spot to 
 help you." 
 
 Then it occurred to Ivan Mironov that he knew 
 a landowner — Sventizky; he had worked on his 
 estate, and Sventizky, when paying him off, had 
 deducted one rouble and a half for a broken tool. 
 He remembered well the grey horses which he 
 used to drive at Sventizky's. 
 
 Ivan Mironov called on Peter Nikolaevich pre- 
 tending to ask for employment, but really in or- 
 der to get the information he wanted. He took 
 precautions to make sure that the watchman was 
 absent, and that the horses were standing in their 
 boxes in the stable. He brought the thieves to 
 the place, and helped them to carry off the three 
 horses. 
 
 They divided their gains, and Ivan Mironov 
 returned to his wife with five roubles in his pocket. 
 He had nothing to do at home, having no horse 
 to work in the field, and therefore continued to 
 steal horses in company with professional horse- 
 thieves and gipsies. 
 
 XI 
 
 Peter Nikolaevich Sventizky did his best to 
 discover who had stolen his horses. He knew 
 somebody on the estate must have helped the
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 91 
 
 thieves, and began to suspect all his staff. He 
 Inquired who had slept out that night, and the 
 gang of the working men told him Proshka had 
 not been In the whole night. Proshka, or Prokofy 
 Nikolaevich, was a young fellow who had just fin- 
 ished his military service, handsome, and skilful 
 in all he did; Peter Nikolaevich employed him at 
 times as coachman. The district constable was a 
 friend of Peter Nikolaevich, as were the provin- 
 cial head of the police, the marshal of the nobility, 
 and also the rural councillor and the examining 
 magistrate. They all came to his house on his 
 saint's day, drinking the cherry brandy he offered 
 them with pleasure, and eating the nice preserved 
 mushrooms of all kinds to accompany the liqueurs. 
 They all sympathised with him In his trouble and 
 tried to help him. 
 
 " You always used to take the side of the peas- 
 ants," said the district constable, " and there you 
 are! I was right In saying they are worse than 
 wild beasts. Flogging Is the only way to keep 
 them in order. Well, you say It is all Proshka's 
 doings. Is It not he who was your coachman 
 sometimes? " 
 
 " Yes, that is he." 
 
 "Will you kindly call him?" 
 
 Proshka was summoned before the constable, 
 who began to examine him.
 
 92 THi: FORGED COUPON 
 
 " Where were you that night? " 
 
 Proshka pushed back his hair, and his eyes 
 sparkled. 
 
 " At home." 
 
 " How so? All the men say you were not in." 
 
 " Just as you please, your honour." 
 
 " My pleasure has nothing to do with the mat- 
 ter. Tell me where you were that night." 
 
 "At home." 
 
 " Very well. Policeman, bring him to the po- 
 lice-station." 
 
 The reason why Proshka did not say where he 
 had been that night was that he had spent it with 
 his sweetheart, Parasha, and had promised not to 
 give her away. He kept his word. No proofs 
 were discovered against him, and he was soon dis- 
 charged. But Peter Nikolaevich was convinced 
 that Prokofy had been at the bottom of the whole 
 affair, and began to hate him. One day Proshka 
 bought as usual at the merchant's two measures of 
 oats. One and a half he gave to the horses, and 
 half a measure he gave back to the merchant; the 
 money for it he spent in drink. Peter Nikolae- 
 vich found it out, and charged Prokofy with cheat- 
 ing. The judge sentenced the man to three 
 months' imprisonment. 
 
 Prokofy had a rather proud nature, and thought 
 himself superior to others. Prison was a great
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 93 
 
 ■ humiliation for him. He came out of it very- 
 depressed; there was nothing more to be proud 
 of in Hfe. And more than that, he felt extremely 
 bitter, not only against Peter Nikolaevich, but 
 against the whole world. 
 
 On the whole, as all the people around him no- 
 ticed, Prokofy became another man after his im- 
 prisonment, both careless and lazy; he took to 
 drink, and he was soon caught stealing clothes at 
 some woman's house, and found himself again in 
 prison. 
 
 All that Peter Nikolaevich discovered about his 
 grey horses was the hide of one of them, Beauty, 
 which had been found somewhere on the estate. 
 The fact that the thieves had got off scot-free 
 Irritated Peter Nikolaevich still more. He was 
 unable now to speak of the peasants or to look at 
 them without anger. And whenever he could he 
 tried to oppress them. 
 
 XII 
 
 After having got rid of the coupon, Eugene 
 Mihailovich forgot all about it; but his wife, Ma- 
 ria Vassilievna, could not forgive herself for hav- 
 ing been taken in, nor yet her husband for his cruel 
 words. And most of all she was furious against 
 the two boys who had so skilfully cheated her.
 
 94 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 From the day she had accepted the forged coupon " 
 as payment, she looked closely at all the school- 
 boys who came in her way in the streets. One 
 day she met Mahin, but did not recognise him, 
 for on seeing her he made a face which quite 
 changed his features. But when, a fortnight after 
 the incident with the coupon, she met Mitia 
 Smokovnikov face to face, she knew him at once. 
 
 She let him pass her, then turned back and 
 followed him, and arriving at his house she made 
 inquiries as to whose son he was. The next day 
 she went to the school and met the divinity 
 instructor, the priest Michael Vedensky, in the 
 hall. He asked her what she wanted. She an- 
 swered that she wished to see the head of the 
 school. " He is not quite well," said the priest. 
 " Can I be of any use to you, or give him your 
 message? " 
 
 Maria Vassilievna thought that she might as 
 well tell the priest what was the matter. Michael 
 Vedensky was a widower, and a very ambitious 
 man. A year ago he had met Mitia Smokovni- 
 kov's father in society, and had had a discussion 
 with him on religion. Smokovnikov had beaten 
 him decisively on all points; indeed, he had made 
 him appear quite ridiculous. Since that time the 
 priest had decided to pay special attention to 
 Smokovnikov's son; and, finding him as indifferent
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 95 
 
 to religious matters as his father was, he began 
 to persecute him, and even brought about his fail- 
 ure in examinations. 
 
 When Maria Vassillevna told him what young 
 Smokovnikov had done to her, Vedensky could 
 not help feeling an inner satisfaction. He saw in 
 the boy's conduct a proof of the utter wickedness 
 of those who are not guided by the rules of the 
 Church. He decided to take advantage of this 
 great opportunity of warning unbelievers of the 
 perils that threatened them. At all events, he 
 wanted to persuade himself that this was the only 
 motive that guided him in the course he had re- 
 solved to take. But at the bottom of his heart he 
 was only anxious to get his revenge on the proud 
 atheist. 
 
 " Yes, it is very sad indeed," said Father Mi- 
 chael, toying with the cross he was wearing over 
 his priestly robes, and passing his hands over its 
 polished sides. " I am very glad you have given 
 me your confidence. As a servant of the Church 
 I shall admonish the young man — of course with 
 the utmost kindness. I shall certainly do it in 
 the way that befits my holy office," said Father 
 Michael to himself, really thinking that he had 
 forgotten the ill-feeling the boy's father had to- 
 wards him. He firmly believed the boy's soul 
 to be the only object of his pious care.
 
 96 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 The next day, during the divinity lesson which 
 Father Michael was giving to Mitia Smokovni- 
 kov's class, he narrated the incident of the forged 
 coupon, adding that the culprit had been one of 
 the pupils of the school, " It was a very wicked 
 thing to do," he said; " but to deny the crime is 
 still worse. If it is true that the sin has been com- 
 mitted by one of you, let the guilty one confess." 
 In saying this. Father Michael looked sharply at 
 Mitia Smokovnikov. All the boys, following his 
 glance, turned also to Mitia, who blushed, and 
 felt extremely ill at ease, with large beads of 
 perspiration on his face. Finally, he burst into 
 tears, and ran out of the classroom. His mother, 
 noticing his trouble, found out the truth, ran at 
 once to the photographer's shop, paid over the 
 twelve roubles and fifty kopeks to Maria Vas- 
 silievna, and made her promise to deny the boy's 
 guilt. She further implored Mitia to hide the 
 truth from everybody, and in any case to withhold 
 it from his father. 
 
 Accordingly, when Fedor Mihailovich had 
 heard of the incident in the divinity class, and his 
 son, questioned by him, had denied all accusations, 
 he called at once on the head of the school, told 
 him what had happened, expressed his indignation 
 at Father Michael's conduct, and said he would 
 not let matters remain as they were.
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 97 
 
 Father Michael was sent for, and immediately 
 fell into a hot dispute with Smokovnikov. 
 
 " A stupid woman first falsely accused my son, 
 then retracts her accusation, and you of course 
 could not hit on anything more sensible to do than 
 to slander an honest and truthful boy! " 
 
 " I did not slander him, and 1 must beg you not 
 to address me in such a way. You forget what 
 is due to my cloth." 
 
 " Your cloth is of no consequence to me." 
 
 " Your perversity in matters of religion is 
 known to everybody in the town ! " replied Father 
 Michael; and he was so transported with anger 
 that his long thin head quivered. 
 
 "Gentlemen! Father Michael!" exclaimed 
 the director of the school, trying to aopease their 
 wrath. But they did not listen to him. 
 
 " It is my duty as a priest to look after the 
 religious and moral education of our pupils." 
 
 "Oh, cease your pretence to be religious! 
 Oh, stop all this humbug of religion! As if I 
 did not know that you believe neither in God nor 
 Devil." 
 
 " I consider it beneath my dignity to talk to a 
 man like you," said Father Michael, very much 
 hurt by Smokovnikov's last words, the more so 
 because he knew they were true. 
 
 Michael Vedensky carried on his studies in the
 
 98 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 academy for priests, and that is why, for a long 
 time past, he ceased to believe in what he con- 
 fessed to be his creed and in what he preached 
 from the pulpit; he only knew that men ought to 
 force themselves to believe in what he tried to 
 make himself believe. 
 
 Smokovnikov was not shocked by Father Mi- 
 chael's conduct; he only thought it illustrative of 
 the influence the Church was beginning to exercise 
 on society, and he told all his friends how his son 
 had been insulted by the priest. 
 
 Seeing not only young minds, but also the elder 
 generation, contaminated by atheistic tendencies. 
 Father Michael became more and more convinced 
 of the necessity of fighting those tendencies. The 
 more he condemned the unbelief of Smokovnikov, 
 and those like him, the more confident he grew 
 in the firmness of his own faith, and the less he 
 felt the need of making sure of it, or of bringing 
 his life into harmony with it. His faith, acknowl- 
 edged as such by all the world around him, be- 
 came Father Michael's very best weapon with 
 which to fight those who denied it. 
 
 The thoughts aroused in him by his conflict 
 with Smokovnikov, together with the annoyance 
 of being blamed by his chiefs in the school, made 
 him carry out the purpose he had entertained ever 
 since his wife's death — of taking monastic orders.
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 99 
 
 and of following the course carried out by some 
 of his fellow-pupils in the academy. One of them 
 was already a bishop, another an archimandrite 
 and on the way to become a bishop. 
 
 At the end of the term Michael Vedensky gave 
 up his post in the school, took orders under the 
 name of Missael, and very soon got a post as 
 rector in a seminary in a town on the river Volga. 
 
 XIII 
 
 Meanwhile the yard-porter Vassily was march- 
 ing on the open road down to the south. 
 
 He walked in daytime, and when night came 
 some policeman would get him shelter in a peas- 
 ant's cottage. He was given bread everywhere, 
 and sometimes he was asked to sit down to the 
 evening meal. In a village in the Orel district, 
 where he had stayed for the night, he heard that 
 a merchant who had hired the landow^ner's or- 
 chard for the season, was looking out for strong 
 and able men to serve as watchmen for the fruit- 
 crops. Vassily was tired of tramping, and as he 
 had also no desire whatever to go back to his 
 native village, he went to the man who owned the 
 orchard, and got engaged as watchman for five 
 roubles a month. 
 
 Vassily found it very agreeable to live in his
 
 loo THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 orchard shed, and all the more so when the apples 
 and pears began to grow ripe, and when the men 
 from the barn supplied him every day with large 
 bundles of fresh straw from the threshing ma- 
 chine. He used to lie the whole day long on 
 the fragrant straw, with fresh, delicately smell- 
 ing apples in heaps at his side, looking out in 
 every direction to prevent the village boys from 
 stealing fruit; and he used to whistle and sing 
 meanwhile, to amuse himself. He knew no end 
 of songs, and had a fine voice. When peasant 
 women and young girls came to ask for apples, 
 and to have a chat with him, Vassily gave them 
 larger or smaller apples according as he liked 
 their looks, and received eggs or money in re- 
 turn. The rest of the time he had nothing to do, 
 but to lie on his back and get up for his meals in 
 the kitchen. He had only one shirt left, one of 
 pink cotton, and that was in holes. But he was 
 strongly built and enjoyed excellent health. 
 When the kettle with black gruel was taken from 
 the stove and served to the working men, Vassily 
 used to eat enough for three, and filled the old 
 watchman on the estate with unceasing wonder. 
 At nights Vassily never slept. He whistled or 
 shouted from time to time to keep off thieves, and 
 his piercing, cat-like eyes saw clearly in the dark- 
 ness.
 
 THE FORGED COUPON loi 
 
 One night a company of young lads from the 
 village made their way stealthily to the orchard 
 to shake down apples from the trees. Vassily, 
 coming noiselessly from behind, attacked them; 
 they tried to escape, but he took one of them 
 prisoner to his master. 
 
 Vassily's first shed stood at the farthest end of 
 the orchard, but after the pears had been picked 
 he had to remove to another shed only forty paces 
 away from the house of his master. He liked 
 this new place very much. The whole day long 
 he could see the young ladies and gentlemen en- 
 joying themselves; going out for drives in the 
 evenings and quite late at nights, playing the piano 
 or the violin, and singing and dancing. He saw 
 the ladies sitting with the young students on the 
 window sills, engaged in animated conversation, 
 and then going In pairs to walk the dark avenue 
 of lime trees, lit up only by streaks of moon- 
 light. He saw the servants running about with 
 food and drink, he saw the cooks, the stewards, 
 the laundresses, the gardeners, the coachmen, hard 
 at work to supply their masters with food and 
 drink and constant amusement. Sometimes the 
 young people from the master's house came to 
 the shed, and Vassily offered them the choicest 
 apples, juicy and red. The young ladles used to 
 take large bites out of the apples on the spot,
 
 102 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 praising their taste, and spoke French to one an- 
 other — Vassily quite understood it was all about 
 him — and asked Vassily to sing for them. 
 
 Vassily felt the greatest admiration for his 
 master's mode of living, which reminded him of 
 what he had seen in Moscow; and he became more 
 and more convinced that the only thing that mat- 
 tered in life was money. He thought and thought 
 how to get hold of a large sum of money. He 
 remembered his former ways of making small 
 profits whenever he could, and came to the con- 
 clusion that that was altogether wrong. Occa- 
 sional stealing is of no use, he thought. He must 
 arrange a well-prepared plan, and after getting 
 all the information he wanted, carry out his pur- 
 pose so as to avoid detection. 
 
 After the feast of Nativity of the Blessed Vir- 
 gin Mary, the last crop of autumn apples was 
 gathered ; the master was content with the results, 
 paid off Vassily, and gave him an extra sum as 
 reward for his faithful service. 
 
 Vassily put on his new jacket, and a new hat 
 — both were presents from his master's son — 
 but did not make his way homewards. He hated 
 the very thought of the vulgar peasants' life. He 
 went back to Moscow in company of some drunken 
 soldiers, who had been watchmen in the orchard 
 together with him. On his arrival there he at
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 103 
 
 once resolved, under cover of night, to break Into 
 the shop where he had been employed, and beaten, 
 and then turned out by the proprietor without be- 
 ing paid. He knew the place well, and knew 
 where the money was locked up. So he bade the 
 soldiers, who helped him, keep watch outside, and 
 forcing the courtyard door entered the shop and 
 took all the money he could lay his hands on. 
 All this was done very cleverly, and no trace was 
 left of the burglary. The money Vassily had 
 found in the shop amounted to 370 roubles. He 
 gave a hundred roubles to his assistants, and with 
 the rest left for another town where he gave way 
 to dissipation in company of friends of both sexes. 
 The police traced his movements, and when at 
 last he was arrested and put into prison he had 
 hardly anything left out of the money which he 
 had stolen. 
 
 XIV 
 
 Ivan Mironov had become a very clever, fear- 
 less and successful horse-thief. Afimia, his wife, 
 who at first used to abuse him for his evil ways, 
 as she called it, was now quite content and felt 
 proud of her husband, who possessed a new sheep- 
 skin coat, while she also had a warm jacket and 
 a new fur cloak.
 
 I04 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 In the village and throughout the whole dis- 
 trict every one knew quite well that Ivan Mironov 
 was at the bottom of all the horse-stealing; but 
 nobody would give him away, being afraid of the 
 consequences. Whenever suspicion fell on him, 
 he managed to clear his character. Once during 
 the night he stole horses from the pasture ground 
 in the village Kolotovka. He generally preferred 
 to steal horses from landowners or tradespeople. 
 But this was a harder job, and when he had no 
 chance of success he did not mind robbing peasants 
 too. In Kolotovka he drove off the horses with- 
 out making sure whose they were. He did not 
 go himself to the spot, but sent a young and clever 
 fellow, Gerassim, to do the stealing for him. The 
 peasants only got to know of the theft at dawn; 
 they rushed in all directions to hunt for the rob- 
 bers. The horses, meanwhile, were hidden in a 
 ravine In the forest lands belonging to the state. 
 
 Ivan Mironov intended to leave them there till 
 the following night, and then to transport them 
 with the utmost haste a hundred miles away to a 
 man he knew. He visited Gerassim in the forest, 
 to see how he was getting on, brought him a pie 
 and some vodka, and was returning home by a 
 side track in the forest where he hoped to meet 
 nobody. But by Ill-luck, he chanced on the keeper 
 of the forest, a retired soldier.
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 105 
 
 "I- say! Have you been looking for mush- 
 rooms?" asked the soldier. 
 
 " There were none to be found," answered 
 Ivan Mironov, showing the basket of lime bark 
 he had taken with him in case he might want it. 
 
 " Yes, mushrooms are scarce this summer," said 
 the soldier. He stood still for a moment, pon- 
 dered, and then went his way. He clearly saw 
 that something was wrong. Ivan Mironov had 
 no business whatever to take early morning walks 
 in that forest. The soldier went back after a 
 while and looked round. Suddenly he heard the 
 snorting of horses in the ravine. He made his 
 way cautiously to the plac3 whence the sounds 
 came. The grass in the ravine was trodden 
 down, and the marks of horses' hoofs were clearly " 
 to be seen. A little further he saw Gerassim, 
 who was sitting and eating his meal, and the horses 
 tied to a tree. 
 
 The soldier ran to the village and brought back 
 the bailiff, a police officer, and two witnesses. 
 They surrounded on three sides the spot where 
 Gerassim was sitting and seized the man. He did 
 not deny anything; but, being drunk, told them at 
 once how Ivan Mironov had given him plenty of 
 drink, and induced him to steal the horses; he 
 also said that Ivan Mironov had promised to come 
 that night in order to take the horses away. The
 
 io6 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 peasants left the horses and Gerassim in the ra- 
 vine, and hiding behind the trees prepared to lie in 
 ambush for Ivan Mironov. When it grew dark, 
 they heard a whistle. Gerassim answered it with 
 a similar sound. The moment Ivan Mironov de- 
 scended the slope, the peasants surrounded him 
 and brought him back to the village. The next 
 morning a crowd assembled in front of the bailiff's 
 cottage. Ivan Mironov was brought out and sub- 
 jected to a close examination. Stepan Pelageush- 
 kine, a tall, stooping man with long arms, an 
 aquiline nose, and a gloomy face was the first to 
 put questions to him. Stepan had terminated his 
 military service, and was of a solitary turn of 
 mind. When he had separated from his father, 
 and started his own home, he had his first experi- 
 ence of losing a horse. After that he worked for 
 two years in the mines, and made money enough 
 to buy two horses. These two had been stolen by 
 Ivan Mironov. 
 
 " Tell me where my horses are ! " shouted 
 Stepan, pale with fury, alternately looking at the 
 ground and at Ivan Mironov's face. 
 
 Ivan Mironov denied his guilt. Then Stepan 
 aimed so violent a blow at his face that he 
 smashed his nose and the blood spurted out. 
 
 " Tell the truth, I say, or I'll kill you ! " 
 
 Ivan Mironov kept silent, trying to avoid the
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 107 
 
 blows by stooping. Stepan hit him twice more 
 with his long arm. Ivan Mironov remained 
 silent, turning his head backwards and forwards. 
 
 " Beat him, all of you ! " cried the bailiff, and 
 the whole crowd rushed upon Ivan Mironov. He 
 fell without a word to the ground, and then 
 shouted, — 
 
 " Devils, wild beasts, kill me if that's what you 
 want! I am not afraid of you! " 
 
 Stepan seized a stone out of those that had been 
 collected for the purpose, and with a heavy blow 
 smashed Ivan Mironov's head. 
 
 XV 
 
 Ivan Mironov's murderers were brought to 
 trial, Stepan Pelageushkine among them. He had 
 a heavier charge to answer than the others, all 
 the witnesses having stated that it was he who 
 had smashed Ivan Mironov's head with a stone. 
 Stepan concealed nothing when in court. He con- 
 tented himself with explaining that, having been 
 robbed of his two last horses, he had informed the 
 police. Now it was comparatively easy at that 
 time to trace the horses with the help of profes- 
 sional thieves among the gipsies. But the police 
 officer would not even permit him, and no search 
 had been ordered.
 
 io8 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 " Nothing else could be done with such a man. 
 He has ruined us all." 
 
 " But why did not the others attack him. It 
 was you alone who broke his head open." 
 
 " I'hat Is false. We all fell upon him. The 
 village agreed to kill him. I only gave the final 
 stroke. What is the use of inflicting unnecessary 
 sufferings on a man? " 
 
 The judges were astonished at Stepan's wonder- 
 ful coolness in narrating the story of his crime — 
 how the peasants fell upon Lvan Mironov, and 
 how he had given the final stroke. Stepan act- 
 ually did not see anything particularly revolting in 
 this murder. During his military service he had 
 been ordered on one occasion to shoot a soldier, 
 and, now with regard to Ivan Mironov, he saw 
 nothing loathsome in it. " A man shot is a dead 
 man — that's all. It was him to-day, it might be 
 me to-morrow," he thought. Stepan was only 
 sentenced to one year's imprisonment, which was 
 a mild punishment for what he had done. His 
 peasant's dress was taken away from him and put 
 in the prison stores, and he had a prison suit and 
 . felt boots given to him instead. Stepan had never 
 had much respect for the authorities, but now he 
 became quite convinced that all the chiefs, all the 
 fine folk, all except the Czar — who alone had pity 
 on the peasants and was just — all were robbers
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 109 
 
 who suck blood out of the people. All he heard 
 from the deported convicts, and those sentenced to 
 hard labour, with whom he had made friends in 
 prisons, confirmed him in his views. One man 
 had been sentenced to hard labour for having con- 
 victed his superiors of a theft; another for having 
 struck an official who had unjustly confiscated the 
 property of a peasant; a third because he forged 
 bank notes. The well-to-do-people, the mer- 
 chants, might do whatever they chose and come 
 to no harm; bu"" a poor peasant, for a trumpery 
 reason or for aone at all, was sent to prison to 
 become food for vermin. 
 
 He had visits from his wife while in prison. 
 Her life without him was miserable enough, when, 
 to make it worse, her cottage was destroyed by 
 fire. She was completely ruined, and had to take 
 to begging with her children. His wife's misery 
 embittered Stepan still more. He got on very 
 badly with all the people in the prison; was rude 
 to every one; and one day he nearly killed the cook 
 with an axe, and therefore got an additional year 
 in prison. In the course of that year he received 
 the news that his wife was dead, and that he had 
 no longer a home. 
 
 When Stepan had finished his time In prison, 
 he was taken to the prison stores, and his own
 
 no THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 dress was taken down from the shelf and handed 
 to him. 
 
 " Where am I to go now? " he asked the prison 
 officer, putting on his old dress. 
 
 " Why, home." 
 
 " I have no home. I shall have to go on the 
 road. Robbery will not be a pleasant occupa- 
 tion." 
 
 " In that case you will soon be back here." 
 
 " I am not so sure of that." ' 
 
 And Stepan left the prison. Nevertheless he 
 took the road to his own place. He had nowhere 
 else to turn. 
 
 On his way he stopped for a night's rest in an 
 inn that had a public bar attached to it. The inn 
 was kept by a fat man from the town, Vladimir, 
 and he knew Stepan. He knew that Stepan had 
 been put into prison through ill luck, and did not 
 mind giving him shelter for the night. He was 
 a rich man, and had persuaded his neighbour's 
 wife to leave her husband and come to live with 
 him. She lived in his house as his wife, and 
 helped him in his business as well. 
 
 Stepan knew all about the innkeeper's affairs — 
 how he had wronged the peasant, and how the 
 woman who was living with him had left her hus- 
 band. He saw her now sitting at the table in a 
 rich dress, and looking very hot as she drank her
 
 THE FORGED COUPON iii 
 
 tea. With great condescension she asked Stepan 
 to have tea with her. No other travellers were 
 stopping in the inn that night. Stepan was given 
 a place in the kitchen where he might sleep. Ma- 
 trena — that was the woman's name — cleared the 
 table and went to her room. Stepan went to lie 
 down on the large stove in the kitchen, but he 
 could not sleep, and the wood splinters put on the 
 stove to dry were crackling under him, as he tossed 
 from side to side. He could not help thinking of 
 his host's fat paunch protruding under the belt 
 of his shirt, which had lost its colour from having 
 been washed ever so many times. Would not it 
 be a good thing to make a good clean incision in 
 that paunch. And that woman, too, he thought. 
 
 One moment he would say to himself, " I had 
 better go from here to-morrow, bother them all ! " 
 But then again Ivan Mlronov came back to his 
 mind, and he went on thinking of the innkeeper's 
 paunch and Matrena's white throat bathed in per- 
 spiration. " Kill I must, and it must be both ! " 
 
 He heard the cock crow for the second time. 
 " I must do it at once, or dawn will be here." He 
 had seen in the evening before he went to bed a 
 knife and an axe. He crawled down from the 
 stove, took the knife and axe, and went out of 
 the kitchen door. At that very moment he heard 
 the lock of the entrance door open. The inn-
 
 112 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 keeper was going out of the house to the court- 
 yard. It all turned out contrary to what Stepan 
 desired. He had no opportunity of using the 
 knife; he just swung the axe and split the innkeep- 
 er's head in two. The man tumbled down on the 
 threshold of the door, then on the ground. 
 
 Stepan stepped into the bedroom. Matrena 
 jumped out of bed, and remained standing by its 
 side. With the same axe Stepan killed her also. 
 
 Then he lighted the candle, took the money out 
 of the desk, and left the house. 
 
 XVI 
 
 In a small district town, some distance away from 
 the other buildings, an old man, a former official, 
 who had taken to drink, lived in his own house 
 with his two daughters and his son-in-law. The 
 married daughter was also addicted to drink and 
 led a bad life, and it was the elder daughter, the 
 widow Maria Semenovna, a wrinkled woman of 
 fifty, who supported the whole family. She had 
 a pension of two hundred and fifty roubles a year, 
 and the family lived on this. Maria Semenovna 
 did all the work in the house, looked after the 
 drunken old father, who was very weak, attended 
 to her sister's child, and managed all the cooking 
 and the washing of the family. And, as is al-
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 113 
 
 ways the case, whatever there was to do, she was 
 expected to do it, and was, moreover, continually 
 scolded by all the three people in the house; her 
 brother-in-law used even to beat her when he was 
 drunk. She bore it all patiently, and as is also 
 always the case, the more work she had to face, 
 the quicker she managed to get through it. She 
 helped the poor, sacrificing her own wants; she 
 gave them her clothes, and was a ministering 
 angel to the sick. 
 
 Once the lame, crippled village tailor was work- 
 ing in Maria Semenovna's house. He had to 
 mend her old father's coat, and to mend and re- 
 pair Maria Semenovna's fur-jacket for her to wear 
 in winter when she went to market. 
 
 The lame tailor was a clever man, and a keen 
 observer: he had seen many different people ow- 
 ing to his profession, and was fond of reflection, 
 condemned as he was to a sedentary life. 
 
 Having worked a week at Maria Semenovna's, 
 he wondered greatly about her life. One day she 
 came to the kitchen, where he was sitting with his 
 work, to wash a towel, and began to ask him how 
 he was getting on. He told her of the wrong he 
 had suffered from his brother, and how he now 
 lived on his own allotment of land, separated from 
 that of his brother. 
 
 " I thought I should have been better off that
 
 114 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 way," he said. " But I am now just as poor as 
 
 before." 
 
 " It is much better never to change, but to take 
 life as it comes," said Maria Semenovna. " Take 
 life as it comes," she repeated. 
 
 " Why, 1 wonder at you, Maria Semenovna," 
 said the lame tailor. " You alone do the work, 
 and you are so good to everybody. But they 
 don't repay you in kind, I see." 
 
 Maria Semenovna did not utter a word In an- 
 swer. 
 
 " I dare say you have found out in books that 
 we are rewarded in heaven for the good we do 
 
 here." 
 
 " We don't know that. But we must try to do 
 
 the best we can." 
 
 " Is it said so in books? " 
 
 " In books as well," she said, and read to him 
 the Sermon on the Mount. The tailor was much 
 impressed. When he had been paid for his job 
 and gone home, he did not cease to think about 
 Maria Semenovna, both what she had said and 
 what she had read to him. 
 
 XVII 
 
 Peter Nikolaevich Sventizky's views of the 
 peasantry had now changed for the worse, and the
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 115 
 
 peasants had an equally bad opinion of him. In 
 the course of a single year they felled twenty-seven 
 oaks in his forest, and burnt a barn which had not 
 l)een insured. Peter Nikolaevich came to the con- 
 clusion that there was no getting on with the 
 people around him. 
 
 At that very time the landowner, Liventsov, 
 was trying to find a manager for his estate, and 
 the Marshal of the Nobility recommended Peter 
 Nikolaevich as the ablest man in the district in 
 the management of land. The estate owned by 
 Liventsov was an extremely large one, but there 
 was no revenue to be got out of it, as the peasants 
 appropriated all its wealth to their own profit. 
 Peter Nikolaevich undertook to bring everything 
 into order; rented out his own land to somebody 
 else; and settled with his wife on the Liventsov 
 estate, in a distant province on the river Volga. 
 
 Peter Nikolaevich was always fond of order, 
 and wanted things to be regulated by law; and 
 now he felt less able of allowing those raw and 
 rude peasants to take possession, quite illegally 
 too, of property that did not belong to them. He 
 was glad of the opportunity of giving them a good 
 lesson, and set seriously to work at once. One 
 peasant was sent to prison for stealing wood; to 
 another he gave a thrashing for not having made 
 way for him on the road with his cart, and for not
 
 II 6 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 having lifted his cap to salute him. As to the 
 pasture ground which was a subject of dispute, 
 and was considered by the peasants as their prop- 
 erty, Peter Nikolaevich informed the peasants 
 that any of their cattle grazing on it would be 
 driven away by him. 
 
 The spring came and the peasants, just as they 
 had done in previous years, drove their cattle on 
 to the meadows belonging to the landowner. 
 Peter Nikolaevich called some of the men work- 
 ing on the estate and ordered them to drive the 
 cattle into his yard. The peasants were working 
 in the fields, and, disregarding the screaming of 
 the women, Peter Nikolaevich's men succeeded in 
 driving in the cattle. When they came home the 
 peasants went in a crowd to the cattle-yard on the 
 estate, and asked for their cattle. Peter Nikolae- 
 vich came out to talk to them with a gun slung on 
 his shoulder; he had just returned from a ride of 
 inspection. He told them that he would not let 
 them have their cattle unless they paid a fine of 
 fifty kopeks for each of the horned cattle, and 
 twenty kopeks for each sheep. The peasants 
 loudly declared that the pasture ground was their 
 property, because their fathers and grandfathers 
 had used it, and protested that he had no right 
 whatever to lay hand on their cattle. 
 
 " Give back our cattle, or you will regret it,"
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 117 
 
 said an old man coming up to Peter Nikolaevich. 
 
 "How shall I regret it?" cried Peter Niko- 
 laevich, turning pale, and coming close to the old 
 man. 
 
 " Give them back, you villain, and don't pro- 
 voke us." 
 
 " What? " cried Peter Nikolaevich, and slapped 
 the old man In the face. 
 
 "You dare to strike me? Come along, you 
 fellows, let us take back our cattle by force." 
 
 The crowd drew close to him. Peter Niko- 
 laevich tried to push his way through them, but 
 the peasants resisted him. Again he tried force. 
 
 His gun, accidentally discharged in the melee, 
 killed one of the peasants. Instantly the fight 
 began. Peter Nikolaevich was trodden down, 
 and five minutes later his mutilated body was 
 dragged into the ravine. 
 
 The murderers were tried by martial law, and 
 two of them sentenced to the gallows. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 In the village where the lame tailor lived, in the 
 Zemliansk district of the Voronesh province, five 
 rich peasants hired from the landowner a hundred 
 and five acres of rich arable land, black as tar, and 
 let it out on lease to the rest of the peasants at
 
 ii8 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 fifteen to eighteen roubles an acre. Not one acre 
 was given under twelve roubles. They got a very 
 profitable return, and the five acres which were 
 left to each of their company practically cost them 
 nothing. One of the five peasants died, and the 
 lame tailor received an offer to take his place. 
 
 When they began to divide the land, the tailor 
 gave up drinking vodka, and, being consulted as 
 to how much land was to be divided, and to whom 
 it should be given, he proposed to give allotments 
 to all on equal terms, not taking from the tenants 
 more than was due for each piece of land out of 
 the sum paid to the landowner. 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 " We are no heathens, I should think," he said. 
 " It is all very well for the masters to be unfair, 
 but we are true Christians. We must do as God 
 bids. Such is the law of Christ." 
 
 " Where have you got that law from? " 
 
 " It is in the Book, in the Gospels. Just come 
 to me on Sunday, I will read you a few passages, 
 and we will have a talk afterwards." 
 
 They did not all come to him on Sunday, but 
 three came, and he began reading to them. 
 
 He read five chapters of St. Matthew's Gospel, 
 and they talked. One man only, Ivan Chouev, 
 accepted the lesson and carried it out completely, 
 following the rule of Christ in everything from
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 119 
 
 that day. His family did the same. Out of the 
 arable land he took only what was his due, and 
 refused to take more. 
 
 The lame tailor and Ivan had people calling on 
 them, and some of these people began to grasp 
 the meaning of the Gospels, and in consequence 
 gave up smoking, drinking, swearing, and using 
 bad language and tried to help one another. 
 They also ceased to go to church, and took their 
 ikons to the village priest, saying they did not 
 want them any more. The priest was frightened, 
 and reported what had occurred to the bishop. 
 The bishop was at a loss what to do. At last 
 he resolved to send the archimandrite Missael to 
 the village, the one who had formerly been Mitia 
 Smokovnikov's teacher of religion. 
 
 XTX 
 
 Asking Father Missael on his arrival to take a 
 seat, the bishop told him what had happened in 
 his diocese. 
 
 " It all comes from weakness of spirit and from 
 ignorance. You are a learned man, and I rely on 
 you. Go to the village, call the parishioners to- 
 gether, and convince them of their error." 
 
 " If your Grace bids me go, and you give me 
 your blessing, I will do my best," said Father
 
 I20 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 Missael. He was very pleased with the task en- 
 trusted to him. Every opportunity he could find 
 to demonstrate the firmness of his faith was a 
 boon to him. In trying to convince others he was 
 chiefly intent on persuading himself that he was 
 really a firm believer. 
 
 " Do your best. I am greatly distressed about 
 my flock," said the bishop, leisurely taking a cup 
 with his white plump hands from the servant who 
 brought in the tea. 
 
 " Why is there only one kind of jam? Bring 
 another," he said to the servant. " I am greatly 
 distressed," he went on, turning to Father Mis- 
 sael. 
 
 Missael earnestly desired to prove his zeal; 
 but, being a man of small means, he asked to be 
 paid for the expenses of his journey; and being 
 afraid of the rough people who might be Ill-dis- 
 posed towards him, he also asked the bishop to get 
 him an order from the governor of the province, 
 so that the local police might help him In case of 
 need. The bishop complied with his wishes, and 
 Missael got his things ready with the help of his 
 servant and his cook. They furnished him with 
 a case full of wine, and a basket with the victuals 
 he might need in going to such a lonely place. 
 Fully provided with all he wanted, he started for 
 the village to which he was commissioned. He
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 121 
 
 was pleasantly conscious of the Importance of his 
 mission. All his doubts as to his own faith passed 
 away, and he was now fully convinced of its real- 
 ity. 
 
 His thoughts, far from being concerned with 
 the real foundation of his creed — this was ac- 
 cepted as an axiom ■ — were occupied with the argu- 
 ments used against the forms of worship. 
 
 XX 
 
 The village priest and his wife received Father 
 Missael with great honours, and the next day after 
 he had arrived the parishioners were invited to 
 assemble in the church. Missael in a new silk 
 cassock, with a large cross on his chest, and his 
 long hair carefully combed, ascended the pulpit; 
 the priest stood at his side, the deacons and the 
 choir at a little distance behind him, and the side 
 entrances were guarded by the police. The dis- 
 senters also came in their dirty sheepskin coats. 
 
 After the service Missael delivered a sermon, 
 admonishing the dissenters to return to the bosom 
 of their mother, the Church, threatening them 
 with the torments of hell, and promising full for- 
 giveness to those who would repent. 
 
 The dissenters kept silent at first. Then, be- 
 ing asked questions, they gave answers. To the
 
 122 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 question why they dissented, they said that their 
 chief reason was the fact that the Church wor- 
 shipped gods made of wood, which, far from be- 
 ing ordained, were condemned by the Scriptures. 
 
 When asked by Missael whether they actually 
 considered the holy ikons to be mere planks of 
 wood, Chouev answered, — 
 
 " Just look at the back of any ikon you choose 
 and you will see what they are made of." 
 
 When asked why they turned against the priests, 
 their answer was that the Scripture says: " As you 
 have received it without fee, so you must give it 
 to the others; whereas the priests require pay- 
 ment for the grace they bestow by the sacraments." 
 To all attempts which Missael made to oppose 
 them by arguments founded on Holy Writ, the 
 tailor and Ivan Chouev gave calm but very firm 
 answers, contradicting his assertions by appeal to 
 the Scriptures, which they knew uncommonly well. 
 
 Missael got angry and threatened them with 
 persecution by the authorities. Their answer 
 was: It is said, I have been persecuted and so will 
 you be. 
 
 The discussion came to nothing, and all would 
 have ended well if Missael had not preached the 
 next day at mass, denouncing the wicked seducers 
 of the faithful and saying that they deserved the 
 worst punishment. Coming out of the church, the
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 123 
 
 crowd of peasants began to consult whether it 
 would not be well to give the infidels a good lesson 
 for disturbing the minds of the community. The 
 same day, just when Missael was enjoying some 
 salmon and gangfish, dining at the village priest's 
 in company with the inspector, a violent brawl 
 arose in the village. The peasants came in a 
 crowd to Chouev's cottage, and waited for the 
 dissenters to come out in order to give them a 
 thrashing. 
 
 The dissenters assembled in the cottage num- 
 bered about twenty men and women. Missael's 
 sermon and the attitude of the orthodox peasants, 
 together with their threats, aroused in the mind 
 of the dissenters angry feelings, to which they had 
 before been strangers. It was near evening, the 
 women had to go and milk the cows, and the 
 peasants were still standing and waiting at the 
 door. 
 
 A boy who stepped out of the door was beaten 
 and driven back into the house. The people 
 within began consulting what was to be done, and 
 could come to no agreement. The tailor said, 
 " We must bear whatever is done to us, and not 
 resist." Chouev replied that if they decided on 
 that course they would, all of them, be beaten to 
 death. In consequence, he seized a poker and 
 went out of the house. "Come!" he shouted,
 
 124 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 " let 113 follow the law of Moses! " And, falling 
 upon the peasants, he knocked out one man's eye, 
 and in the meanwhile all those who had been in 
 his house contrived to get out and make their way 
 home. 
 
 Chouev was thrown into prison and charged 
 with sedition and blasphemy. 
 
 XXI 
 
 Two years previous to those events a strong and 
 handsome young girl of an eastern type, Katia 
 Turchaninova, came from the Don military settle- 
 ments to St. Petersburg to study in the university 
 college for women. In that town she met a stu- 
 dent, Turin, the son of a district governor in the 
 Simbirsk province, and fell in love with him. But 
 her love was not of the ordinary type, and she 
 had no desire to become his wife and the mother 
 of his children. He was a dear comrade to her, 
 and their chief bond of union was a feeling of re- 
 volt they had in common, as well as the hatred 
 they bore, not only to the existing forms of gov- 
 ernment, but to all those who represented that 
 government. They had also in common the sense 
 that they both excelled their enemies in culture, 
 in brains, as well as in morals. Katia Turchan- 
 inova was a gifted girl, possessed of a good mem-
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 125 
 
 ory, by means of which she easily mastered the lec- 
 tures she attended. She was successful in her ex- 
 aminations, and, apart from that, read all the new- 
 est books. She was certain that her vocation was 
 not to bear and rear children, and even looked on 
 such a task with disgust and contempt. She 
 thought herself chosen by destiny to destroy the 
 present government, which was fettering the best 
 abilities of the nation, and to reveal to the people 
 a higher standard of life, inculcated by the latest 
 writers of other countries. She was handsome, a 
 little inclined to stoutness: she had a good com- 
 plexion, shining black eyes, abundant black hair. 
 She inspired th*e men she knew with feelings she 
 neither wished nor had time to share, busy as she 
 was with propaganda work, which consisted chiefly 
 in mere talking. She was not displeased, how- 
 ever, to inspire these feelings; and, without dress- 
 ing too smartly, did not neglect her appearance. 
 She liked to be admired, as it gave her opportuni- 
 ties of showing how little she prized what was 
 valued so highly by other women. 
 
 In her views concerning the method of fighting 
 the government she went further than the majority 
 of her comrades, and than her friend Turin; all 
 means, she taught, were justified in such a struggle, 
 not excluding murder. And yet, with all her revo- 
 lutionary ideas, Katia Turchaninova was in her
 
 126 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 soul a very kind girl, ready to sacrifice herself for 
 the welfare and the happiness of other people, 
 and sincerely pleased when she could do a kind- 
 ness to anybody, a child, an old person, or an ani- 
 mal. 
 
 She went in the summer to stay with a friend, a 
 schoolmistress in a small town on the river Volga. 
 Turin lived near that town, on his father's estate. 
 He often came to see the two girls; they gave each 
 other books to read, and had long discussions, 
 expressing their common indignation with the state 
 of affairs in the country. The district doctor, a 
 friend of theirs, used also to join them on many oc- 
 casions. 
 
 The estate of the Turins was situated in the 
 neighbourhood of the Liventsov estate, the one 
 that was entrusted to the management of Peter 
 Nikolaevich Sventizky. Soon after Peter Niko- 
 laevich had settled there, and begun to en- 
 force order, young Turin, having observed an in- 
 dependent tendency in the peasants on the Livent- 
 sov estate, as well as their determination to up- 
 hold their rights, became Interested In them. He 
 came often to the village to talk with the men, 
 and developed his socialistic theories, insisting par- 
 ticularly on the nationalisation of the land. 
 
 After Peter Nikolaevich had been murdered, 
 and the murderers sent to trial, the revolutionary
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 127 
 
 group of the small town boiled over with Indigna- 
 tion, and did not shrink from openly expressing 
 it. The fact of Turin's visits to the village and 
 his propaganda work among the students, became 
 known to the authorities during the trial. A 
 search was made In his house; and, as the police 
 found a few revolutionary leaflets among his ef- 
 fects, he was arrested and transferred to prison 
 in St. Petersburg. 
 
 Katia Turchaninova followed him to the metrop- 
 olis, and ^ent to visit him in prison. She was 
 not admitted on the day she came, and was told 
 to come on the day fixed by regulations for visits 
 to the prisoners. When that day arrived, and 
 she was finally allowed to see him, she had to talk 
 to him through two gratings separating the pris- 
 oner from his visitor. This visit increased her in- 
 dignation against the authorities. And her feel- 
 ings become all the more revolutionary after a 
 visit she paid to the office of a gendarme officer 
 who had to deal with the Turin case. The offi- 
 cer, a handsome man, seemed obviously disposed 
 to grant her exceptional favours In visiting the 
 prisoner, if she would allow him to make love to 
 her. Disgusted with him, she appealed to the 
 chief of police. He pretended — just as the officer 
 did when talking officially to her — to be power- 
 less himself, and to depend entirely on orders
 
 128 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 coming from the minister of state. She sent a 
 petition to the minister aslcing for an interview, 
 which was refused. 
 
 Then she resolved to do a desperate thing and 
 bought a revolver. 
 
 XXII 
 
 The minister was receiving petitioners at the usual 
 hour appointed for the reception. He had talked 
 successively to three of them, and now a pretty 
 young woman with black eyes, who was holding 
 a petition in her left hand, approached. The 
 minister's eyes gleamed when he saw how attract- 
 ive the petitioner was, but recollecting his high po- 
 sition he put on a serious face. 
 
 " What do you want? " he asked, coming down 
 to where she stood. Without answering his ques- 
 tion the young woman quickly drew a revolves 
 from under her cloak and aiming it at the min- 
 ister's chest fired — but missed him. 
 
 The minister rushed at her, trying to seize her 
 hand, but she escaped, and taking a step back, fired 
 a second time. The minister ran ou-t of the room. 
 The woman was immediately seized. She was 
 trembling violently, and could not utter a single 
 word; after a while she suddenly burst into a hys-
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 129 
 
 terical laugh. The minister was not even 
 wounded. 
 
 That woman was Katia Turchaninova. She 
 was put into the prison of preliminary detention. 
 The minister received congratulations and marks 
 of sympathy from the highest quarters, and even 
 from the emperor himself, who appointed a com- 
 mission to investigate the plot that had led to the 
 attempted assassination. As a matter of fact 
 there was no plot whatever, but the police officials 
 and the detectives set to work with the utmost zeal 
 to discover all the threads of the non-existing con- 
 spiracy. They did everything to deserve the fees 
 they were paid; they got up in the small hours of 
 the morning, searched one house after another, 
 took copies of papers and of books they found, 
 read diaries, personal letters, made extracts from 
 them on the very best notepaper and in beautiful 
 handwriting, interrogated Katia Turchaninova 
 ever so many times, and confronted her with all 
 those whom they suspected of conspiracy, in order 
 to extort from her the names of her accomplices. 
 
 The minister, a good-natured man at heart, was 
 sincerely sorry for the pretty girl. But he said 
 to himself that he was bound to consider his high 
 state duties imposed upon him, even though they 
 did not imply much work and trouble. So, when 
 his former colleague, a chamberlain and a friend
 
 I30 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 of the Turins, met him at a court ball and tried to 
 rouse his pity for Turin and the girl Turchani- 
 nova, he shrugged his shoulders, stretching the red 
 ribbon on his white waistcoat, and said: " Je ne 
 demanderais pas mieiix que de relacher cette paii- 
 vre fillette, niais voiis savez le devoir." And in 
 the meantime Katia Turchaninova was kept in 
 prison. She was at times in a quiet mood, com- 
 municated with her fellow-prisoners by knocking 
 on the walls, and read the books that were sent 
 to her. But then came days when she had fits of 
 desperate fury, knocking with her fists against 
 the wall, screaming and laughing like a mad- 
 woman. 
 
 XXIII 
 
 One day Maria Semenovna came home from the 
 treasurer's office, where she had received her pen- 
 sion. On her way she met a schoolmaster, a 
 friend of hers. 
 
 " Good day, Maria Semenovna! Have you re- 
 ceived your money?" the schoolmaster asked, in 
 a loud voice from the other side of the street. 
 
 " I have," answered Maria Semenovna. " But 
 it was not much; just enough to fill the holes." 
 
 " Oh, there must be some tidy pickings out 
 of such a lot of money," said the schoolmaster, 
 and passed on, after having said good-bye.
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 131 
 
 " Good-bye," said Maria Semenovna. While 
 she was looking at her friend, she met a tall man 
 face to face, who had very long arms and a stern 
 look in his eyes. Coming to her house, she was 
 very startled on again seeing the same man with 
 the long arms, who had evidently followed her. 
 He remained standing another moment after she 
 had gone in, then turned and walked away. 
 
 Maria Semenovna felt somewhat frightened at 
 first. But when she had entered the house, and 
 had given her father and her nephew Fedia the 
 presents she had brought for them, and she had 
 patted the dog Treasure, who whined with joy, 
 she forgot her fears. She gave the money to her 
 father and began to work, as there was always 
 plenty for her to do. 
 
 The man she met face to face was Stepan. 
 
 After he had killed the innkeeper, he did not 
 return to town. Strange to say, he was not sorry 
 to have committed that murder. His mind went 
 back to the murdered man over and over again 
 during the following day; and he liked the recol- 
 lection of having done the thing so skilfully, so 
 cleverly, that nobody would ever discover it, and 
 he would not therefore be prevented from mur- 
 dering other people in the same way. Sitting in 
 the public-house and having his tea, he looked at 
 the people around him with the same thought how
 
 132 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 he should murder them. In the evening he called 
 at a carter's, a man from his village, to spend the 
 night at his house. The carter was not in. He 
 said he would wait for him, and in the meanwhile 
 began talking to the carter's wife. But when she 
 moved to the stove, with her back turned to him, 
 the idea entered his mind to kill her. He mar- 
 velled at himself at first, and shook his head; but 
 the next moment he seized the knife he had hid- 
 den in his boot, knocked the woman down on the 
 floor, and cut her throat. When the children be- 
 gan to scream, he killed them also and went away. 
 He did not look out for another place to spend 
 the night, but at once left the town. In a village 
 some distance away he went to the inn and slept 
 there. The next day he returned to the district 
 town, and there he overheard in the street Maria 
 Semenovna's talk with the schoolmaster. Her 
 look frightened him, but yet he made up his mind 
 to creep into her house, and rob her of the money 
 she had received. When the night came he broke 
 the lock and entered the house. The first person 
 who heard his steps was the younger daughter, 
 the married one. She screamed. Stepan stabbed 
 her immediately with his knife. Her husband 
 woke up and fell upon Stepan, seized him by his 
 throat, and struggled with him desperately. But 
 Stepan was the stronger man and overpowered
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 133 
 
 him. After murdering him, Stepan, excited by 
 the long fight, stepped Into the next room be- 
 hind a partition. That was Maria Semenovna's 
 bedroom. She rose In her bed, looked at 
 Stepan with her mild frightened eyes, and crossed 
 herself. 
 
 Once more her look scared Stepan. He 
 dropped his eyes. 
 
 "Where is your money?" he asked, without 
 raising his face. 
 
 She did not answer. 
 
 "Where Is the money?" asked Stepan again, 
 showing her his knife. 
 
 " How can you . . ." she said. 
 
 *' You will see how." 
 
 Stepan came close to her, in order to seize her 
 hands and prevent her struggling with him, but 
 she did not even try to lift her arms or offer any 
 resistance; she pressed her hands to her chest, and 
 sighed heavily. 
 
 "Oh, what a great sin!" she cried. "How 
 can you \ Have mercy on yourself. To destroy 
 somebody's soul . . . and worse, your 
 own! . . ." 
 
 Stepan could not stand her voice any longer, and 
 drew his knife sharply across her throat. " Stop 
 that talk! " he said. She fell back with a hoarse 
 cry, and the pillow was stained with blood. He
 
 134 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 turned away, and went round the rooms In order 
 to collect all he thought worth taking. Having 
 made a bundle of the most valuable things, he 
 lighted a cigarette, sat down for a while, brushed 
 his clothes, and left the house. He thought this 
 murder would not matter to him more than those 
 he had committed before; but before he got a 
 night's lodging, he felt suddenly so exhausted that 
 he could not walk any farther. He stepped down 
 Into the gutter and remained lying there the rest 
 of the night, and the next day and the next night.
 
 PART SECOND 
 
 I 
 
 The whole time he was lying in the gutter Stepan 
 saw continually before his eyes the thin, kindly, 
 and frightened face of Maria Semenovna, and 
 seemed to hear her voice. " How can you? " she 
 went on saying in his imagination, with her pe- 
 culiar lisping voice. Stepan saw over again and 
 over again before him all he had done to her. In 
 horror he shut his eyes, and shook his hairy head, 
 to drive away these thoughts and recollections. 
 For a moment he would get rid of them, but in 
 their place horrid black faces with red eyes ap- 
 peared and frightened him continuously. They 
 grinned at him, and kept repeating, " Now you 
 have done away with her you must do away with 
 yourself, or we will not leave you alone." He 
 opened his eyes, and again he saw her and heard 
 her voice; and felt an immense pity for her and 
 a deep horror and disgust with himself. Once 
 more he shut his eyes, and the black faces reap- 
 peared. Towards the evening of the next day 
 he rose and went, with hardly any strength left, 
 
 1.35
 
 136 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 to a public-house. There he ordered a drink, and 
 repeated his demands over and over again, but 
 no quantity of liquor could make him intoxicated. 
 He was sitting at a table, and swallowed silently- 
 one glass after another. 
 
 A police officer came in. " Who are you? " he 
 asked Stepan. 
 
 " I am the man who murdered all the Dobrot- 
 vorov people last night," he answered. 
 
 He was arrested, bound with ropes, and brought 
 to the nearest police-station; the next day he was 
 transferred to the prison in the town. The in- 
 spector of the prison recognised him as an old in- 
 mate, and a very turbulent one; and, hearing that 
 he had now become a real criminal, accosted him 
 very harshly. 
 
 " You had better be quiet here," he said In a 
 hoarse voice, frowning, and protruding his lower 
 jaw. " The moment you don't behave, I'll flog 
 you to death ! Don't try to escape — I will see 
 to that!" 
 
 " I have no desire to escape," said Stepan, drop- 
 ping his eyes. " I surrendered of my own free 
 will." 
 
 "Shut up! You must look straight Into your 
 superior's eyes when you talk to him," cried the 
 inspector, and struck Stepan with his fist under 
 the jaw.
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 137 
 
 At that moment Stepan again saw the murdered 
 woman before him, and heard her voice; he did 
 not pay attention, therefore, to the inspector's 
 words. 
 
 " What? " he asked, coming to his senses when 
 he felt the blow on his face. 
 
 "Be off! Don't pretend you don't hear." 
 
 The inspector expected Stepan to be violent, to 
 talk to the other prisoners, to make attempts to 
 escape from prison. But nothing of the kind ever 
 happened. Whenever the guard or the inspector 
 himself looked into his cell through the hole in 
 the door, they saw Stepan sitting on a bag filled 
 with straw, holding his head with his hands and 
 whispering to himself. On being brought before 
 the examining magistrate charged with the inquiry 
 into his case, he did not behave like an ordinary 
 convict. He was very absent-minded, hardly list- 
 ening to the questions; but when he heard what 
 was asked, he answered truthfully, causing the 
 utmost perplexity to the magistrate, who, accus- 
 tomed as he was to the necessity of being very 
 clever and very cunning with convicts, felt a 
 strange sensation just as if he were lifting up his 
 foot to ascend a step and found none. Stepan 
 told him the story of all his murders; and did it 
 frowning, with a set look, in a quiet, businesslike 
 voice, trying to recollect all the circumstances of
 
 138 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 his crimes. " He stepped out of the house," said 
 Stepan, telling the tale of his first murder, " and 
 stood barefooted at the door; I hit him, and he 
 just groaned; I went to his wife, . . ." And 
 so on. 
 
 One day the magistrate, visiting the prison cells, 
 asked Stepan whether there was anything he had 
 to complain of, or whether he had any wishes that 
 might be granted him. Stepan said he had no 
 wishes whatever, and had nothing to complain of 
 the way he was treated in prison. The magis- 
 trate, on leaving him, took a few steps in the foul 
 passage, then stopped and asked the governor who 
 had accompanied him in his visit how this pris- 
 oner was behaving. 
 
 " I simply wonder at him," said the governor, 
 who was very pleased with Step?n, and spoke 
 kindly of him. " He has now been with us about 
 two months, and could be held up as a model of 
 good behaviour. But I am afraid he is plotting 
 some mischief. He is a daring man, and excep- 
 tionally strong." 
 
 II 
 
 Dl'RiNG the first month in prison Stepan suffered 
 from the same agonising vision. He saw the 
 grey wall of his cell, he heard the sounds of the
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 139 
 
 prison; the noise of the cell below him, where a 
 number of convicts were confined together; the 
 striking of the prison clock; the steps of the sentry 
 in the passage; but at the same time he saw her 
 with that kindly face which conquered his heart 
 the very first time he met her in the street, with 
 that thin, strongly-marked neck, and he heard her 
 soft, lisping, pathetic voice: "To destroy some- 
 body's soul . . . and, worst of all, your own. 
 How can you? . . ." 
 After a while her voice would die away, and 
 then- black faces would appear. They would ap- 
 pear whether he had his eyes open or shut. With 
 his closed eyes he saw them more distinctly. When 
 he opened his eyes they vanished for a moment, 
 melting away into the walls and the door; but 
 after a while they reappeared and surrounded him 
 from three sides, grinning at him and saying over 
 and over : " Make an end ! Make an end ! Hang 
 yourself! Set yourself on fire!" Stepan shook 
 all over when he heard that, and tried to say all 
 the prayers he knew: "Our Lady" or "Our 
 Father." At first this seemed to help. In say- 
 ing his prayers he began to recollect his whole 
 life; his father, his mother, the village, the dog 
 " Wolf," the old grandfather lying on the stove, 
 the bench on which the children used to play; then 
 the girls In the village with their songs, his horses
 
 I40 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 and how they had been stolen, and how the thief 
 was caught and how he killed hun with a stone. 
 He recollected also the first prison he was in and 
 his leaving it, and the fat innkeeper, the carter's 
 wife and the children. Then again she came to 
 his mind and again he was terrified. Throwing 
 his prison overcoat off his shoulders, he jumped 
 out of bed, and, like a wild animal in a cage, be- 
 gan pacing up and down his tiny cell, hastily turn- 
 ing round when he had reached the damp walls. 
 Once more he tried to pray, but It was of no use 
 now. 
 
 The autumn came with Its long nights. One 
 evening when the wind whistled and howled In the 
 pipes, Stepan, after he had paced up and down his 
 cell for a long time, sat down on his bed. He felt 
 he could not struggle any more; the black demons 
 had overpowered him, and he had to submit. For 
 some time he had been looking at the funnel of the 
 oven. If he could fix on the knob of its lid a loop 
 made of thin shreds of narrow linen straps it 
 would hold. . . . But he would have to man- 
 age It very cleverly. He set to work, and spent 
 two days In making straps out of the linen bag on 
 which he slept. When the guard came Into the 
 cell he covered the bed with his overcoat. He 
 tied the straps with big knots and made them 
 double, in order that they might be strong enough
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 141 
 
 to hold his weight. During these preparations he 
 was free from tormenting visions. When the 
 straps were ready he made a slip-knot out of them, 
 and put it round his neck, stood up in his bed, and 
 hanged himself. But at the very moment that his 
 tongue began to protrude the straps got loose, and 
 he fell down. The guard rushed in at the noise. 
 The doctor was called in, Stepan was brought to 
 the infirmary. The next day he recovered, and 
 was removed from the Infirmary, no more to soli- 
 tary confinement, but to share the common cell 
 with other prisoners. 
 
 In the common cell he lived in the company of 
 twenty men, but felt as if he were quite alone. 
 He did not notice the presence of the rest; did not 
 speak to anybody, and was tormented by the old 
 agony. He felt it most of all when the men were 
 sleeping and he alone could not get one moment 
 of sleep. Continually he saw her before his eyes, 
 heard her voice, and then again the black devils 
 with their horrible eyes came and tortured him in 
 the usual way. 
 
 He again tried to say his prayers, but, just as 
 before, it did not help him. One day when, after 
 his prayers, she was again before his eyes, he be- 
 gan to implore her dear soul to forgive him his sin, 
 and release him. Towards morning, when he fell 
 down quite exhausted on his crushed linen bag, he
 
 142 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 fell asleep at once, and in his dream she came to 
 him with her thin, wrinkled, and severed neck. 
 "Will you forgive me?" he asked. She looked 
 at him with her mild eyes and did not answer. 
 "Will you forgive me?" And so he asked her 
 three times. But she did not say a word, and he 
 awoke. From that time onwards he suffered less, 
 and seemed to come to his senses, looked around 
 him, and began for the first time to talk to the 
 other men in the cell. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Stefan's cell was shared among others by the 
 former yard-porter, Vassily, who had been sen- 
 tenced to deportation for robbery, and by Chouev, 
 sentenced also to deportation. Vassily sang songs 
 the whole day long with his fine voice, or told his 
 adventures to the other men in the cell. Chouev 
 was working at something all day, mending his 
 clothes, or reading the Gospel and the Psalter. 
 
 Stepan asked him why he was put into prison, 
 and Chouev answered that he was being perse- 
 cuted because of his true Christian faith by the 
 priests, who were all of them hypocrites and hated 
 those who followed the law of Christ. Stepan 
 asked what that true law was, and Chouev made 
 clear to him that the true law consists in not wor-
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 143 
 
 shipping gods made with hands, but worshipping 
 the spirit and the truth. He told him how he had 
 learnt the truth from the lame tailor at the time 
 when they w^ere dividing the land. 
 
 " And what will become of those who have 
 done evil?" asked Stepan. 
 
 " The Scriptures give an answer to" that," said 
 Chouev, and read aloud to him Matthew xxv. 
 
 31:— 
 
 " When the Son of Man shall come In His 
 glory, and all the holy angels with Him, then shall 
 He sit upon the throne of His glory: and before 
 Him shall be gathered all nations: and He shall 
 separate them one from another, as a shepherd 
 divideth His sheep from the goats: and He shall 
 set the sheep on His right hand, but the goats on 
 the left. Then shall the King say unto them on 
 His right hand, Come, ye blessed of My Father, 
 inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the 
 foundation of the world: for I was an hungred, 
 and ye gave Me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave 
 Me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took Me In: 
 naked, and ye clothed Me: I was sick, and ye 
 visited Me : I was in prison, and ye came unto Me. 
 Then shall the righteous answer Him, saying, 
 Lord, when saw we Thee an hungred, and fed 
 Thee? or thirsty, and gave Thee drink? When
 
 144 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 saw we Thee a stranger, and took Thee in? or 
 naked, and clothed Thee? Or when saw we Thee 
 sick, or in prison, and came unto Ihee? And the 
 King shall answer and say unto them. Verily I say 
 unto you, inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of 
 the least of these My brethren, ye have done it 
 unto Me. Then shall He say also unto them on 
 the left hand. Depart from Me, ye cursed, into 
 everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his an- 
 gels: for I was an hungred, and ye gave Me no 
 meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave Me no drink: I 
 was a stranger and ye took Me not in: naked, and 
 ye clothed Me not; sick, and in prison, and ye 
 visited Me not. Then shall they also answer 
 Him, saying. Lord, when saw we Thee an hun- 
 gred, or athirst, or a stranger, or naked, or sick, 
 or in prison, and did not minister unto Thee? 
 Then shall He answer them, saying. Verily I say 
 unto you, Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the 
 least of these, ye did it not to Me. And these 
 shall go away into everlasting punishment: but the 
 righteous into life eternal." 
 
 Vassily, who was sitting on the floor at Chouev's 
 side, and was listening to his reading the Gospel, 
 nodded his handsome head in approval. " True," 
 he said in a resolute tone. " Go, you cursed vil- 
 lains, into everlasting punishment, since you did
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 145 
 
 not give food to the hungry, but swallowed It all 
 yourself. Serves them right! I have read the 
 holy Nikodim's writings," he added, showing off 
 his erudition. 
 
 "And will they never be pardoned?" asked 
 Stepan, who had listened silently, with his hairy 
 head bent low down. 
 
 " Wait a moment, and be silent," said Chouev 
 to Vassily, who went on talking about the rich 
 who had not given meat to the stranger, nor vis- 
 ited him in the prison. 
 
 " Wait, I say ! " said Chouev, again turning 
 over the leaves of the Gospel. Having found 
 what he was looking for, Chouev smoothed the 
 page with his large and strong hand, which had 
 become exceedingly white in prison: 
 
 " And there were also two other malefactors, 
 led with Him " — it means with Christ — " to be 
 put to death. And when they were come to the 
 place, which is called Calvary, there they crucified 
 Him, and the malefactors, one on the right hand, 
 and the other on the left. Then said Jesus, — 
 ' Father, forgive them ; for they know not what 
 they do.' And the people stood beholding. And 
 the rulers also with them derided Him, saying, — 
 'He saved others; let Him save Himself if He 
 be Christ, the chosen of God.' And the soldiers
 
 146 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 also mocked Him, coming to Him, and offering 
 Him vinegar, and saying, ' If Thou be the King of 
 the Jews save Thyself.' And a superscription 
 also was written over Him In letters of Greek, 
 and Latin, and Hebrew, ' This Is the King of the 
 Jews.' And one of the malefactors which were 
 hanged railed on Him, saying, ' If thou be Christ, 
 save Thyself and us.' But the other answering 
 rebuked Him, saying, * Dost not thou fear God, 
 seeing thou art in the same condemnation? And 
 we indeed justly, for we receive the due reward of 
 our deeds: but this man hath done nothing amiss.' 
 And he said unto Jesus, ' Lord, remember me 
 when Thou comest into Thy kingdom.' And Je- 
 sus said unto him, ' Verily I say unto thee, to-day 
 sh&lt thou be with Me In paradise.' " 
 
 Stepan did not say anything, and was sitting 
 in thought, as if he were listening. 
 
 Now he knew what the true faith was. Those 
 only will be saved who have given food and drink 
 to the poor and visited the prisoners; those who 
 have not done it, go to hell. And yet the male- 
 factor had repented on the cross, and went never- 
 theless to paradise. This did not strike him as 
 being inconsistent. Quite the contrary. The one 
 confirmed the other: the fact that the merciful 
 will go to Heaven, and the unmerciful to hell, 
 meant that everybody ought to be merciful, and
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 147 
 
 the malefactor having been forgiven by Christ 
 meant that Christ was merciful. This was all 
 new to Stepan, and he wondered why it had been 
 hidden from him so long. 
 
 From that day onward he spent all his free time 
 with Chouev, asking him questions and listening 
 to him. He saw but a single truth at the bottom 
 of the teaching of Christ as revealed to him by 
 Chouev: that all men are brethren, and that they 
 ought to love and pity one another in order that 
 all might be happy. And when he listened to 
 Chouev, everything that was consistent with this 
 fundamental truth came to him like a thing he 
 had known before and only forgotten since, while 
 whatever he heard that seemed to contradict it, 
 he would take no notice of, as he thought that he 
 simply had not understood the real meaning. 
 And from that time Stepan was a different 
 man. 
 
 IV 
 
 Stepan had been very submissive and meek ever 
 since he came to the prison, but now he made the 
 prison authorities and all his fellow-prisoners 
 wonder at the change in him. Without being or- 
 dered, and out of his proper turn he would do all 
 the very hardest work in prison, and the dirtiest 
 too. But in spite of his humility, the other pris-
 
 148 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 oners stood in awe of him, and were afraid of him, 
 as they knew he was a resolute man, possessed of 
 great physical strength. Their respect for him 
 increased after the incident of the two tramps 
 who fell upon him; he wrenched himself loose 
 from them and broke the arm of one of them in 
 the fight. These tramps had gambled with a 
 young prisoner of some means and deprived him 
 of all his money. Stepan took his part, and de- 
 prived the tramps of their winnings. The tramps 
 poured their abuse on him; but when they attacked 
 him, he got the better of them. When the Gov- 
 ernor asked how the fight had come about, the 
 tramps declared that it was Stepan who had begun 
 it. Stepan did not try to exculpate himself, and 
 bore patiently his sentence which was three days 
 in the punishment-cell, and after that solitary con- 
 finement. 
 
 In his solitary cell he suffered because he could 
 no longer listen to Chouev and his Gospel. He 
 was also afraid that the former visions of her and 
 of the black devils would reappear to' torment 
 him. But the visions were gone for good. His 
 soul was full of new and happy ideas. He felt 
 glad to be alone if only he could read, and if he 
 had the Gospel. He knew that he might have 
 got hold of the Gospel, but he could not read. 
 
 He had started to learn the alphabet in his
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 149 
 
 boyhood, but could not grasp the joining of the 
 syllables, and remained illiterate. He made up 
 his mind to start reading anew, and asked the 
 guard to bring him the Gospels. They were 
 brought to him, and he sat down to work. He 
 contrived to recollect the letters, but could not join 
 them into syllables. He tried as hard as he could 
 to understand how the letters ought to be put to- 
 gether to form words, but with no result whatever. 
 He lost his sleep, had no desire to eat, and a deep 
 sadness came over him, which he was unable to 
 shake off. 
 
 "Well, have you not yet mastered it?" asked 
 the guard one day. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Do you know ' Our Father '? " 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " Since you do, read it in the Gospels. Here 
 it is," said the guard, showing him the prayer in 
 the Gospels. Stepan began to read it, comparing 
 the letters he knew with the familiar sounds. 
 
 And all of a sudden the mystery of the sylla- 
 bles was revealed to him, and he began to read. 
 This was a great joy. From that moment he 
 could read, and the meaning of the words, spelt 
 out with such great pains, became more significant. 
 
 Stepan did not mind any more being alone. 
 He was so full of his work that he did not feel
 
 150 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 glad when he was transferred back to the common 
 cell, his private cell being needed for a political 
 prisoner who had been just sent to prison. 
 
 V 
 
 In the meantime Mahln, the schoolboy who had 
 taught his friend Smokovnlkov to forge the cou- 
 pon, had finished his career at school and then at 
 the university, where he had studied law. He 
 had the advantage of being liked by women, and 
 as he had won favour with a vice-minister's former 
 mistress, he was appointed when still young as 
 examining magistrate. He was dishonest, had 
 debts, had gambled, and had seduced many 
 women ; but he was clever, sagacious, and a good 
 magistrate. He was appointed to the court of 
 the district where Stepan Pelageushkine had been 
 tried. When Stepan was brought to him the first 
 time to give evidence, his sincere and quiet answers 
 puzzled the magistrate. He somehow uncon- 
 sciously felt that this man, brought to him in fet- 
 ters and with a shorn head, guarded by two 
 soldiers who were waiting to take him back to 
 prison, had a free soul and was immeasurably su- 
 perior to himself. He was in consequence some- 
 what troubled, and had to summon up all his 
 courage in order to go on with the inquiry and'
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 151 
 
 not blunder in his questions. He was amazed 
 that Stepan should narrate the story of his crimes 
 as if they had been things of long ago, and com- 
 mitted not by him but by some different man. 
 
 " Had you no pity for them? " asked Mahln. 
 
 " No. I did not know then." 
 
 "Well, and now?" 
 
 Stepan smiled with a sad smile. " Now," he 
 said, " I would not do it even if I were to be 
 burned alive." 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 " Because I have come to know that all men 
 are brethren." 
 
 '' What about me? Am I your brother also? " 
 
 " Of course you are." 
 
 " And how is it that I, your brother, am send- 
 ing you to hard labour? " 
 
 " It is because you don't know." 
 
 "What do I not know?" 
 
 " Since you judge, it means obviously that you 
 don't know." 
 
 Go on. . . . What next?" 
 
 u 
 
 VI 
 
 Now it was not Chouev, but Stepan who used to 
 read the gospel in the common cell. Some of the 
 prisoners were singing coarse songs, while others
 
 152 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 listened to Stepan reading the gospel and talking 
 about what he had read. The most attentive 
 among those who listened were two of the pris- 
 oners, Vassily, and a convict called Mahorkin, a 
 murderer who had become a hangman. Twice 
 during his stay in this prison he was called upon 
 to do duty as hangman, and both times in far- 
 away places where nobody could be found to ex- 
 ecute the sentences. 
 
 Two of the peasants who had killed Peter 
 Nikolaevich Sventizky, had been sentenced to 
 the gallows, and Mahorkin was ordered to go to 
 Pensa to hang them. On all previous occasions 
 he used to write a petition to the governor of the 
 province — he knew well how to read and to write 
 — stating that he had been ordered to fulfil his 
 duty, and asking for money for his expenses. But 
 now, to the greatest astonishment of the prison 
 authorities, he said he did not intend to go, and 
 added that he would not be a hangman any more. 
 
 " And what about being flogged? " cried the 
 governor of the prison. 
 
 " I will have to bear it, as the law commands 
 us not to kill." 
 
 " Did you get that from Pelageushkine? A 
 nice sort of a prison prophet! You just wait and 
 see what this will cost you ! " 
 
 When Mahin was told of that incident, he was
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 153 
 
 greatly impressed by the fact of Stepan's Influence 
 on the hangman, who refused to do his duty, run- 
 ning the risk of being hanged himself for insub- 
 ordination. 
 
 VII 
 
 At an evening party at the Eropkins, Mahin, who 
 was paying attentions to the two young daughters 
 of the house — they were rich matches, both of 
 them — having earned great applause for his fine 
 singing and playing the piano, began telling the 
 company about the strange convict who had con- 
 verted the hangman. Mahin told his story very 
 accurately, as he had a very good memory, which 
 was all the more retentive because of his total in- 
 difference to those with whom he had to deal. 
 He never paid the slightest attention to other peo- 
 ple's feelings, and was therefore better able to 
 keep all they did or said in his memory. He got 
 interested in Stepan Pelageushkine, and, although 
 he did not thoroughly understand him, yet asked 
 himself involuntarily what was the matter with 
 the man? He could not find an answer, but feel- 
 ing that there was certainly something remarkable 
 going on in Stepan's soul, he told the company at 
 the Eropkins all about Stepan's conversion of the 
 hangman, and also about his strange behaviour 
 in prison, his reading the Gospels and his great
 
 154 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 influence on the rest of the prisoners. All this 
 made a special impression on the younger daugh- 
 ter of the family, Lisa, a girl of eighteen, who 
 was just recovering from the artificial life she had 
 been living in a boarding-school; she felt as if 
 she had emerged out of water, and was taking in 
 the fresh air of true life with ecstasy. She asked 
 Mahin to tell her more about the man Pelageush- 
 kine, and to explain to her how such a great change 
 had come over him. Mahin told her what he 
 knew from the police official about Stepan's last 
 murder, and also what he had heard from Pela- 
 geushkine himself — how he had been conquered 
 by the humility, mildness, and fearlessness of a 
 kind woman, who had been his last victim, and 
 how his eyes had been opened, while the reading 
 of the Gospels had completed the change in him. 
 Lisa Eropkin was not able to sleep that night. 
 For a couple of months a struggle had gone on in 
 her heart between society life, into which her sis- 
 ter was dragging her, and her infatuation for 
 Mahin, combined with a desire to reform him. 
 This second desire now became the stronger. 
 She had already heard about poor Maria Seme- 
 novna. But, after that kind woman had been 
 murdered in such a ghastly way, and after Mahin, 
 who learnt it from Stepan, had communicated to 
 her all the facts concerning Maria Semenovna's
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 155 
 
 life, Lisa herself passionately desired to become 
 like her. She was a rich girl, and was afraid 
 that Mahin had been courting her because of her 
 money. So she resolved to give all she possessed 
 to the poor, and told Mahin about it. 
 
 Mahin was very glad to prove his disinterest- 
 edness, and told Lisa that he loved her and not 
 her money. Such proof of his innate nobility 
 made him admire himself greatly. Mahin 
 helped Lisa to carry out her decision. And the 
 more he did so, the more he came to realise the 
 new world of Lisa's spiritual ambitions, quite un- 
 known to him heretofore. 
 
 VIII 
 
 All were silent in the common cell. Stepan was 
 lying in his bed, but was not yet asleep. Vassily 
 approached him, and, pulling him by his leg, 
 asked him in a whisper to get up and to come to 
 him. Stepan stepped out of his bed, and came 
 np to Vassily. 
 
 " Do me a kindness, brother," said Vassily. 
 "Help me!" 
 
 "In what?" 
 
 " I am going to fly from the prison." 
 
 Vassily told Stepan that he had everything ready 
 for his flight.
 
 156 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 " To-morrow I shall stir them up — " He 
 pointed to the prisoners asleep in their beds. 
 " They will give me away, and I shall be trans- 
 ferred to the cell in the upper floor. I know my 
 way from there. What I want you for is to un- 
 screw the prop in the door of the mortuary." 
 
 " I can do that. But where will you go? " 
 
 " I don't care where. Are not there plenty of 
 wicked people in every place?" 
 
 " Quite so, brother. But it is not our business 
 to judge them." 
 
 " I am not a murderer, to be sure. I have not 
 destroyed a living soul in my life. As for steal- 
 ing, I don't see any harm in that. As if they have 
 not robbed us ! " 
 
 " Let them answer for it themselves, if they 
 do." 
 
 "Bother them all! Suppose I rob a church, 
 who will be hurt? This time I will take care 
 not to break into a small shop, but will get 
 hold of a lot of money, and then I will help people 
 with it. I will give it to all good people." 
 
 One of the prisoners rose in his bed and lis- 
 tened. Stepan and Vassily broke off their con- 
 versation. The next day Vassily carried out his 
 idea. He began complaining of the bread in 
 prison, saying it was moist, and induced the pris- 
 oners to call the governor and to tell him of their
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 157 
 
 discontent. The governor came, abused them all, 
 and when he heard it was Vassily who had stirred 
 up the men, he ordered him to be transferred 
 Into solitary confinement in the cell on the upper 
 floor. This was all Vassily wanted. 
 
 IX 
 
 Vassily knew well that cell on the upper floor. 
 He knew its floor, and began at once to take out 
 bits of it. When he had managed to get under 
 the floor he took out pieces of the ceiling beneath, 
 and jumped down into the mortuary a floor below. 
 That,jday only one corpse was lying on the table. 
 There in the corner of the room were stored bags 
 to make hay mattresses for the prisoners. Vas- 
 sily knew about the bags, and that was why the 
 mortuary served his purposes. The prop in the 
 door had been unscrewed and out in again. He 
 took it out, opened the door, and went out into 
 the passage to the lavatory which was being built. 
 In the lavatory was a large hole connecting the 
 third floor with the basement floor. After hav- 
 ing found the door of the lavatory he went back 
 to the mortuary, stripped the sheet oft the dead 
 body which was as cold as ice (in taking off the 
 sheet Vassily touched his hand), took the bags, 
 tied them together to make a rope, and carried
 
 158 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 the rope to the lavatory. Then he attached it 
 to the cross-beam, and climbed down along it. 
 The rope did not reach the ground, but he did 
 not know how much was wanting. Anyhow, he 
 had to take the risk. He remained hanging in 
 the air, and then jumped down. His legs were 
 badly hurt, but he could still walk on. The 
 basement had two windows; he could have climbed 
 out of one of them but for the grating protecting 
 them. He had to break the grating, but there 
 was no tool to do it with. Vassily began to look 
 around him, and chanced on a piece of plank with 
 a sharp edge; armed with that weapon he tried 
 to loosen the bricks which held the grating. He 
 worked a long time at that task. The cock 
 crowed for the second time, but the grating still 
 held. At last he had loosened one side; and then 
 he pushed the plank under the loosened end and 
 pressed with all his force. The grating gave way 
 completely, but at that moment one of the bricks 
 fell down heavily. The noise could have been 
 heard by the sentry. Vassily stood motionless. 
 But silence reigned. He climbed out of the win- 
 dow. His way of escape was to climb the wall. 
 An outhouse stood in the corner of the courtyard. 
 He had to reach its roof, and pass thence to the 
 top of the wall. But he would not be able to 
 reach the roof without the help of the plank; so
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 159 
 
 he had to go back through the basement window 
 to fetch It. A moment later he came out of the 
 window with the plank In his hands; he stood still 
 for a while listening to the steps of the sentry. 
 His expectations were justified. The sentry was 
 walking up and down on the other side of the 
 courtyard. Vasslly came up to the outhouse, 
 leaned the plank against It, and began climbing. 
 The plank slipped and fell on the ground. Vas- 
 slly had his stockings on; he took them off so that 
 he could cling with his bare feet In coming down. 
 Then he leaned the plank again against the house, 
 and seized the water-pipe with his hands. If only 
 this time the plank would hold! A quick move- 
 ment up the water-pipe, and his knee rested on 
 the roof. The sentry was approaching. Vasslly 
 lay motionless. The sentry did not notice him, 
 and passed on. Vasslly leaped to his feet; the 
 iron roof cracked under him. Another step or 
 two, and he would reach the wall. He could 
 touch It w^ith his hand now. He leaned forward 
 with one hand, then with the other, stretched out 
 his body as far as he could, and found himself 
 on the wall. Only, not to break his legs in jump- 
 ing down, Vasslly turned round, remained hang- 
 ing In the air by his hands, stretched himself out, 
 loosened the grip of one hand, then the other. 
 "Help me, God!" He was on the ground.
 
 i6o THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 And the ground was soft. His legs were not 
 hurt, and he ran at the top of his speed. In a 
 suburb, Malania opened her door, and he crept 
 under her warm coverlet, made of small pieces 
 of different colours stitched together. 
 
 X 
 
 The wife of Peter Nikolaevich Sventizky, a tall 
 and handsome woman, as quiet and sleek as a 
 well-fed heifer, had seen from her window how 
 her husband had been murdered and dragged away 
 into the fields. The horror of such a sight to 
 Natalia Ivanovna was so intense — how could it 
 be otherwise? — that all her other feelings van- 
 ished. No sooner had the crowd disappeared 
 from view behind the garden fence, and the voices 
 had become still ; no sooner had the bare-footed 
 Malania, their servant, run in with her eyes start- 
 ing out of her head, calling out in a voice more 
 suited to the proclamation of glad tidings the 
 news that Peter Nikolaevich had been murdered 
 and thrown into the ravine, than Natalia Ivan- 
 ovna felt that behind her first sensation of horror, 
 there was another sensation; a feeling of joy at 
 her deliverance from the tyrant, who through all 
 the nineteen years of their married life had made 
 her work without a moment's rest. Her joy
 
 THE FORGED COUPON i6i 
 
 made her aghast; she did not confess it to herself, 
 but hid it the more from those around. When 
 his mutilated, yellow and hairy body was being 
 washed and put into the coffin, she cried with hor- 
 ror, and wept and sobbed. When the coroner — 
 a special coroner for serious cases — came and 
 was taking her evidence, she noticed in the room, 
 where the inquest was taking place, two peasants 
 in irons, who had been charged as the principal 
 culprits. One of them was an old man with a 
 curly white beard, and a calm and severe coun- 
 tenance. The other was rather young, of a gipsy 
 type, with bright eyes and curly dishevelled hair. 
 She declared that they were the two men who had 
 first seized hold of Peter Nikolaevich's hands. 
 In spite of the gipsy-like peasant looking at her 
 with his eyes glistening from under his moving 
 eyebrows, and saying reproachfully: "A great 
 sin, lady, it is. Remember your death hour!" 
 — in spite of that, she did not feel at all sorry for 
 them. On the contrary, she began to hate them 
 during the inquest, and wished desperately to 
 take revenge on her husband's murderers. 
 
 A month later, after the case, which was com- 
 mitted for trial by court-martial, had ended In. 
 eight men being sentenced to hard labour, and in 
 two — the old man with the white beard, and the 
 gipsy boy, as she called the other — being con-
 
 1 62 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 demned to be hanged, Natalia felt vaguely uneasy. 
 But unpleasant doubts soon pass away under the 
 solemnity of a trial. Since such high authorities 
 considered that this was the right thing to do, It 
 must be right. 
 
 The execution was to take place In the village 
 Itself. One Sunday Malania came home from 
 church In her new dress and her new boots, and 
 announced to her mistress that the gallows were 
 being erected, and that the hangman was expected 
 from Moscow on Wednesday. She also an- 
 nounced that the families of the convicts were 
 raging, and that their cries could be heard all over 
 the village. 
 
 Natalia Ivanovna did not go out of her house; 
 she did not wish to see the gallows and the people 
 in the village; she only wanted what had to hap- 
 pen to be over quickly. She only considered her 
 own feelings, and did not care for the convicts 
 and their families. 
 
 On Tuesday the village constable called on 
 Natalia Ivanovna. He was a friend, and she of- 
 fered him vodka and preserved mushrooms of her 
 own making. The constable, after eating a little, 
 told her that the execution was not to take place 
 . the next day. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " A very strange thing has happened. There
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 163 
 
 Is no hangman to be found. They had one in 
 Moscow, my son told me, but he has been reading 
 the Gospels a good deal and says: 'I will not 
 commit a murder.' He had himself been sen- 
 tenced to hard labour for having committed a mur- 
 der, and now he objects to hang when the law or- 
 ders him. He was threatened with flogging. 
 ' You may flog me,' he said, ' but I won't do it.' " 
 
 Natalia Ivanovna grew red and hot at the 
 thought which suddenly came into her head. 
 
 " Could not the death sentence be commuted 
 now?" 
 
 "How so, since the judges have passed it? 
 The Czar alone has the right of amnesty." 
 
 " But how would he know? " 
 
 " They have the right of appealing to him." 
 
 " But it is on my account they are to die," said 
 that stupid woman, Natalia Ivanovna. " And I 
 forgive them." 
 
 The constable laughed. " Well — send a pe- 
 tition to the Czar." 
 
 "May I do it?" 
 
 " Of course you may." 
 
 " But is it not too late? " 
 
 " Send it by telegram." 
 
 "To the Czar himself?" 
 
 " To the Czar, if you like." 
 
 The story of the hangman having refused to
 
 1 64 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 do his duty, and preferring to take the flogging 
 instead, suddenly clianged the soul of Natalia 
 Ivanovna. The pity and the horror she felt the 
 moment she heard that the peasants were sen- 
 tenced to death, could not be stifled now, but 
 filled her whole soul. 
 
 " Filip Vassilievich, my friend. Write that tel- 
 egram for me. I want to appeal to the Czar to 
 pardon them." 
 
 The constable shook his head. " I wonder 
 whether that would not involve us in trouble?" 
 
 " I do it upon my own responsibility. I will 
 not mention your name." 
 
 " Is not she a kind woman," thought the con- 
 stable. " Very kind-hearted, to be sure. If my 
 wife had such a heart, our life would be a para- 
 dise, instead of what it is now." And he wrote 
 the telegram, — 
 
 " To his Imperial Majesty, the Emperor. 
 " Your Majesty's loyal subject, the widow of Pe- 
 ter NIkolaevIch Sventizky, murdered by the peas- 
 ants, throws herself at the sacred feet (this 
 sentence, when he wrote it down, pleased the con- 
 stable himself most of all) of your Imperial 
 Majesty, and implores you to grant an amnesty 
 to the peasants so and so, from such a province, 
 district, and village, who have been sentenced to 
 death."
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 165 
 
 The telegram was sent by the constable him- 
 self, and Natalia Ivanovna felt relieved and 
 happy. She had a feeling that since she, the 
 widow of the murdered man, had forgiven the 
 murderers, and was applying for an amnesty, the 
 Czar could not possibly refuse it. 
 
 XI 
 
 Lisa Eropkin lived in a state of continual ex- 
 citement. The longer she lived a true Christian 
 life as it had been revealed to her, the more con- 
 vinced she became that it was the right way, and 
 her heart was full of joy. 
 
 She had two immediate aims before her. The 
 one was to convert Mahin; or, as she put it to 
 herself, to arouse his true nature, which was good 
 and kind. She loved him, and the light of her 
 love revealed the divine element in his soul which 
 is at the bottom of all souls. But, further, she 
 saw in him an exceptionally kind and tender 
 heart, as well as a noble mind. Her other aim 
 was to abandon her riches. She had first thought 
 of giving away what she possessed in order to 
 test Mahin; but afterwards she wanted to do so 
 for her own sake, for the sake of her own soul. 
 She began by simply giving money to any one who 
 wanted it. But her father stopped that; besides
 
 1 66 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 which, she felt disgusted at the crowd of suppli- 
 cants who personally, and by letters, besieged her 
 with demands for money. Then she resolved to 
 apply to an old man, known to be a saint by his 
 life, anci to give him her money to dispose of in 
 the way he thought best. Her father got angry 
 with her when he heard about it. During a vio- 
 lent altercation he called her mad, a raving luna- 
 tic, and said he would take measures to prevent 
 her from doing injury to herself. 
 
 Her father's irritation proved contagious. 
 Losing all control over herself, and sobbing with 
 rage, she behaved with the greatest impertinence 
 to her father, calling him a tyrant and a miser. 
 
 Then she asked his forgiveness. He said he 
 did not mind what she said; but she saw plainly 
 that he was offended, and In his heart did not 
 forgive her. She did not feel Inclined to tell 
 Mahin about her quarrel with her father; as to 
 her sister, she was very cold to Lisa, being jealous 
 of Mahln's love for her. 
 
 " I ought to confess to God," she said to her- 
 self. As all this happened In Lent, she made up 
 her mind to fast In preparation for the communion, 
 and to reveal all her thoughts to the father con- 
 fessor, asking his advice as to what she ought to 
 decide for the future. 
 
 At a small distance from her town a monastery
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 167 
 
 was situated, where an old monk lived who had 
 gained a great reputation by his holy life, by his 
 sermons and prophecies, as well as by the mar- 
 vellous cures ascribed to him. 
 
 The monk had received a letter from Lisa's 
 father announcing the visit of his daughter, and 
 telling him in what a state of excitement the young 
 girl was. He also expressed the hope in that 
 letter that the monk would influence her in the 
 right way, urging her not to depart from the 
 golden mean, and to live like a good Christian 
 without trying to upset the present conditions of 
 her life. 
 
 The monk received Lisa after he had seen 
 many other people, and being very tired, began 
 by quietly recommending her to be modest and to 
 submit to her present conditions of life and to 
 her parents. Lisa listened silently, blushing and 
 flushed with excitement. When he had finished 
 admonishing her, she began saying with tears in 
 her eyes, timidly at first, that Christ bade us leave 
 father and mother to follow Him. Getting more 
 and more excited, she told him her conception of 
 Christ. The monk smiled slightly, and replied 
 as he generally did when admonishing his peni- 
 tents; but after a while he remained silent, 
 repeating with heavy sighs, "O God!" 
 Then he said, " Well, come to confession to-
 
 1 68 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 morrow," and blessed her with his wrinkled 
 hands. 
 
 The next day Lisa came to confession, and 
 without renewing their Interrupted conversation, 
 he absolved her and refused to dispose of her for- 
 tune, giving no reasons for doing so. 
 
 Lisa's purity, her devotion to God and her ar- 
 dent soul, Impressed the monk deeply. He had 
 desired long ago to renounce the world entirely; 
 but the brotherhood, which drew a large income 
 from his work as a preacher, insisted on his con- 
 tinuing his activity. He gave way, although he 
 had a vague feeling that he was In a false posi- 
 tion. It was rumoured that he was a miracle- 
 working saint, whereas in reality he was a weak 
 man, proud of his success in the world. When 
 the soul of Lisa was revealed to him, he saw 
 clearly into his own soul. He discovered how 
 different he was to what he wanted to be, and 
 realised the desire of his heart. 
 
 Soon after Lisa's visit he went to live In a sep- 
 arate cell as a hermit, and for three weeks did not 
 officiate again In the church of the friary. After 
 the celebration of the mass, he preached a sermon 
 denouncing his own sins and those of the world, 
 and urging all to repent. 
 
 From that day he preached every fortnight, 
 and his sermons attracted increasing audiences. 
 
 I
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 169 
 
 His fame as a preacher spread abroad. His 
 sermons were extraordinarily fearless and sin- 
 cere, and deeply impressed all who listened to him. 
 
 XII 
 
 Vassily was actually carrying out the object he 
 had in leaving the prison. With the help of a few 
 friends he broke into the house of the rich mer- 
 chant Krasnopuzov, whom he knew to be a miser 
 and a debauchee. Vassily took out of his writing- 
 desk thirty thousand roubles, and began disposing 
 of them as he thought right. He even gave up 
 drink, so as not to spend that money on himself, 
 but to distribute it to the poor; helping poor girls 
 to get married; paying off people's debts, and do- 
 ing this all without ever revealing himself to those 
 he helped; his only desire was to distribute his 
 money in the right way. As he also gave bribes 
 to the police, he was left in peace for a long time. 
 
 His heart was singing for joy. When at last 
 he was arrested and put to trial, he confessed 
 with pride that he had robbed the fat merchant. 
 " The money," he said, " was lying idle in that 
 fool's desk, and he did not even know how much 
 he had, whereas I have put it into circulation arid 
 helped a lot of good people." 
 
 The counsel for the defence spoke with such
 
 lyo THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 good humour and kindness that the jury felt in- 
 clined to discharge Vassily, but sentenced him 
 nevertheless to confinement in prison. He 
 thanked the jury, and assured them that he would 
 find his way out of prison before long. 
 
 XIII 
 
 Natalia Ivanovna Sventizky's telegram 
 proved useless. The committee appointed to 
 deal with the petitions in the Emperor's name, de- 
 cided not even to make a report to the Czar. 
 But one day when the Sventizky case was dis- 
 cussed at the Emperor's luncheon-table, the chair- 
 man of the committee, who was present, mentioned 
 the telegram which had been received from Sven- 
 tizky's widow. 
 
 " Cest tres gentil de sa port," said one of the 
 ladies of the imperial family. 
 
 The Emperor sighed, shrugged his shoulders, 
 adorned with epaulettes. "The law," he said; 
 and raised his glass for the groom of the chamber 
 to pour out some Moselle. 
 
 All those present pretended to admire the wis- 
 dom of the sovereign's words. There was no 
 further question about the telegram. The two 
 peasants, the old man and the young boy, were
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 171 
 
 hanged by a Tartar hangman from Kazan, a cruel 
 convict and a murderer. 
 
 The old man's wife wanted to dress the body of 
 her husband in a white shirt, with white bands 
 which serve as stockings, and new boots, but she 
 was not allowed to do so. The two men were 
 buried together in the same pit outside the church- 
 yard wall. 
 
 " Princess Sofia Vladlmirovna tells me he Is a 
 very remarkable preacher," remarked the old Em- 
 press, the Emperor's mother, one day to her son: 
 " Faites le ven'ir. II pent precher a la cathedrale." 
 
 " No, it would be better in the palace church," 
 said the Emperor, and ordered the hermit Isidor 
 to be invited. 
 
 All the generals, and other high officials, as- 
 sembled in the church of the imperial palace; it 
 was an event to hear the famous preacher. 
 
 A thin and grey old man appeared, looked at 
 those present, and said: " In the name of God, 
 the Son, and the Holy Ghost," and began to 
 speak. 
 
 At first all went well, but the longer he spoke 
 the worse it became. '' II devient de plus en plus 
 aggressif," as the Empress put it afterwards. 
 He fulminated against every one. He spoke 
 about the executions and charged the government 
 with having made so many necessary. How can
 
 172 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 the government of a Christian country kill men? 
 
 Everybody looked at everybody else, thinking 
 of the bad taste of the sermon, and how unpleas- 
 ant it must be for the Emperor to listen to it; but 
 nobody expressed these thoughts aloud. 
 
 When Isidor had said Amen, the metropolitan 
 approached, and asked him to call on him. 
 
 After Isidor had had a talk with the metropol- 
 itan and with the attorney-general, he was imme- 
 diately sent away to a friary, not his own, but one 
 at Suzdal, which had a prison attached to it; the 
 prior of that friary was now Father Missael. 
 
 XIV 
 
 Every one tried to look as if Isidor's sermon 
 contained nothing unpleasant, and nobody men- 
 tioned it. It seemed to the Czar that the hermit's 
 words had not made any impression on himself; 
 but once or twice during that day he caught him- 
 self thinking of the two peasants who had been 
 hanged, and the widow of Sventizky who had 
 asked an amnesty for them. That day the Em- 
 peror had to be present at a parade; after which 
 he went out for a drive; a reception of ministers 
 came next, then dinner, after dinner the theatre. 
 As usual, the Czar fell asleep the moment his head 
 touched the pillow. In the night an awful dream
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 173 
 
 awoke him: he saw gallows in a large field and 
 corpses dangling on them; the tongues of the 
 corpses were protruding, and their bodies moved 
 and shook. And somebody shouted, " It is you 
 — you who have done it." The Czar woke up 
 bathed in perspiration and began to think. It 
 was the first time that he had ever thought of the 
 responsibilities which weighed on him, and the 
 words of old Isidor came back to his 
 mind. 
 
 But only dimly could he see himself as a mere 
 human being, and he could not consider his mere 
 human wants and duties, because of all that was 
 required of him as Czar. As to acknowledging 
 that human duties were more obligatory than 
 those of a Czar — he had not strength for that. 
 
 XV 
 
 Having served his second term in the prison, Pro- 
 kofy, who had formerly worked on the Sventizky 
 estate, was no longer the brisk, ambitious, smartly 
 dressed fellow he had been. He seemed, on the 
 contrary, a complete wreck. When sober he 
 would sit idle and would refuse to do any work, 
 however much his father scolded him; moreover, 
 he was continually seeking to get hold of some- 
 thing secretly, and take it to the public-house for
 
 174 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 a drink. When he came home he would continue 
 to sit idle, coughing and spitting all the time. 
 The doctor on whom he called, examined his chest 
 and shook his head. 
 
 " You, my man, ought to have many things 
 which you have not got." 
 
 " That is usually the case, isn't it? " 
 
 " Take plenty of milk, and don't smoke." 
 
 " These are days of fasting, and besides we 
 have no cow." 
 
 Once in spring he could not get any sleep; he 
 was longing to have a drink. There was nothing 
 in the house he could lay his hand on to take to 
 the public-house. He put on his cap and went 
 out. He walked along the street up to the house 
 where the priest and the deacon lived together. 
 The deacon's harrow stood outside leaning against 
 the hedge. Prokofy approached, took the har- 
 row upon his shoulder, and walked to an inn kept 
 by a woman, Petrovna. She might give him a 
 small bottle of vodka for it. But he had hardly 
 gone a few steps when the deacon came out of his 
 house. It was already dawn, and he saw that 
 Prokofy was carrying away his harrow. 
 
 " Hey, what's that? " cried the deacon. 
 
 The neighbours rushed out from their houses. 
 Prokofy was seized, brought to the police station.
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 175 
 
 and then sentenced to eleven months' imprison- 
 ment. It was autumn, and Prokofy had to be 
 transferred to the prison hospital. He was 
 coughing badly; his chest was heaving from the 
 exertion; and he could not get warm. Those who 
 were stronger contrived not to shiver; Prokofy 
 on the contrary shivered day and night, as the su- 
 perintendent would not light the fires in the hos- 
 pital till November, to save expense. 
 
 Prokofy suffered greatly in body, and still more 
 in soul. He was disgusted with his surroundings, 
 and hated every one — the deacon, the superin- 
 tendent who would not light the fires, the guard, 
 and the man who was lying in the bed next to his, 
 and who had a swollen red lip. He began also 
 to hate the new convict who was brought into 
 hospital. This convict was Stepan. He was 
 suffering from some disease on his head, and was 
 transferred to the hospital and put in a bed at 
 Prokofy's side. After a time that hatred to 
 Stepan changed, and Prokofy became, on the con- 
 trary, extremely fond of him; he delighted in 
 talking to him. It was only after a talk with 
 Stepan that his anguish would cease for a while. 
 Stepan always told every one he met about his 
 last murder, and how it had impressed him. 
 
 " Far from shrieking, or anything of that
 
 176 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 kind," he said to Prokofy, " she did not move. 
 ' Kill me! There I am,' she said. ' But it is not 
 my soul you destroy, it is your own.' " 
 
 " Well, of course, it is very dreadful to kill. I 
 had one day to slaughter a sheep, and even that 
 made me half mad. I have not destroyed any liv- 
 ing soul; why then do those villains kill me? I 
 have done no harm to anybody . . ." 
 
 " That will be taken into consideration." 
 
 "By whom?" 
 
 " By God, to be sure." 
 
 " I have not seen anything yet showing that 
 God exists, and I don't believe in Him, brother. 
 I think when a man dies, grass will grow over 
 the spot, and that is the end of it." 
 
 " You are wrong to think like that. I have 
 murdered so many people, whereas she, poor 
 soul, was helping everybody. And you think she 
 and I are to have the same lot? Oh no! Onlv 
 
 wait." 
 
 " Then you believe the soul lives on after a 
 man is dead? " 
 
 "To be sure; it truly lives." 
 
 Prokofy suffered greatly when death drew 
 near. He could hardly breathe. But in the very 
 last hour he felt suddenly relieved from all pain. 
 He called Stepan to him. " Farewell, brother," 
 he said. " Death has come, I see. I was so
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 177 
 
 afraid of it before. And now I don't mind. I 
 only wish it to come quicker." 
 
 XVI 
 
 In the meanwhile, the affairs of Eugene Mihailo- 
 vich had grown worse and worse. Business was 
 very slack. There was a new shop in the town; 
 he was losing his customers, and the interest had 
 to be paid. He borrowed again on interest. At 
 last his shop and his goods were to be sold up. 
 Eugene Mihailovich and his wife applied to every 
 one they knew, but they could not raise the four 
 hundred roubles they needed to save the shop any- 
 where. 
 
 Thty had some hope of the merchant Krasno- 
 puzov, Eugene Mihailovich's wife being on good 
 terms with his mistress. But news came that 
 Krasnopuzov had been robbed of a huge sum of 
 money. Some said of half a million roubles. 
 " And do you know who is said to be the thief? " 
 said Eugene Mihailovich to his wife. " Vassily, 
 our former yard-porter. They say he is squan- 
 dering the money, and the police are bribed by 
 him." 
 
 " I knew he was a villain. You remember how 
 he did not mind perjuring himself? But I did 
 not expect it would go so far."
 
 178 THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 " I hear he has recently been in the courtyard 
 of our house. Cook says she is sure it was he. 
 She told me he helps poor girls to get married." 
 
 " They always invent tales. I don't believe 
 it." 
 
 At that moment a strange man, shabbily dressed, 
 entered the shop. 
 
 " What is it you want? " 
 
 " Here is a letter for you." 
 
 " From whom ? " 
 
 " You will see yourself." 
 
 " Don't you require an answer? Wait a mo- 
 
 ment." 
 
 " I cannot." The strange man handed the let- 
 ter and disappeared. 
 
 "How extraordinary!" said Eugene Mihailo- 
 vich, and tore open the envelope. To his great 
 amazement several hundred rouble notes fell out. 
 " Four hundred roubles ! " he exclaimed, hardly 
 believing his eyes. " What does it mean? " 
 
 The envelope also contained a badly-spelt letter, 
 addressed to Eugene Mihailovich. " It is said in 
 the Gospels," ran the letter, " do good for evil. 
 You have done me much harm; and in the coupon 
 case you made me wrong the peasants greatly. 
 But I have pity for you. Here are four hundred 
 notes. Take them, and remember your porter 
 Vassily."
 
 THE FORGED COUPON 179 
 
 "Very extraordinary!" said Eugene Mihailo- 
 vich to his wife and to himself. And each time 
 he remembered that incident, or spoke about it 
 to his wife, tears would come to his eyes. 
 
 XVII 
 
 Fourteen priests were kept in the Suzdal friary 
 prison, chiefly for having been untrue to the or- 
 thodox faith. Isidor had been sent to that place 
 also. Father Missael received him according to 
 the instructions he had been given, and without 
 talking to him ordered him to be put into a sep- 
 arate cell as a serious criminal. After a fort- 
 night Father Missael, making a round of the 
 priso.i, entered Isidor's cell, and asked him 
 whether there was anything he wished for. 
 
 " There is a great deal I wish for," answered 
 Isidor; "but I cannot tell you what it is in the 
 presence of anybody else. Let me talk to you 
 privately." 
 
 They looked at each other, and Missael saw he 
 had nothing to be afraid of in remaining alone 
 with Isidor. He ordered Isidor to be brought 
 into his own room, and when they were alone, he 
 said, — 
 
 " Well, now you can speak." 
 
 Isidor fell on his knees.
 
 i8o THE FORGED COUPON 
 
 " Brother," said Isidor. " What are you do- 
 ing to yourself! Have mercy on your own soul. 
 You are the worst villain in the world. You have 
 offended against all that is sacred . . ." 
 
 A month after Missael sent a report, asking 
 that Isidor should be released as he had repented, 
 and he also asked for the release of the rest of 
 the prisoners. After which he resigned his post. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 Ten years passed. Mitia Smokovnikov had fin- 
 ished his studies in the Technical College; he was 
 now an engineer in the gold mines in Siberia, and 
 was very highly paid. One day he was about to 
 make a round in the district. The governor of- 
 fered him a convict, Stepan Pelageushkine, to ac- 
 company him on his journey. 
 
 " A convict, you say? But is not that danger- 
 ous?" 
 
 " Not if it is this one. He is a holy man. You 
 may ask anybody, they will all tell you so." 
 
 "Why has he been sent here?" 
 
 The governor smiled. " He had committed six 
 murders, and yet he is a holy man. I go bail for 
 him." 
 
 Mitia Smokovnikov took Stepan, now a bald-
 
 I 
 
 THE FORGED COUPON i8i 
 
 headed, lean, tanned man, with him on his journey. 
 On their way Stepan took care of Smokovnikov 
 like his own child, and told him his story; told 
 him why he had been sent here, and what now 
 filled his life. 
 
 And, strange to say, Mitia Smokovnikov, who 
 up to that time used to spend his time drinking, 
 eating, and gambling, began for the first time to 
 meditate on life. These thoughts never left him 
 now, and produced a complete change in his habits. 
 After a time he was offered a very advantageous 
 position. He refused it, and made up his mind 
 to buy an estate with the money he had, to marry, 
 and to devote himself to the peasantry, helping 
 them as much as he could. 
 
 XIX 
 
 He carried out his intentions. But before retiring 
 to his estate he called on his father, with whom 
 he had been on bad terms, and who had settled 
 apart with his new family. Mitia Smokovnikov 
 wanted to make it up. The old man wondered at 
 first, and laughed at the change he noticed in his 
 son; but after a while he ceased to find fault with 
 him, and thought of the many times when It was 
 he who was the guilty one. 
 
 *
 
 AFTER THE DANCE
 
 AFTER THE DANCE 
 
 " — And you say that a man cannot, of himself, 
 understand what is good and evil; that it is all 
 environment, that the environment swamps the 
 man. But I believe it is all chance. Take my 
 own case . . ." 
 
 Thus spoke our excellent friend, Ivan Vasilie- 
 vich, after a conversation between us on the impos- 
 sibility of improving individual character without 
 a change of the conditions under which men live. 
 Nobody had actually said that one could not of 
 oneself understand good and evil; but it was a 
 habit of Ivan Vasilievich to answer in this way the 
 thoughts aroused in his own mind by conversation, 
 and to illustrate those thoughts by relating inci- 
 dents in his own life. He often quite forgot the 
 reason for his story in telling it; but he always told 
 It with great sincerity and feeling. 
 
 He did so now. 
 
 "Take my own case. My whole life was 
 moulded, not by environment, but by something 
 quite different." 
 
 " By what, then? " we asked. 
 
 " Oh, that Is a long story. I should have to 
 
 185
 
 1 86 AFTER THE DANCE 
 
 tell you about a great many things to make you 
 understand." 
 
 " Well, tell us then." 
 
 Ivan Vasilievich thought a little, and shook his 
 head. 
 
 " My whole life," he said, " was changed in one 
 night, or, rather, morning." 
 
 " Why, what happened? " one of us asked. 
 
 " What happened was that I was very much in 
 love. I have been in love many times, but this 
 was the most serious of all. It is a thing of the 
 past; she has married daughters now. It was 
 
 Varinka B -." Ivan Vasilievich mentioned her 
 
 surname. " Even at fifty she is remarkably hand- 
 some; but in her youth, at eighteen, she was ex- 
 quisite — tall, slender, graceful, and stately. Yes, 
 stately is the word; she held herself very erect, by 
 Instinct as it were; and carried her head high, and 
 that together with her beauty and height gave her 
 a queenly air in spite of being thin, even bony one 
 might say. It might indeed have been deterring 
 had it not been for her smile, which was always 
 gay and cordial, and for the charming light in 
 her eyes and for her youthful sweetness." 
 
 " What an entrancing description you give, Ivan 
 Vasilievich ! " 
 
 " Description, indeed! I could not possibly de- 
 scribe her so that you could appreciate her. But
 
 AFTER THE DANCE 187 
 
 that does not matter; what I am gohig to tell you 
 happened in the forties. I was at that time a 
 student in a provincial university. I don't know 
 whether it was a good thing or no, but we had no 
 political clubs, no theories in our universities then. 
 We were simply young and spent our time as young 
 men do, studying and amusing ourselves. I was a 
 very gay, lively, careless fellow, and had plenty of 
 money too. I had a fine horse, and used to go 
 tobogganing with the young ladies. Skating had 
 not yet come into fashion. I went to drinking 
 parties with my comrades — in those days we 
 drank nothing but champagne — if we had no 
 champagne we drank nothing at all. We never 
 drank vodka, as they do now. Evening parties 
 and balls were my favourite amusements. I 
 danced well, and was not an ugly fellow." 
 
 " Come, there is no need to be modest," Inter- 
 rupted a lady near him. " We have seen your 
 photograph. Not ugly, indeed ! You were a 
 handsome fellow." 
 
 " Handsome, if you like. That does not mat- 
 ter. When my love for her was at its strongest, 
 on the last day of the carnival, I was at a ball at 
 the provincial marshal's, a good-natured old man, 
 rich and hospitable, and a court chamberlain. The 
 guests were welcomed by his wife, who was as 
 good-natured as himself. She was dressed in
 
 1 88 AFTER THE DANCE 
 
 puce-coloured velvet, and had a diamond diadem 
 on her forehead, and her plump, old white shoul- 
 ders and bosom were bare like the portraits of 
 Empress Elizabeth, the daughter of Peter the 
 Great. 
 
 " It was a delightful ball. It was a splendid 
 room, with a gallery for the orchestra, which was 
 famous at the time, and consisted of serfs belong- 
 ing to a musical landowner. The refreshments 
 were magnificent, and the champagne flowed in 
 rivers. Though I was fond of champagne I did 
 not drink that night, because without it I was 
 drunk with love. But I made up for it by danc- 
 ing waltzes and polkas till I was ready to drop — 
 of course, whenever possible, with Varinka. She 
 wore a white dress with a pink sash, white shoes, 
 and white kid gloves, which did not quite reach to 
 her thin pointed elbows. A disgusting engineer 
 named Anisimov robbed me of the mazurka with 
 her — to this day I cannot forgive him. He asked 
 her for the dance the minute she arrived, while 
 I had driven to the hair-dresser's to get a pair of 
 gloves, and was late. So I did not dance the 
 mazurka with her, but with a German girl to whom 
 I had previously paid a little attention; but I am 
 afraid I did not behave very politely to her that 
 evening. I hardly spoke or looked at her, and saw 
 nothing but the tall, slender figure in a white dress.
 
 AFTER THE DANCE 189 
 
 with a pink sash, a flushed, beaming, dimpled 
 face, and sweet, kind eyes. I was not alone; they 
 were all looking at her with admiration, the men 
 and women alike, although she outshone all of 
 them. They could not help admiring her. 
 
 " Although I was not nominally her partner for 
 the mazurka, I did as a matter of fact dance nearly 
 the whole time with her. She always came for- 
 ward boldly the whole length of the room to pick 
 me out. I flew to meet her without waiting to be 
 chosen, and she thanked me with a smile for my 
 intuition. When I was brought up to her with 
 somebody else, and she guessed wrongly, she took 
 the other man's hand with a shrug of her slim 
 shoulders, and smiled at me regretfully, 
 
 " Whenever there was a waltz figure in the 
 mazurka, I waltzed with her for a long time, and 
 breathing fast and smiling, she would say, 'En- 
 core ' ; and I went on waltzing and waltzing, as 
 though unconscious of any bodily existence." 
 
 " Come now, how could you be unconscious of 
 it with your arm round her waist? You must 
 have been conscious, not only of your own exist- 
 ence, but of hers," said one of the party. 
 
 Ivan Vasilievich cried out, almost shouting in 
 anger: " There you are, moderns all over! Now- 
 adays you think of nothing but the body. It was 
 different in our day. The more I was In love the
 
 190 AFTER THE DANCE 
 
 less corporeal was she in my eyes. Nowadays you 
 think of nothing but the body. It was different 
 in our day. I'he more I was in love the less cor- 
 poreal was she in my eyes. Nowadays you see 
 legs, ankles, and I don't know what. You undress 
 the women you are in love with. In my eyes, as 
 Alphonse Karr said — and he was a good writer 
 — ' the one I loved was always draped in robes of 
 bronze.' We never thought of doing so; we tried 
 to veil her nakedness, like Noah's good-natured 
 son. Oh, well, you can't understand." 
 
 " Don't pay any attention to him. Go on," said 
 one of them. 
 
 " Well, I danced for the most part with her, 
 and did not notice how time was passing. The 
 musicians kept playing the same mazurka tunes 
 over and over again in desperate exhaustion — you 
 know what it is towards the end of a ball. Papas 
 and mammas were already getting up from the 
 card-tables in the drawing-room in expectation of 
 supper, the men-servants were running to and 
 fro bringing in things. It was nearly three 
 o'clock. I had to make the most of the last 
 minutes. I chose her again for the mazurka, and 
 for the hundredth time we danced across the 
 room. 
 
 "'The quadrille after supper is mine,' I said, 
 taking her to her place.
 
 U I 
 
 U ( 
 U ( 
 
 AFTER THE DANCE 191 
 
 Of course, if I am not carried off home,' she 
 said, with a smile. 
 
 I won't give you up,' I said. 
 Give me my fan, anyhow,' she answered. 
 I am so sorry to part with it,' I said, handing 
 her a cheap white fan. 
 
 " ' Well, here's something to console you,' she 
 said, plucking a feather out of the fan, and giving 
 it to me. 
 
 " I took the feather, and could only express my 
 rapture and gratitude with my eyes. I was not 
 only pleased and gay, I was happy, delighted; I 
 was good, I was not myself but some being not 
 of this earth, knowing nothing of evil. I hid the 
 feather in my glove, and stood there unable to 
 tear myself away from her. 
 
 " ' Look, they are urging father to dance,' she 
 said to me, pointing to the tall, stately figure of 
 her father, a colonel with silver epaulettes, who 
 was standing in the doorway with some ladies. 
 
 " ' Varinka, come here ! ' exclaimed our hostess, 
 the lady with the diamond ferronniere and with 
 shoulders like Elizabeth, in a loud voice. 
 
 " Varinka went to the door, and I followed her. 
 
 " ' Persuade your father to dance the mazurka 
 with you, ma chere. — Do, please, Peter Valdislavo- 
 vich,' she said, turning to the colonel. 
 
 " Varinka's father was a very handsome, well-
 
 192 , AFTER THE DANCE 
 
 preserved old man. He had a good colour, mous- 
 taches curled in the style of Nicolas L, and white 
 whiskers which met the moustaches. His hair was 
 combed on to his forehead, and a bright smile, 
 like his daughter's, was on his lips and in his eyes. 
 He was splendidly set up, with a broad military 
 chest, on which he wore some decorations, and he 
 had powerful shoulders and long slim legs. He 
 was that ultra-military type produced by the disci- 
 pline of Emperor Nicolas I. 
 
 " When we approached the door the colonel was 
 just refusing to dance, saying that he had quite for- 
 gotten how; but at that instant he smiled, swung 
 his arm gracefully around to the left, drew his 
 sword from its sheath, handed it to an obliging 
 young man who stood near, and smoothed his 
 suede glove on his right hand. 
 
 " ' Everything must be done according to rule,' 
 he said with a smile. He took the hand of his 
 daughter, and stood one-quarter turned, waiting 
 for the music. 
 
 " At the first sound of the mazurka, he stamped 
 one foot smartly, threw the other forward, and, 
 at first slowly and smoothly, then buoyantly and 
 impetuously, with stamping of feet and clicking of 
 boots, his tall, imposing figure moved the length 
 of the room. Varinka swayed gracefully beside 
 him, rhythmically and easily, making her steps
 
 AFTER THE DANCE 193 
 
 short or long, with her little feet in their white satin 
 slippers. 
 
 " All the people in the room followed every 
 movement of the couple. As for me 1 not only ad- 
 mired, I regarded them with enraptured sym- 
 pathy. I was particularly impressed with the old 
 gentleman's boots. They were not the modern 
 pointed affairs, but were made of cheap leather, 
 squared-toed, and evidently built by the regimental 
 cobbler. In order that his daughter might dress 
 and go out in society, he did not buy fashionable 
 boots, but wore home-made ones, I thought, and 
 his square toes seemed to me most touching. It 
 was obvious that in his time he had been a good 
 dancer; but now he was too heavy, and his legs had 
 not spring enough for all the beautiful steps he 
 tried to take. Still, he contrived to go twice round 
 the room. When at the end, standing with legs 
 apart, he suddenly clicked his feet together and fell 
 on one knee, a bit heavily, and she danced grace- 
 fully around him, smiling and adjusting her skirt, 
 the whole room applauded. 
 
 " Rising with an effort, he tenderly took his 
 daughter's face between his hands. He kissed her 
 on the forehead, and brought her to me, under the 
 impression that I was her partner for the mazurka. 
 I said I was not. ' Well, never mind. Just go 
 around the room once with her,' he said, smil-
 
 194 AFTER THE DANCE 
 
 ing kindly, as he replaced his sword hi the 
 sheath. 
 
 " As the contents of a bottle flow readily when 
 the first drop has been poured, so my love for 
 Varlnka seemed to set free the whole force of lov- 
 ing within me. In surrounding her it embraced the 
 world. I loved the hostess with her diadem and 
 her shoulders like Elizabeth, and her husband and 
 her guests and her footmen, and even the engineer 
 Anislmov who felt peevish towards me. As for 
 Varinka's father, with his home-made boots and 
 his kind smile, so like her own, I felt a sort of ten- 
 derness for him that was almost rapture. 
 
 " After supper I danced the promised quadrille 
 with her, and though I had been infinitely happy 
 before, I grew still happier every moment. 
 
 " We did not speak of love. I neither asked 
 myself nor her whether she loved me. It was 
 quite enough to know that I loved her. And I had 
 only one fear — that something might come to In- 
 terfere with my great joy. 
 
 " When I went home, and began to undress for 
 the night, I found It quite out of the question. I 
 held the little feather out of her fan In my hand, 
 and one of her gloves which she gave me when I 
 helped her into the carriage after her mother. 
 Looking at these things, and without closing my 
 eyes I could see her before me as she was for an
 
 AFTER THE DANXE 195 
 
 Instant when she had to choose between two part- 
 ners. She tried to guess what kind of person 
 was represented in me, and I could hear her 
 sweet voice as she said, ' Pride — am I right? ' and 
 merrily gave me her hand. At supper she took the 
 first sip from my glass of champagne, looking at 
 me over the rim with her caressing glance. But, 
 plainest of all, I could see her as she danced with 
 her father, gliding along beside him, and looking 
 at the admiring observers with pride and happi- 
 ness. 
 
 " He and she were united in my mind in one 
 rush of pathetic tenderness. 
 
 " I was li\ing then with my brother, who has 
 since died. He disliked going out, and never went 
 to dances; and besides, he was busy preparing for 
 his last university examinations, and was leading a 
 very regular life. He was asleep. I looked at 
 him, his head buried in the pillow and half covered 
 with the quilt; and I affectionately pitied him — • 
 pitied him for his ignorance of the bliss I was ex- 
 periencing. Our serf Petrusha had met me with a 
 candle, ready to undress me, but I sent him away. 
 His sleepy face and tousled hair seemed to me so 
 touching. Trying not to make a noise, I went to 
 my room on tiptoe and sat down on my bed. No, 
 I was too happy; I could not sleep. Besides, it 
 was too hot in the rooms. Without taking off my
 
 196 AFTER THE DANCE 
 
 uniform, I went quietly Into the hall, put on my 
 overcoat, opened the front door and stepped out 
 into the street. 
 
 " It was after four when I had left the ball; 
 going home and stopping there a while had occu- 
 pied two hours, so by the time I went out it was 
 dawn. It was regular carnival weather — foggy, 
 and the road full of water-soaked snow just melt- 
 ing, and water dripping from the eaves. Varin- 
 ka's family lived on the edge of town near a large 
 field, one end of which was a parade ground: at 
 the other end was a boarding-school for young 
 ladies. I passed through our empty little street 
 and came to the main thoroughfare, where I met 
 pedestrians and sledges laden with wood, the run- 
 ners grating the road. The horses swung with 
 regular paces beneath their shining yokes, their 
 backs covered with straw mats and their heads wet 
 with rain; while the drivers, in enormous boots, 
 splashed through the mud beside the sledges. All 
 this, the very horses themselves, seemed to me 
 stimulating and fascinating, full of suggestion. 
 
 " When I approached the field near their house, 
 I saw at one end of it, in the direction of the pa- 
 rade ground, something very huge and black, and 
 I heard sounds of fife and drum proceeding from 
 it. My heart had been full of song, and I had 
 heard in Imagination the tune of the mazurka,
 
 AFTER THE DANCE 197 
 
 but this was very harsh music. It was not pleas- 
 
 ant. 
 
 What can that be?' I thought, and went 
 towards the sound by a slippery path through the 
 centre of the field. Walking about a hundred 
 paces, I began to distinguish many black objects 
 through the mist. They were evidently soldiers. 
 ' It is probably a drill,' I thought. 
 
 " So I went along in that direction in company 
 with a blacksmith, who wore a dirty coat and an 
 apron, and was carrying something. He walked 
 ahead of me as we approached the place. The 
 soldiers In black uniforms stood In two rows, fac- 
 ing each other motionless, their guns at rest. Be- 
 hind them stood the fifes and drums, incessantly 
 repeating the same unpleasant tune. 
 
 "'What are they doing?' I asked the black- 
 smith, who halted at my side. 
 
 " ' A Tartar Is being beaten through the ranks 
 for his attempt to desert,' said the blacksmith In 
 an angry tone, as he looked intently at the far end 
 of the line. 
 
 " I looked In the same direction, and saw be- 
 tween the files something horrid approaching me. 
 The thing that approached was a man, stripped 
 to the waist, fastened with cords to the guns of two 
 soldiers who were leading him. At his side an 
 oflUcer In overcoat and cap was walking, whose
 
 1 
 
 198 AFTER THE DANCE ■ 
 
 figure had a familiar look. The victim advanced 
 under the blows that rained upon him from both 
 sides, his whole body plunging, his feet dragging 
 through the snow. Now he threw himself back- 
 ward, and the subalterns who led him thrust him 
 forward. Now he fell forward, and they pulled 
 him up short; while ever at his side marched the 
 tall officer, with firm and nervous pace. It was 
 Varinka's father, with his rosy face and white 
 moustache. 
 
 " At each stroke the man, as if amazed, turned 
 his face, grimacing with pain, towards the side 
 whence the blow came, and showing his white teeth 
 repeated the same words over and over. But I 
 could only hear what the words were when he came 
 quite near. He did not speak them, he sobbed 
 them out, — 
 
 " ' Brothers, have mercy on me ! Brothers, have 
 mercy on me ! ' But the brothers had no mercy, 
 and when the procession came close to me, I saw 
 how a soldier who stood opposite me took a firm 
 step forward and lifting his stick with a whirr, 
 brought it down upon the man's back. The man 
 plunged forward, but the subalterns pulled him 
 back, and another blow came down from the other 
 side, then from this side and then from the other. 
 The colonel marched beside him, and looking now 
 at his feet and now at the man, inhaled the air.
 
 
 AFTER THE DANCE 199 
 
 puffed out his cheeks, and breathed it out between 
 his protruded lips. When they passed the place 
 where I stood, I caught a glimpse between the two 
 files of the back of the man that was being pun- 
 ished. It was something so many-coloured, wet, 
 red, unnatural, that I could hardly believe it was a 
 human body. 
 
 My God! ' muttered the blacksmith. 
 The procession moved farther away. The 
 blows continued to rain upon the writhing, falling 
 creature; the fifes shrilled and the drums beat, and 
 the tall imposing figure of the colonel moved along- 
 side the man, just as before. Then, suddenly, the 
 colonel stopped, and rapidly approached a man in 
 the ranks. 
 
 " ' I'll teach you to hit him gently,' I heard his 
 furious voice say. 'Will you pat him like that? 
 Will you? ' and I saw how his strong hand in the 
 suede glove struck the weak, bloodless, terrified 
 soldier for not bringing down his stick with suffi- 
 cient strength on the red neck of the Tartar. 
 
 "'Bring new sticks!' he cried, and looking 
 round, he saw me. Assuming an air of not know- 
 ing me, and with a ferocious, angry frown, he 
 hastily turned away. I felt so utterly ashamed 
 that I didn't know where to look. It was as if I 
 had been detected in a disgraceful act. I dropped 
 my eyes, and quickly hurried home. All the way
 
 200 AFTER THE DANCE 
 
 I had the drums beating and the fifes whistling in 
 my ears. And I heard the words, ' Brothers, have 
 mercy on me! ' or 'Will you pat him? Will 
 you? ' My heart was full of physical disgust that 
 was almost sickness. So much so that I halted sev- 
 eral times on my way, for I had the feeling that I 
 was going to be really sick from all the horrors 
 that possessed me at that sight. I do not remem- 
 ber how I got home and got to bed. But the mo- 
 ment I was about to fall asleep I heard and saw 
 again all that had happened, and I sprang up. 
 
 " ' Evidently he knows something I do not 
 know,' I thought about the colonel. ' If I knew 
 what he knows I should certainly grasp — under- 
 stand — what I have just seen, and it would not 
 cause me such suffering.' 
 
 " But however much T thought about it, I could 
 not understand the thing that the colonel knew. 
 It was evening before I could get to sleep, and then 
 only after calling on a friend and drinking till I 
 was quite drunk. 
 
 *' Do you think I had come to the conclusion that 
 the deed I had witnessed was wicked? Oh, no. 
 Since it was done with such assurance, and was rec- 
 ognised by every one as indispensable, they doubt- 
 less knew something which I did not know. So I 
 thought, and tried to understand. But no matter, 
 I could never understand it, then or afterwards.
 
 AFTER THE DANCE 201 
 
 And not being able to grasp it, I could not enter 
 the service as I had intended. I don't mean only 
 the military service: I did not enter the Civil Serv- 
 ice either. And so I have been of no use whatever, 
 as you can see." 
 
 " Yes, we know how useless you've been," said 
 one of us. '^Tell us, rather, how many people 
 would be of any use at all if it hadn't been for 
 you." 
 
 " Oh, that's utter nonsense," said Ivan Vasilie- 
 vich, with genuine annoyance. 
 
 "Well; and what about the love affair?" 
 
 " My love? It decreased from that day. 
 When, as often happened, she looked dreamy and 
 meditative, I instantly recollected the colonel on 
 the parade ground, and I felt so awkward and 
 uncomfortable that I began to see her less fre- 
 quently. So my love came to naught. Yes; such 
 chances arise, and they alter and direct a man's 
 whole life," he said In summing up. " And you 
 say ..."
 
 ALYOSHA THE POT
 
 ALYOSHA THE POT 
 
 Alyosha was the younger brother. He was 
 called the Pot, because his mother had once sent 
 him with a pot of milk to the deacon's wife, and he 
 had stumbled against something and broken It. 
 His mother had beaten him, and the children had 
 teased him. Since then he was nicknamed the Pot. 
 Alyosha was a tiny, thin little fellow, with ears like 
 wings, and a huge nose. " Alyosha has a nose that 
 looks like a dog on a hill ! " the children used to 
 call after him. Alyosha went to the village 
 school, but was not good at lessons; besides, there 
 was so little time to learn. His elder brother was 
 in town, working for a merchant, so Alyosha had 
 to help his father from a very early age. When 
 he was no more than six he used to go out with the 
 girls to watch the cows and sheep in the pasture, 
 and a little later he looked after the horses by 
 day and by night. And at twelve years of age he 
 had already begun to plough and to drive the cart. 
 The skill was there though the strength was not. 
 He was always cheerful. Whenever the children 
 made fun of him, he would either laugh or be 
 silent. When his father scolded him he would 
 
 205
 
 2o6 ALYOSHA THE POT 
 
 stand mute and listen attentively, and as soon as 
 the scolding was over would smile and go on with 
 his work. Alyosha was nineteen when his brother 
 was taken as a soldier. So his father placed him 
 with the merchant as a yard-porter. He was given 
 his brother's old boots, his father's old coat and 
 cap, and was taken to town. Alyosha was de- 
 lighted with his clothes, but the merchant was not 
 impressed by his appearance. 
 
 " I thought you would bring me a man in Sime- 
 on's place," he said, scanning Alyosha; *' and 
 you've brought me this! What's the good of 
 him?" 
 
 " He can do everything; look after horses and 
 drive. He's a good one to work. He looks 
 rather thin, but he's tough enough. And he's very 
 willing." 
 
 *' He looks it. All right; we'll see what we can 
 do with him." 
 
 So Alyosha remained at the merchant's. 
 
 The family was not a large one. It consisted 
 of the merchant's wife : her old mother : a married 
 son poorly educated who was in his father's busi- 
 ness: another son, a learned one who had finished 
 school and entered the University, but having been 
 expelled, was living at home: and a daughter who 
 still went to school. 
 
 They did not take to Alyosha at first. He was
 
 ALYOSHA THE POT 207 
 
 uncouth, badly dressed, and had no manner, but 
 they soon got used to him. Alyosha worked even 
 better than his brother had done; he was really 
 very willing. They sent him on all sorts of er- 
 rands, but he did everything quickly and readily, 
 going from one task to another without stopping. 
 And so here, just as at home, all the work was put 
 upon his shoulders. The more he did, the more 
 he was given to do. His mistress, her old mother, 
 the son, the daughter, the clerk, and the cook — all 
 ordered him about, and sent him. from one place 
 to another. 
 
 "Alyosha, do this! Alyosha, do that! 
 What! have you forgotten, Alyosha? Mind you 
 don't forget, Alyosha! " was heard from morning 
 till night. And Alyosha ran here, looked after this 
 and that, forgot nothing, found time for every- 
 thing, and was always cheerful. 
 
 His brother's old boots were soon worn out, 
 and his master scolded him for going about in tat- 
 ters with his toes sticking out. He ordered an- 
 other pair to be bought for him in the market. 
 Alyosha was delighted with his new boots, but was 
 angry with his feet when they ached at the end of 
 the day after so much running about. And then 
 he was afraid that his father would be annoyed 
 when he came to town for his wages, to find that 
 his master had deducted the cost of the boots.
 
 2o8 ALYOSHA THE POT 
 
 In the winter Alyosha used to get up before day- 
 break. He would chop the wood, sweep the yard, 
 feed the cows and horses, light the stoves, clean 
 the boots, prepare the samovars and polish them 
 afterwards; or the clerk would get him to bring 
 up the goods; or the cook would set him to knead 
 the bread and clean the saucepans. Then he was 
 sent to town on various errands, to bring the 
 daughter home from school, or to get some olive 
 oil for the old mother. " Why the devil have 
 you been so long? " first one, then another, would 
 say to him. Why should they go? Alyosha can 
 go. " Alyosha ! Alyosha ! " And Alyosha ran 
 here and there. He breakfasted in snatches while 
 he was working, and rarely managed to get his 
 dinner at the proper hour. The cook used to scold 
 him for being late, but she was sorry for him all 
 the same, and would keep something hot for his 
 dinner and supper. 
 
 At holiday times there was more work than ever, 
 but Alyosha liked holidays because everybody gave 
 him a tip. Not much certainly, but it would 
 amount up to about sixty kopeks [is 2d] — his 
 very own money. For Alyosha never set eyes on 
 his wages. His father used to come and take them 
 from the merchant, and only scold Alyosha for 
 wearing out his boots. 
 
 When he had saved up two roubles [4s], by the
 
 ALYOSHA THE POT 209 
 
 advice of the cook he bought himself a red knitted 
 jacket, and was so happy when he put it on, that 
 he couldn't close his mouth for joy. Alyosha was 
 not talkative; when he spoke at all, he spoke 
 abruptly, with his head turned away. When told 
 to do anything, or asked if he could do It, he would 
 say yes without the smallest hesitation, and set to 
 work at once. 
 
 Alyosha did not know any prayer; and had for- 
 gotten what his mother had taught him. But he 
 prayed just the same, every morning and every 
 evening, prayed with his hands, crossing himself. 
 
 He lived like this for about a year and a half, 
 and towards the end of the second year a most 
 startling thing happened to him. He discovered 
 one day, to his great surprise, that. In addition to 
 the relation of usefulness existing between people, 
 there was also another, a peculiar relation of quite 
 a different character. Instead of a man being 
 wanted to clean boots, and go on errands and har- 
 ness horses, he is not wanted to be of any service 
 at all, but another human being wants to serve him 
 and pet him. Suddenly Alyosha felt he was such 
 a man. 
 
 He made this discovery through the cook Us- 
 tlnla. She was young, had no parents, and worked 
 as hard as Alyosha. He felt for the first time in 
 his life that he — not his services, but he himself
 
 2IO ALYOSHA THE POT 
 
 — was necessary to another human being. When 
 his mother used to be sorry for him, he had taken 
 no notice of her. It had seemed to him quite 
 natural, as though he were feehng sorry for him- 
 self. But here was Ustinia, a perfect stranger, 
 and sorry for him. She would save him some hot 
 porridge, and sit watching him, her chin propped 
 on her bare arm, with the sleeve rolled up, while he 
 was eating it. When he looked at her she would 
 begin to laugh, and he would laugh too. 
 
 This was such a new, strange thing to him that 
 it frightened Alyosha. He feared that it might 
 interfere with his work. But he was pleased, nev- 
 ertheless, and when he glanced at the trousers that 
 Ustinia had mended for him, he would shake 
 his head and smile. He would often think of her 
 while at work, or when running on errands. " A 
 fine girl, Ustinia! " he sometimes exclaimed. 
 
 Ustinia used to help him whenever she could, 
 and he helped her. She told him all about her 
 life; how she had lost her parents; how her aunt 
 had taken her in and found a place for her in the 
 town ; how the merchant's son had tried to take lib- 
 erties with her, and how she had rebuffed him. 
 She liked to talk, and Alyosha liked to listen to her. 
 He had. heard that peasants who came up to work 
 in the towns frequently got married to servant 
 girls. On one occasion she asked him if his par-
 
 ALYOSHA THE POT 211 
 
 ents intended marrying him soon. He said that 
 he did not know; that he did not want to marry 
 any of the village girls. 
 
 " Hav^e you taken a fancy to some one, then? " 
 
 " I would marry you, if you'd be willing." 
 
 "Get along with you, Alyosha the Pot; but 
 you've found your tongue, haven't you? " she ex- 
 claimed, slapping him on the back with a towel she 
 held in her hand. " Why shouldn't I ? " 
 
 At Shrovetide Alyosha's father came to town for 
 his wages. It had come to the ears of the mer- 
 chant's wife that Alyosha wanted to marry Ustinia, 
 and she disapproved of it. " What will be the 
 use of her with a baby?" she thought, and in- 
 formed her husband. 
 
 The merchant gave the old man Alyosha's 
 wages. 
 
 " How is my lad getting on? " he asked. " I 
 told you he was willing." 
 
 " That's all right, as far as it goes, but he's 
 taken some sort of nonsense into his head. He 
 wants to marry our cook. Now I don't approve 
 of married servants. We won't have them in the 
 house." 
 
 " Well, now, who would have thought the fool 
 would think of such a thing?" the old man ex- 
 claimed. " But don't you worry. I'll soon settle 
 that."
 
 2 12 ALYOSHA THE POT 
 
 He went into the kitchen, and sat down at 
 the table waiting for his son. Alyosha was out 
 on an errand, and came back breathless. 
 
 "I thought you had some sense in you; but 
 what's this you've taken into your head?" his 
 father began. 
 
 "I? Nothing." 
 
 "How, nothing? They tell me you want to 
 get married. You shall get married when the time 
 comes. I'll find you a decent wife, not some town 
 hussy." 
 
 His father talked and talked, while Alyosha 
 stood still and sighed. When his father had quite 
 finished, Alyosha smiled. 
 
 " All right. I'll drop it." 
 
 " Now that's what I call sense." 
 
 When he was left alone with Ustinia he told her 
 what his father had said. (She had listened at 
 the door.) 
 
 " It's no good ; it can't come off. Did you hear ? 
 He was angry — won't have it at any price." 
 
 Ustinia cried into her apron. 
 
 Alyosha shook his head. 
 
 "What's to be done? We must do as we're 
 told." 
 
 " Well, are you going to give up that nonsense, 
 as your father told you?" his mistress asked, as 
 he was putting up the shutters in the evening.
 
 Russian Peasant. 
 
 I
 
 ALYOSHA THE POT 213 
 
 " To be sure we are," Alyosha replied with a 
 smile, and then burst Into tears. 
 
 From that day Alyosha went about his work, as 
 usual, and no longer talked to Ustmla about their 
 getting married. One day In Lent the clerk told 
 him to clear the snow from the roof. Alyosha 
 climbed on to the roof and swept away all the 
 snow; and, while he was still raking out some 
 frozen lumps from the gutter, his foot slipped and 
 he fell over. Unfortunately he did not fall on the 
 snow, but on a piece of iron over the door. Us- 
 tlnia came running up, together with the mer- 
 chant's daughter. 
 
 "Have you hurt yourself, Alyosha?" 
 
 " Ah! no, it's nothing." 
 
 But he could not raise himself when he tried 
 to, and began to smile. 
 
 He was taken into the lodge. The doctor ar- 
 rived, examined him, and asked where he felt the 
 pain. 
 
 " I feel it all over," he said. " But it doesn't 
 matter. I'm only afraid master will be annoyed. 
 Father ought to be told." 
 
 Alyosha lay in bed for two days, and on the third 
 day they sent for the priest. 
 
 " Are you really going to die? " Ustinia asked. 
 
 " Of course I am. You can't go on living for
 
 214 ALYOSHA THE POT 
 
 ever. You must go when the time comes." Aly- 
 osha spoke rapidly as usual. " Thank you, Us- 
 tina. You've been very good to me. What a 
 lucky thing they didn't let us marry! Where 
 should we have been now? It's much better as it 
 
 is." 
 
 When the priest came, he prayed with his hands 
 and with his heart. " As it is good here when you 
 obey and do no harm to others, so it will be there," 
 was the thought within it. 
 
 He spoke very little; he only said he was thirsty, 
 and he seemed full of wonder at something. 
 
 He lay in wonderment, then stretched himself, 
 and died.
 
 MY DREAM
 
 MY DREAM 
 
 " As a daughter she no longer exists for me. 
 Can't you understand? She simply doesn't ex- 
 ist. Still, I cannot possibly leave her to the char- 
 ity of strangers. I will arrange things so that 
 she can live as she pleases, but I do not wish to 
 hear of her. Who would ever have thought 
 the horror of it, the horror of it." 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, and 
 raised his eyes. These words were spoken by 
 Prince Michael Ivanovich to his brother Peter, 
 who was governor of a province in Central Rus- 
 sia. Prince Peter was a man of fifty, Michael's 
 junior by ten years. 
 
 On discovering that his daughter, who had left 
 his house a year before, had settled here with her 
 child, the elder brother had come from St. Peters- 
 burg to the provincial town, where the above con- 
 versation took place. 
 
 Prince Michael Ivanovich was a tall, handsome, 
 white-haired, fresh coloured man, proud and at- 
 tractive in appearance and bearing. His family 
 consisted of a vulgar, irritable wife, who wran- 
 gled with him continually over every petty detail, 
 
 217
 
 2i8 MY DREAM 
 
 a son, a ne'er-do-well, spendthrift and roue — 
 yet a " gentleman," according to his father's code, 
 two daughters, of whom the elder had married 
 well, and was living in St. Petersburg; and the 
 younger, Lisa — his favourite, who had disap- 
 peared from home a year before. Only a short 
 while ago he had found her with her child in this 
 provincial town. 
 
 Prince Peter wanted to ask his brother how, 
 and under what circumstances, Lisa had left 
 home, and who could possibly be the father of her 
 child. But he could not make up his mind to in- 
 quire. 
 
 That very morning, when his wife had at- 
 tempted to condole with her brother-in-law. Prince 
 Peter had observed a look of pain on his brother's 
 face. The look had at once been masked by an 
 expression of unapproachable pride, and he had 
 begun to question her about their flat, and the 
 price she paid. At luncheon, before the family 
 and guests, he had been witty and sarcastic as 
 usual. Towards every one, excepting the chil- 
 dren, whom he treated with almost reverent ten- 
 derness, he adopted an attitude of distant hauteur. 
 And yet it was so natural to him that every one 
 somehow acknowledged his right to be haughty. 
 
 In the evening his brother arranged a game of 
 whist. When he retired to the room which had
 
 MY DREAM 219 
 
 been made ready lor liiin, and was just beginning 
 to take out his artificial teeth, some one tapped 
 hghtly on the door with two fingers. 
 
 "Who is that?" 
 
 " a est moi, Michael." 
 
 Prince Michael Ivanovich recognised the voice 
 of his sister-in-law, frowned, replaced his teeth, 
 and said to himself, "What does she want?" 
 Aloud he said, " Entrez." 
 
 His sister-in-law was a quiet, gentle creature, 
 who bowed in submission to her husband's will. 
 But to many she seemed a crank, and some did 
 not hesitate to call her a fool. She was pretty, 
 but her hair was always carelessly dressed, and she 
 herself was untidy and absent-minded. She had, 
 also, the strangest, most unaristocratic ideas, by no 
 means fitting in the wife of a high official. These 
 ideas she would express most unexpectedly, to 
 everybody's astonishment, her husband's no less 
 than her friends'. 
 
 ■' Foils poiivez me renvoyer, mais ]e ne ni en 
 irai pas, je voiis le dis d'avance," she began, in her 
 characteristic, indifferent way. 
 
 " Dieii preserve," answered her brother-in-law, 
 with his usual somewhat exaggerated politeness, 
 and brought forward a chair for her. 
 
 " Ca ne voiis derange pasf " she asked, taking 
 out a cigarette. " I'm not going to say anything
 
 220 MY DREAM 
 
 unpleasant, Michael. I only wanted to say some- 
 thing about Lisochka." 
 
 Michael Ivanovich sighed — the word pained 
 him; but mastering himself at once, he answered 
 with a tired smile. " Our conversation can only 
 be on one subject, and that is the subject you wish 
 to discuss." He spoke without looking at her, 
 and avoided even naming the subject. But his 
 plump, pretty little sister-in-law was unabashed. 
 She continued to regard him with the same gentle, 
 imploring look in her blue eyes, sighing even more 
 deeply. 
 
 " Michael, mon bon ami, have pity on her. 
 She is only human." 
 
 " I never doubted that," said Michael Ivano- 
 vich with a bitter smile. 
 
 " She is your daughter." 
 
 " She was — but my dear Aline, why talk about 
 this?" 
 
 " Michael, dear, won't you see her? I only 
 wanted to say, that the one who is to blame — " 
 
 Prince Michael Ivanovich flushed; his face be- 
 came cruel. 
 
 " For heaven's sake, let us stop. I have suf- 
 fered enough. I have now but one desire, and 
 that is to put her in such a position that she will 
 be independent of others, and that she shall have 
 no further need of communicating with me. Then
 
 MY DREAM 221 
 
 she can live her own life, and my family and I 
 need know nothing more about her. That Is all 
 I can do." 
 
 " Michael, you say nothing but ' I 'I She, too, 
 is ' I.' " 
 
 " No doubt; but, dear Aline, please let us drop 
 the matter. I feel it too deeply." 
 
 Alexandra Dmitrievna remained silent for a 
 few moments, shaking her head. " And Masha, 
 your wife, thinks as you do? " 
 
 " Yes, quite." 
 
 Alexandra Dmitrievna made an inarticulate 
 sound. 
 
 " Brisons la dessus ct bonne niiit," said he. 
 But she did not go. She stood silent a moment. 
 Then, — 
 
 " Peter tells me you intend to leave the money 
 with the woman where she lives. Have you the 
 address? " 
 
 " I have." 
 
 "Don't leave it with the woman, Michael! 
 Go yourself. Just see how she lives. If you 
 don't want to see her, you need not. He isn't 
 there; there is no one there." 
 
 Michael Ivanovich shuddered violently. 
 
 "Why do you torture me so? It's a sin 
 against hospitality! " 
 
 Alexandra Dmitrievna rose, and almost in
 
 222 MY DREAM 
 
 tears, being touched by her own pleading, said, 
 " She is so miserable, but she is such a dear." 
 
 He got up, and stood waiting for her to finish. 
 She held out her hand, 
 
 " Michael, you do wrong," said she, and left 
 him. 
 
 For a long while after she had gone Michael 
 Ivanovich walked to and fro on the square of 
 carpet. He frowned and shivered, and ex- 
 claimed, " Oh, oh! " And then the sound of his 
 own voice frightened him, and he was silent. 
 
 His wounded pride tortured him. His daugh- 
 ter — his — brought up in the house of her 
 mother, the famous Avdotia Borisovna, whom the 
 Empress honoured with her visits, and acquaint- 
 ance with whom was an honour for all the world! 
 His daughter — ; and he had lived his life as a 
 knight of old, knowing neither fear nor blame. 
 The fact that he had a natural son born of a 
 Frenchwoman, whom he had settled abroad, did 
 not lower his own self-esteem. And now this 
 daughter, for whom he had not only done every- 
 thing that a father could and should do; this 
 daughter to whom he had given a splendid educa- 
 tion and every opportunity to make a match in the 
 best Russian society — this daughter to whom he 
 had not only given all that a girl could desire, but 
 whom he had really loved; whom he had admired,
 
 MY DREAM 223 
 
 been proud of — this daughter had repaid him 
 with such disgrace, that he was ashamed and could 
 not face the eyes of men ! 
 
 He recalled the time when she was not merely 
 his child, and a member of his family, but his 
 darling, his joy and his pride. He saw her again, 
 a little thing of eight or nine, bright, intelligent, 
 lively, impetuous, graceful, with brilliant black 
 eyes and flowing auburn hair. He remembered 
 how she used to jump up on his knees and hug 
 him, and tickle his neck; and how she would laugh, 
 regardless of his protests, and continue to tickle 
 him, and kiss his lips, his eyes, and his cheeks. 
 He was naturally opposed to all demonstration, 
 but this impetuous love moved him, and he often 
 submitted to her petting. He remembered also 
 how sweet it was to caress her. To remember 
 all this, when that sweet child had become what 
 she now was, a creature of whom he cculd not 
 think without loathing. 
 
 He also recalled the time when she was growing 
 into womanhood, and the curious feeling of fear 
 and anger that he experienced when he became 
 aware that men regarded her as a woman. He 
 thought of his jealous love when she came coquet- 
 tishly to him dressed for a ball, and knowing that 
 she was pretty. He dreaded the passionate 
 glances which fell upon her, that she not only did
 
 224 MY DREAM 
 
 not understand but rejoiced in. " Yes," thought 
 he, "that superstition of woman's purity! Quite 
 the contrary, they do not know shame — they lack 
 this sense." He remembered how, quite inexpli- 
 cably to him, she had refused two very good suit- 
 ors. She had become more and more fascinated 
 by her own success in the round of gaieties she 
 lived in. 
 
 But this success could not last long. A year 
 passed, then two, then three. She was a familiar 
 figure, beautiful — but her first youth had passed, 
 and she had become somehow part of the ball- 
 room furniture. Michael Ivanovich remembered 
 how he had realised that she was on the road to 
 spinsterhood, and desired but one thing for her. 
 He must get her married off as quickly as possible, 
 perhaps not quite so well as might have been ar- 
 ranged earlier, but still a respectable match. 
 
 But it seemed to him she had behaved with a 
 pride that bordered on insolence. Remembering 
 this, his anger rose more and more fiercely against 
 her. To think of her refusing so many decent 
 men, only to end in this disgrace. '* Oh, oh ! " he 
 groaned again. 
 
 Then stopping, he lit a cigarette, and tried to 
 think of other things. He would send her money, 
 without ever letting her see him. But memories 
 came again. He remembered — it was not so
 
 MY DREAM 225 
 
 very long ago, for she was more than twenty then 
 — her beginning a flirtation with a boy of four- 
 teen, a cadet of the Corps of Pages who had been 
 staying with them in the country. She had driven 
 the boy half crazy; he had wept in his distraction. 
 Then how she had rebuked her father severely, 
 coldly, and even rudely, when, to put an end to 
 this stupid affair, he had sent the boy away. She 
 seemed somehow to consider herself insulted. 
 Since then father and daughter had drifted into 
 undisguised hostility. 
 
 " I was right," he said to himself. " She Is a 
 wicked and shameless woman." 
 
 And then, as a last ghastly memory, there was 
 the letter from Moscow, in which she wrote that 
 she could not return home ; that she was a miser- 
 able, abandoned woman, asking only to be for- 
 given and forgotten. Then the horrid recollec- 
 tion of the scene with his wife came to him; their 
 surmises and their suspicions, which became a cer- 
 tainty. The calamity had happened in Finland, 
 where they had let her visit her aunt; and the 
 culprit was an Insignificant Swede, a student, an 
 empty-headed, worthless creature — and married. 
 
 All this came back to him now as he paced 
 backwards and forwards on the bedroom carpet, 
 recollecting his former love for her, his pride in 
 her. He recoiled with terror before the Incom-
 
 226 MY DREAM 
 
 prehenslble fact of her downfall, and he hated her 
 for the agony she was causing him. He remem- 
 bered the conversation with his sister-in-law, and 
 tried to imagine how he might forgive her. But 
 as soon as the thought of " him " arose, there 
 surged up in his heart horror, disgust, and wounded 
 pride. He groaned aloud, and tried to think of 
 something else. 
 
 "No, it is impossible; I will hand over the 
 money to Peter to give her monthly. And as for 
 me, I have no longer a daughter." 
 
 And again a curious feeling overpowered him: 
 a mixture of self-pity at the recollection of his 
 love for her, and of fury against her for causing 
 him this anguish. 
 
 II 
 
 During the last year Lisa had without doubt 
 lived through more than in all the preceding 
 twenty-five. Suddenly she had realised the empti- 
 ness of her whole life. It rose before her, base 
 and sordid — this life at home and among the rich 
 set in St. Petersburg — this animal existence that 
 never sounded the depths, but only touched the 
 shallows of life. 
 
 It was well enough for a year or two, or per- 
 haps even three. But when it went on for seven
 
 MY DREAM 227 
 
 or eight years, with its parties, balls, concerts, 
 and suppers; with its costumes and coiffures to 
 display the charms of the body; with its adorers 
 old and young, all alike seemingly possessed of 
 some unaccountable right to have everything, to 
 laugh at everything; and with its summer months 
 spent in the same way, everything yielding but a 
 superficial pleasure, even music and reading merely 
 touching upon life's problems, but never solving 
 them — all this holding out no promise of change, 
 and losing its charm more and more — she began 
 to despair. She had desperate moods when she 
 longed to die. 
 
 Her friends directed her thoughts to charity. 
 On the one hand, she saw poverty which was real 
 and repulsive, and a sham poverty even more re- 
 pulsive and pitiable; on the other, she saw the ter- 
 rible indifference of the lady patronesses who came 
 in carriages and gowns worth thousands. Life 
 became to her more and more unbearable. She 
 yearned for something real, for life itself — not 
 this playing at living, not this skimming life of its 
 cream. Of real life there Vv'as none. The best 
 of her memories was her love for the little cadet 
 Koko. That had been a good, honest, straight- 
 forward impulse, and now there was nothing like 
 it. There could not be. She grew more and 
 more depressed, and in this gloomy mood she
 
 228 MY DREAM 
 
 went to visit an aunt in Finland. The fresh 
 scenery and surroundings, the people strangely 
 different to her own, appealed to her at any rate 
 as a new experience. 
 
 How and when it all began she could not 
 clearly remember. Her aunt had another guest, 
 a Swede. He talked of his work, his people, the 
 latest Swedish novel. Somehow, she herself did 
 not know how that terrible fascination of glances 
 and smiles began, the meaning of which cannot be 
 put into words. 
 
 These smiles and glances seemed to reveal to 
 each, not only the soul of the other, but some 
 vital and universal mystery. Every word they 
 spoke was invested by these smiles with a pro- 
 found and wonderful significance. Music, too, 
 when they were listening together, or when they 
 sang duets, became full of the same deep meaning. 
 So, also, the words in the books they read aloud. 
 Sometimes they would argue, but the moment 
 their eyes met, or a smile flashed between them, 
 the discussion remained far behind. They soared 
 beyond it to some higher plane consecrated to 
 themselves. 
 
 How it had come about, how and when the 
 devil, who had seized hold of them both, first 
 appeared behind these smiles and glances, she 
 could not say. But, when terror first seized her,
 
 MY DREAM 229 
 
 the invisible threads that bound them were already 
 so interwoven that she had no power to tear her- 
 self free. She could only count on him and on 
 his honour. She hoped that he would not make 
 use of his power; yet all the while she vaguely de- 
 sired it. 
 
 Her weakness was the greater, because she had 
 nothing to support her in the struggle. She was 
 weary of society life and she had no affection for 
 her mother. Her father, so she thought, had 
 cast her away from him, and she longed passion- 
 ately to live and to have done with play. Love, 
 the perfect love of a woman for a man, held the 
 promise of life for her. Her strong, passionate 
 nature, too, was dragging her thither. In the tall, 
 strong figure of this man, with his fair hair and 
 light upturned moustache, under which shone a 
 smile attractive and compelling, she saw the prom- 
 ise of that life for which she longed. And then 
 the smiles and glances, the hope of something so 
 incredibly beautiful, led, as they were bound to 
 lead, to that which she feared but unconsciously 
 awaited. 
 
 Suddenly all that was beautiful, joyous, spir- 
 itual, and full of promise for the future, became 
 animal and sordid, sad and despairing. 
 
 She looked into his eyes and tried to smile, 
 pretending that she feared nothing, that every-
 
 230 MY DREAM 
 
 thing was as It should be; but deep down in her 
 soul she knew It was all over. She understood 
 that she had not found in him what she had 
 sought; that which she had once known in herself 
 and in Koko. She told him that he must write to 
 her father asking her hand in marriage. This he 
 promised to do; but when she met him next he said 
 it was impossible for him to write just then. She 
 saw something vague and furtive In his eyes, and 
 her distrust of him grew. The following day he 
 wrote to her, telling her that he was already mar- 
 ried, though his wife had left him long since; 
 that he knew she would despise him for the wrong 
 he had done her, and implored her forgiveness. 
 She made him come to see her. She said she 
 loved him; that she felt herself bound to him for 
 ever whether he was married or not, and would 
 never leave him. The next time they met he told 
 her that he and his parents were so poor that he 
 could only offer her the meanest existence. She 
 answered that she needed nothing, and was ready 
 to go with him at once wherever he wished. He 
 endeavoured to dissuade her, advising her to wait; 
 and so she waited. But to live on with this se- 
 cret, with occasional meetings, and merely cor- 
 responding with him, all hidden from her family, 
 was agonising, and she insisted again that he must 
 take her away. At first, when she returned to St.
 
 MY DREAM 231 
 
 Petersburg, he wrote promising to come, and then 
 letters ceased and she knew no more of him. 
 
 She tried to lead her old life, but it was Im- 
 possible. She fell ill, and the efforts of the doc- 
 tors were unavailing; in her hopelessness she 
 resolved to kill herself. But how was she to do 
 this, so that her death might seem natural? She 
 really desired to take her life, and imagined that 
 she had irrevocably decided on the step. So, ob- 
 taining some poison, she poured it into a glass, 
 and in another instant would have drunk It, had 
 not her sister's little son of five at that very mo- 
 ment run in to show her a toy his grandmother had 
 given him. She caressed the child, and, suddenly 
 stopping short, burst into tears. 
 
 The thought overpowered her that she, too, 
 might have been a mother had he not been mar- 
 ried, and this vision of motherhood made her look 
 into her own soul for the first time. She began to 
 think not of what others would say of her, but of 
 her own life. To kill oneself because of what 
 the world might say was easy; but the moment she 
 saw her own life dissociated from the world, to 
 take that life was out of the question. She threw 
 away the poison, and ceased to think of sui- 
 cide. 
 
 Then her life within began. It was real life, 
 and despite the torture of it, had the possibility
 
 232 MY DREAM 
 
 been given her, she would not have turned back 
 from it. She began to pray, but there was no 
 comfort in prayer; and her suffering was less for 
 herself than for her father, whose grief she fore- 
 saw and understood. 
 
 Thus months dragged along, and then some- 
 thing happened which entirely transformed her 
 life. One day, when she was at work upon a 
 quilt, she suddenly experienced a strange sensa- 
 tion. No — it seemed impossible. Motionless 
 she sat with her work in hand. Was It possi- 
 ble that this was It. Forgetting everything, his 
 baseness and deceit, her mother's querulousness, 
 and her father's sorrow, she smiled. She shud- 
 dered at the recollection that she was on the point 
 of killing it, together with herself. 
 
 She now directed all her thoughts to getting 
 away — somewhere where she could bear her 
 child — and become a miserable, pitiful mother, 
 but a mother withal. Somehow she planned and 
 arranged it all, leaving her home and settling in a 
 distant provincial town, where no one could find 
 her, and where she thought she would be far from 
 her people. But, unfortunately, her father's 
 brother received an appointment there, a thing she 
 could not possibly foresee. Por four months she 
 had been living in the house of a midwife — one 
 Maria Ivanovna; and, on learning that her uncle
 
 MY DREAM 233 
 
 had come to the town, she was preparing to fly to 
 a still remoter hiding-place. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Michael Ivanovich awoke early next morning. 
 He entered his brother's study, and handed him 
 the cheque, filled in for a sum which he asked him 
 to pay in monthly instalments to his daughter. 
 He inquired when the express left for St. Peters- 
 burg. The train left at seven in the evening, 
 giving him time for an early dinner before leav- 
 ing. He breakfasted with his sister-in-law, who 
 refrained from mentioning the subject which was 
 so painful to him, but only looked at him timidly; 
 and after breakfast he went out for his regular 
 morning walk. 
 
 Alexandra Dmitrievna followed him into the 
 hall. 
 
 "Go into the public gardens, Michael — it is 
 very charming there, and quite near to Every- 
 thing," said she, meeting his sombre looks with a 
 pathetic glance. 
 
 Michael Ivanovich followed her advice and 
 went to the public gardens, which were so near to 
 Everything, and meditated with annoyance on the 
 stupidity, the obstinacy, and heartlessness of 
 women.
 
 234 MY DREAM 
 
 " She is not in the very least sorry for me," he 
 thought of his sister-in-law. " She cannot even 
 understand my sorrow. And what of her?" 
 He was thinking of his daughter. " She knows 
 what all this means to me — the torture. What 
 a blow in one's old age! My days will be short- 
 ened by it! But I'd rather have it over than 
 endure this agony. And all that 'pour les beaux 
 yeux d'un chetuipau ' — oh!" he moaned; and a 
 wave of hatred and fury arose in him as he 
 thought of what would be said in the town when 
 every one knew. (And no doubt every one knew 
 already.) Such a feeling of rage possessed him 
 that he would have liked to beat it into her head, 
 and make her understand what she had done. 
 These women never understand. " It is quite 
 near Everything," suddenly came to his mind, and 
 getting out his notebook, he found her address. 
 Vera Ivanovna Silvestrova, Kukonskaya Street, 
 Abromov's house. She was living under this 
 name. He left the gardens and called a cab. 
 
 "Whom do you wish to see, sir?" asked the 
 midwife, Maria Ivanovna, when he stepped on 
 the narrow landing of the steep, stuffy staircase. 
 
 "Does Madame Silvestrova live here?" 
 
 "Vera Ivanovna? Yes; please come in. She 
 has gone out; she's gone to the shop round the 
 corner. But she'll be back in a minute."
 
 MY DREAM 235 
 
 Michael Ivanovich followed the stout figure of 
 Maria Ivanovna into a tiny parlour, and from the 
 next room came the screams of a baby, sounding 
 cross and peevish, which filled him with disgust. 
 They cut him like a knife. 
 
 Maria Ivanovna apologised, and went into the 
 room, and he could hear her soothing the child. 
 The child became quiet, and she returned. 
 
 "That is her baby; she'll be back in a minute. 
 You are a friend of hers, I suppose? " 
 
 "Yes — a friend — but I think I had better 
 come back later on," said Michael Ivanovich, pre- 
 paring to go. It was too unbearable, this prep- 
 aration to meet her, and any explanation seemed 
 impossible. 
 
 He had just turned to leave, when he heard 
 quick, light steps on the stairs, and he recognised 
 Lisa's voice. 
 
 " Maria Ivanovna — has he been crying while 
 I ve been gone — I was — " 
 
 Then she saw her father. The parcel she was 
 carrying fell from her hands. 
 
 " Father! " she cried, and stopped in the door- 
 way, white and trembling. 
 
 He remained motionless, staring at her. She 
 had grown so thin. Her eyes were larger, her 
 nose sharper, her hands worn and bony. He 
 neither knew what to do, nor what to say. He
 
 236 MY DREAM 
 
 forgot all his grief about his dishonour. He only 
 felt sorrow, infinite sorrow for her; sorrow for 
 her thinness, and for her miserable rough cloth- 
 ing; and most of all, for her pitiful face and im- 
 ploring eyes. 
 
 " Father — forgive," she said, moving towards 
 him. 
 
 "Forgive — forgive me," he murmured; and 
 he began to sob like a child, kissing her face and 
 hands, and wetting them with his tears. 
 
 In his pity for her he understood himself. And 
 when he saw himself as he was, he realised how 
 he had wronged her, how guilty he had been in 
 his pride, in his coldness, even in his anger towards 
 her. He was glad that it was he who was guilty, 
 and that he had nothing to forgive, but that he 
 himself needed forgiveness. She took him to her 
 tiny room, and told him how she lived; but she 
 did not show him the child, nor did she mention 
 the past, knowing how painful it would be to him. 
 
 He told her that she must live differently. 
 
 " Yes; if I could only live in the country," said 
 she. 
 
 " We will talk it over," he said. Suddenly 
 the child began to wail and to scream. She 
 opened her eyes very wide; and, not taking them 
 from her father's face, remained hesitating and 
 motionless.
 
 MY DREAM 237 
 
 "Well — I suppose you must feed him," said 
 Michael Ivanovich, and frowned with the obvious 
 effort. 
 
 She got up, and suddenly the wild idea seized 
 her to show him whom she loved so deeply the 
 thing she now loved best of all in the world. 
 But first she looked at her father's face. Would 
 he be angry or not? His face revealed no anger, 
 only suffering. 
 
 " Yes, go, go," said he; " God bless you. Yes. 
 I'll come again to-morrow, and we will decide. 
 Good-bye, my darling — good-bye." Again he 
 found it hard to swallow the lump in his throat. 
 
 When Michael Ivanovich returned to his 
 brother's house, Alexandra Dmitrlevna imme- 
 diately rushed to him. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Well? Nothing." 
 
 "Have you seen?" she asked, guessing from 
 his expression that something had happened. 
 
 " Yes," he answered shortly, and began to cry. 
 " I'm getting old and stupid," said he, mastering 
 his emotion. 
 
 "No; you are growing wise — very wise."
 
 THERE ARE NO GUILTY PEOPLE
 
 THERE ARE NO GUILTY PEOPLE 
 
 I 
 
 Mine is a strange and wonderful lot! The 
 chances are that there is not a single wretched 
 beggar suffering under the luxury and oppression 
 of the rich who feels anything like as keenly as I 
 do either the injustice, the cruelty, and the horror 
 of their oppression of and contempt for the poor; 
 or the grinding humiliation and misery which 
 befall the great majority of the workers, the real 
 producers of all that makes life possible. I have 
 felt this for a long time, and as the years have 
 passed by the feeling has grown and grown, until 
 recently it reached its climax. Although I feel all 
 this so vividly, I still live on amid the depravity 
 and sins of rich society; and I cannot leave it, 
 because I have neither the knowledge nor the 
 strength to do so. I cannot. I do not know 
 how to change my life so that my physical needs 
 — food, sleep, clothing, my going to and fro — 
 may be satisfied without a sense of shame and 
 wrongdoing in the position which I fill. 
 
 241
 
 242 THERE ARE NO GUILTY PEOPLE 
 
 There was a time when I tried to change my 
 position, which was not in harmony with my 
 conscience; but the conditions created by the past, 
 by my family and its claims upon me, were so 
 complicated that they would not let me out of 
 their grasp, or rather, I did not know how to free 
 myself. I had not the strength. Now that I am 
 over eighty and have become feeble, I have given 
 up trying to free myself; and, strange to say, as 
 my feebleness increases I realise more and more 
 strongly the wrongfulness of my position, and it 
 grows more and more intolerable to me. 
 
 It has occurred to me that I do not occupy this 
 position for nothing: that Providence intended 
 that I should lay bare the truth of my feelings, so 
 that I might atone for all that causes my suffering, 
 and might perhaps open the eyes of those — or at 
 least of some of those — who are still blind to 
 what I see so clearly, and thus might lighten the 
 burden of that vast majority who, under existing 
 conditions, are subjected to bodily and spiritual 
 suffering by those who deceive them and also 
 deceive themselves. Indeed, it may be that the 
 position which I occupy gives me special facilities 
 for revealing the artificial and criminal relations 
 which exist between men — for telling the whole 
 truth In regard to that position without confusing 
 the issue by attempting to vindicate myself, and
 
 THERE ARE NO GUILTY PEOPLE 243 
 
 without rousing the envy of the rich and feelings 
 of oppression in the hearts of the poor and down- 
 trodden. I am so placed that I not only have no 
 desire to vindicate myself; but, on the contrary, I 
 find it necessary to make an effort lest I should 
 exaggerate the wickedness of the great among 
 whom I live, of whose society I am ashamed, 
 whose attitude towards their fellow-men I detest 
 with my whole soul, though I find it impossible to 
 separate my lot from theirs. But I must also 
 avoid the error of those democrats and others 
 who, in defending the oppressed and the enslaved, 
 do not see their failings and mistakes, and who do 
 not make sufficient allowance for the difficulties 
 created, the mistakes inherited from the past, 
 which in a degree lessens the responsibility of the 
 upper classes. 
 
 Free from desire for self-vindication, free from 
 fear of an emancipated people, free from that 
 p.nvy and hatred which the oppressed feel for their 
 oppressors, I am in the best possible position to 
 see the truth and to tell it. Perhaps that is why 
 Providence placed me in such a position. I will 
 do my best to turn it to account.
 
 244 THERE ARE NO GUILTY PEOPLE 
 
 II 
 
 Alexander Ivanovich Volgin, a bachelor and a 
 clerk in a Moscow bank at a salary of eight 
 thousand roubles a year, a man much respected in 
 his own set, was staying in a country-house. His 
 host was a wealthy landowner, owning some 
 twenty-five hundred acres, and had married his 
 guest's cousin. Volgin, tired after an evening 
 spent in playing vint * for small stakes with mem- 
 bers of the family, went to his room and placed 
 his watch, silver cigarette-case, pocket-book, big 
 leather purse, and pocket-brush and comb on a 
 small table covered with a white cloth, and then, 
 taking off his coat, waistcoat, shirt, trousers, and 
 underclothes, his silk socks and English boots, put 
 on his nightshirt and dressing-gown. His watch 
 pointed to midnight. Volgin smoked a cigarette, 
 lay on his face for about five minutes reviewing 
 the day's impressions; then, blowing out his 
 candle, he turned over on his side and fell asleep 
 about one o'clock, in spite of a good deal of rest- 
 lessness. Awaking next morning at eight he put 
 on his slippers and dressing-gown, and rang the 
 bell. 
 
 The old butler, Stephen, the father of a 
 
 * A game of cards similar to auction bridge.
 
 THERE ARE NO GUILTY PEOPLE 245 
 
 family and the grandfather of six grandchildren, 
 who had served in that house for thirty years, 
 entered the room hurriedly, with bent legs, carry- 
 ing in the newly blackened boots which Volgin had 
 taken off the night before, a well-brushed suit, and 
 a clean shirt. The guest thanked him, and then 
 asked what the weather was like (the blinds were 
 drawn so that the sun should not prevent any one 
 from sleeping till eleven o'clock if he were so 
 inclined), and whether his hosts had slept well. 
 He glanced at his watch — it was still early — 
 and began to wash and dress. His water was 
 ready, and everything on the washing-stand and 
 dressing-table was ready for use and properly laid 
 out — his soap, his tooth and hair brushes, his nail 
 scissors and files. He washed his hands and face 
 in a leisurely fashion, cleaned and manicured his 
 nails, pushed back the skin with the towel, and 
 • sponged his stout white body from head to foot. 
 Then he began to brush his hair. Standing in 
 front of the mirror, he first brushed his curly 
 beard, which was beginning to turn grey, with two 
 English brushes, parting it down the middle. 
 Then he combed his hair, which was already show- 
 ing signs of getting thin, with a large tortoise- 
 shell comb. Putting on his underlinen, his socks, 
 his boots, his trousers — which were held up by 
 elegant braces — and his waistcoat, he sat down
 
 246 THERE ARE NO GUILTY PEOPLE 
 
 coatless in an easy chair to rest after dressing, lit 
 a cigarette, and began to think where he should go 
 for a walk that morning — to the park or to Lit- 
 tleports (what a funny name for a wood!). He 
 thought he would go to Littleports. Then he 
 must answer Simon Nicholaevich's letter; but 
 there was time enough for that. Getting up with 
 an air of resolution, he took out his watch. It 
 was already five minutes to nine. He put his 
 watch into his waistcoat pocket, and his purse — 
 with all that was left of the hundred and eighty 
 roubles he had taken for his journey, and for the 
 incidental expenses of his fortnight's stay with 
 his cousin — and then he placed into his trouser 
 pocket his cigarette-case and electric cigarette- 
 lighter, and two clean handkerchiefs into his coat 
 pockets, and went out of the room, leaving as 
 usual the mess and confusion which he had made 
 to be cleared up by Stephen, an old man of over 
 fifty. Stephen expected Volgin to " remunerate " 
 him, as he said, being so accustomed to the work 
 that he did not feel the slightest repugnance for it. 
 Glancing at a mirror, and feeling satisfied with 
 his appearance, Volgin went into the dining-room. 
 There, thanks to the efforts of the housekeeper, 
 the footman, and under-butler — the latter had 
 risen at dawn in order to run home to sharpen his 
 son's scythe — breakfast was ready. On a spot- 
 less white cloth stood a boiling, shiny, silver
 
 THERE ARE NO GUILTY PEOPLE 247 
 
 samovar (at least it looked like silver), a coffee- 
 pot, hot milk, cream, butter, and all sorts of fancy 
 white bread and biscuits. The only persons at 
 table were the second son of the house, his tutor 
 (a student), and the secretary. The host, who 
 was an active member of the Zemstvo and a great 
 farmer, had already left the house, having gone 
 at eight o'clock to attend to his work. Volgin, 
 while drinking his coffee, talked to the student 
 and the secretary about the weather, and yester- 
 day's vint, and discussed Theodorite's peculiar be- 
 haviour the night before, as he had been very 
 rude to his father without the slightest cause. 
 Theodorite was the grown-up son of the house, 
 and a ne'er-do-well. His name was Theodore, 
 but some one had once called him Theodorite 
 either as a joke or to tease him; and, as it seemed 
 funny, the name stuck to him, although his doings 
 were no longer in the least amusing. So it was 
 now. He had been to the university, but left it 
 in his second year, and joined a regiment of horse 
 guards; but he gave that up also, and was now 
 living in the country, doing nothing, finding fault, 
 and feeling discontented with everything. Theo- 
 dorite was still in bed: so were the other members 
 of the household — Anna Mikhailovna, its mis- 
 tress; her sister, the widow of a general; and a 
 landscape painter who lived with the family. 
 Volgin took his panama hat from the hall table
 
 248 THERE ARE NO GUILTY PEOPLE 
 
 (it had cost twenty roubles) and his cane with its 
 carved ivory handle, and went out. Crossing the 
 veranda, gay with flowers, he walked through the 
 flower garden, in the centre of which was a raised 
 round bed, with rings of red, white, and blue 
 flowers, and the initials of the mistress of the 
 house done in carpet bedding in the centre. 
 Leaving the flower garden Volgin entered the 
 avenue of lime trees, hundreds of years old, which 
 peasant girls were tidying and sweeping with 
 spades and brooms. The gardener was busy 
 measuring, and a boy was bringing something in 
 a cart. Passing these Volgin went into the park 
 of at least a hundred and twenty-five acres, 
 filled with fine old trees, and intersected by a 
 network of well-kept walks. Smoking as he 
 strolled Volgin took his favourite path past the 
 summer-house into the fields beyond. It was 
 pleasant in the park, but it was still nicer in the 
 fields. On the right some women who were dig- 
 ging potatoes formed a mass of bright red and 
 white colour; on the left were wheat fields, mead- 
 ows, and grazing cattle; and in the foreground, 
 slightly to the right, were the dark, dark oaks of 
 Littleports. Volgin took a deep breath, and felt 
 glad that he was alive, especially here in his 
 cousin's home, where he was so thoroughly en- 
 joying the rest from his work at the bank.
 
 THERE ARE NO GUILTY PEOPLE 249 
 
 " Lucky people to live In the country," he 
 thought. " True, what with his farming and his 
 Zemstvo, the owner of the estate has very little 
 peace even in the country, but that Is his own 
 lookout." Volgin shook his head, lit another 
 cigarette, and, stepping out firmly with his power- 
 ful feet clad in his thick English boots, began to 
 think of the heavy winter's work in the bank that 
 was in front of him. " I shall be there every day 
 from ten to two, sometimes even till five. And 
 the board meetings. . . , And private inter- 
 views with clients. . . . Then the Duma. 
 Whereas here. ... It is delightful. It 
 may be a little dull, but it is not for long." He 
 smiled. After a stroll In LIttleports he turned 
 back, going straight across a fallow field which 
 was being ploughed. A herd of cows, calves, 
 sheep, and pigs, which belonged to the village 
 community, was grazing there. The shortest 
 way to the park was to pass through the herd. 
 He frightened the sheep, which ran away one 
 after another, and were followed by the pigs, of 
 which two little ones stared solemnly at him. 
 The shepherd boy called to the sheep and cracked 
 his whip. " How far behind Europe we are," 
 thought Volgin, recalling his frequent holidays 
 abroad. " You would not find a single cow like 
 that anywhere in Europe." Then, wanting to
 
 250 THERE ARE NO GUILTY PEOPLE 
 
 find out where the path which branched off from 
 the one he was on led to and who was the owner 
 of the herd, he called to the boy. 
 
 "Whose herd is it?" 
 
 The boy was so filled with wonder, verging on 
 terror, when he gazed at the hat, the well-brushed 
 beard, and above all the gold-rimmed eyeglasses, 
 that he could not reply at once. When Volgin 
 repeated his question the boy pulled himself to- 
 gether, and said, " Ours." " But whose is 
 'ours'?" said Volgin, shaking his head and 
 smiling. The boy was wearing shoes of plaited 
 birch bark, bands of linen round his legs, a dirty, 
 unbleached shirt ragged at the shoulder, and a cap 
 the peak of which had been torn. 
 
 "Whose is 'ours'?" 
 
 " The Pirogov village herd." 
 
 " How old are you? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " Can you read? " 
 
 " No, I can't." 
 
 "Didn't vou go to school?" 
 
 "Yes, I did." 
 
 " Couldn't you learn to read?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 "Where does that path lead?" 
 
 The boy told him, and Volgin went on to- 
 wards the house, thinking how he would chaff
 
 THERE ARE NO GUILTY PEOPLE 251 
 
 Nicholas Petrovich about the deplorable condi- 
 tion of the village schools in spite of all his ef- 
 forts. 
 
 On approaching the house Volgin looked at his 
 watch, and saw that it was already past eleven. 
 He remembered that Nicholas Petrovich was 
 going to drive to the nearest town, and that he 
 had meant to give him a letter to post to Moscow; 
 but the letter was not written. The letter was a 
 very important one to a friend, asking him to bid 
 for him for a picture of the Madonna which was 
 to be offered for sale at an auction. As he 
 reached the house he saw at the door four big, 
 well-fed, well-groomed, thoroughbred horses har- 
 nessed to a carriage, the black lacquer of which 
 glistened in the sun. The coachman was seated 
 on the box in a kaftan, with a silver belt, and the 
 horses were jingling their silver bells from time 
 to time. 
 
 A bare-headed, bare-footed peasant in a ragged 
 kaftan stood at the front door. He bowed. 
 Volgin asked what he wanted. 
 
 " I have come to see Nicholas Petrovich." 
 
 "What about?" 
 
 "Because I am in distress — my horse has 
 died." 
 
 Volgin began to question him. The peasant 
 told him how he was situated. He had five chil-
 
 252 THERE ARE NO GUILTY PEOPLE 
 
 dren, and this had been his only horse. Now 
 it was gone. He wept. 
 
 " What are you going to do? " 
 
 " To beg." And he knelt down, and remained 
 kneehng in spite of Volgin's expostulations. 
 
 " What is your name? " 
 
 " Mitri Sudarikov," answered the peasant, still 
 kneeling. 
 
 Volgin took three roubles from his purse and 
 gave them to the peasant, who showed his grat- 
 itude by touching the ground with his forehead, 
 and then went into the house. His host was 
 standing in the hall. 
 
 " Where is your letter? " he asked, approach- 
 ing Volgin; " I am just off." 
 
 " I'm awfully sorry, I'll write it this minute, if 
 you will let me. I forgot all about it. It's so 
 pleasant here that one can forget anything." 
 
 " All right, but do be quick. The horses have 
 already been standing a quarter of an hour, and 
 the flies are biting viciously. Can you wait, Ar- 
 senty?" he asked the coachman. 
 
 "Why not?" said the coachman, thinking to 
 himself, " why do they order the horses when 
 they aren't ready? The rush the grooms and I 
 had — just to stand here and feed the flies." 
 
 " Directly, directly," Volgin went towards his 
 room, but turned back to ask Nicholas Petrovich 
 about the begging peasant.
 
 THERE ARE NO GUILTY PEOPLE 253 
 
 "Did you see him? — He's a drunkard, but 
 still he is to be pitied. Do be quick! " 
 
 Volgin got out his case, with all the requisites 
 for writing, wrote the letter, made out a cheque 
 for a hundred and eighty roubles, and, sealing 
 down the envelope, took it to Nicholas Petrovich. 
 
 " Good-bye." 
 
 Volgin read the newspapers till luncheon. He 
 only read the Liberal papers: The Russian 
 Gazette, Speech, sometimes TJie Russian JVord 
 — but he would not touch The New Tiines, to 
 which his host subscribed. 
 
 While he was scanning at his ease the political 
 news, the Tsar's doings, the doings of President, 
 and ministers and decisions in the Duma, and was 
 just about to pass on to the general news, thea- 
 tres, science, murders and cholera, he heard the 
 luncheon bell ring. 
 
 Thanks to the efforts of upwards of ten hum.an 
 beings — counting laundresses, gardeners, cooks, 
 kitchen-maids, butlers and footmen — the table 
 was sumptuously laid for eight, with silver water- 
 jugs, decanters, kvass, wine, mineral waters, cut 
 glass, and fine table linen, while two men-servants 
 were continually hurrying to and fro, bringing 
 in and serving, and then clearing away the 
 hors d'ceuvre and the various hot and cold 
 courses. 
 
 The hostess talked incessantly about every-
 
 254 THERE ARE NO GUILTY PEOPLE 
 
 thing that she had been doing, thinking, and say- 
 ing; and she evidently considered that everything 
 that she thought, said, or did was perfect, and 
 that it would please every one except those who 
 were fools. Volgin felt and knew that every- 
 thing she said was stupid, but it would never do 
 to let it be seen, and so he kept up the conversa- 
 tion. Theodorite was glum and silent; the stu- 
 dent occasionally exchanged a few words with the 
 widow. Now and again there was a pause in 
 the conversation, and then Theodorite interposed, 
 and every one became miserably depressed. At 
 such moments the hostess ordered some dish that 
 had not been served, and the footman hurried 
 off to the kitchen, or to the housekeeper, and hur- 
 ried back again. Nobody felt inclined either to 
 talk or to eat. But they all forced themselves 
 to eat and to talk, and so luncheon went on. 
 
 The peasant who had been begging because his 
 horse had died was named Mitri Sudarikov. He 
 had spent the whole day before he went to the 
 squire over his dead horse. First of all he went 
 to the knacker, Sanin, who lived in a village near. 
 The knacker was out, but he waited for him, and 
 it was dinner-time when he had finished bargain- 
 ing over the price of the skin. Then he bor- 
 rowed a neighbour's horse to take his own to a 
 field to be buried, as it is forbidden to bury dead
 
 THERE ARE NO GUILTY PEOPLE 255 
 
 animals near a village. Adrian would not lend 
 his horse because he was getting in his potatoes, 
 but Stephen took pity on Mitri and gave way to 
 his persuasion. He even lent a hand in lifting 
 the dead horse into the cart. Mitri tore off the 
 shoes from the forelegs and gave them to his 
 wife. One was broken, but the other one was 
 whole. While he was digging the grave with a 
 spade which was very blunt, the knacker appeared 
 and took off the skin; and the carcass was then 
 thrown into the hole and covered up. Mitri felt 
 tired, and went into Matrena's hut, where he 
 drank half a bottle of vodka with Sanin to con- 
 sole himself. Then he went home, quarrelled 
 with his wife, and lay down to sleep on the hay. 
 He did not undress, but slept just as he was, with 
 a ragged coat for a coverlet. His wife was in 
 the hut with the girls — there were four of them, 
 and the youngest was only five weeks old. Mitri 
 woke up before dawn as usual. He groaned as 
 the memory of the day before broke in upon him 
 — ■ how the horse had struggled and struggled, 
 and then fallen down. Now there was no horse, 
 and all he had was the price of the skin, four 
 roubles and eighty kopeks. Getting up he ar- 
 ranged the linen bands on his legs, and went 
 through the yard into the hut. His wife was put- 
 ting straw into the stove with one hand, with
 
 256 THERE ARE NO GUILTY PEOPLE 
 
 the other she was holding a baby girl to her 
 breast, which was hanging out of her dirty- 
 chemise. 
 
 Mitrl crossed himself three times, turning 
 towards the corner in which the ikons hung, and 
 repeated some utterly meaningless words, which 
 he called prayers, to the Trinity and the Virgin, 
 the Creed and our Father, 
 
 " Isn't there any water? " 
 
 " The girl's gone for it. I've got some tea. 
 Will you go up to the squire? " 
 
 " Yes, I'd better." The smoke from the stove 
 made him cough. He took a rag off the wooden 
 bench and went into the porch. The girl had 
 just come back with the water. Mitri filled his 
 mouth with water from the pail and squirted it 
 out on his hands, took some more in his mouth 
 to wash his face, dried himself with the rag, then 
 parted and smoothed his curly hair with his fin- 
 gers and went out. A little girl of about ten, 
 with nothing on but a dirty shirt, came towards 
 him. "Good-morning, Uncle Mitri," she said; 
 " you are to come and thrash." " All right, I'll 
 come," replied Mitri. He understood that he 
 was expected to return the help given the week 
 before by Kumushkir, a man as poor as he was 
 himself, when he was thrashing his own corn with 
 a horse-driven machine, 
 
 " Tell them I'll come — I'll come at lunch time.
 
 THERE ARE NO GUILTY PEOPLE 257 
 
 Lve got to go to Ugrumi." Mitrl went back to 
 the hut, and changing his birch-bark shoes and the 
 linen bands on his legs, started off to see the 
 squire. After he had got three roubles from 
 Volgin, and the same sum from Nicholas Petro- 
 
 j vich, he returned to his house, gave the money to 
 
 his wife, and went to his neighbour's. The thrash- 
 ing machine was humming, and the driver was 
 shouting. The lean horses were going slowly 
 round him, straining at their traces. The driver 
 was shouting to them in a monotone, " Now, there, 
 
 * my dears." Some women were unbinding sheaves, 
 
 others were raking up the scattered straw and ears, 
 and others again were gathering great armfuls of 
 corn and handing them to the men to feed the 
 machine. The work was in full swing. In the 
 kitchen garden, which Mitri had to pass, a girl, 
 clad only in a long shirt, was digging potatoes 
 which she put into a basket, 
 "Where's your grandfather?" asked Mitri. 
 " He's In the barn." Mitri went to the barn and 
 set to work at once. The old man of eighty knew 
 of Mitri's trouble. After greeting him, he gave 
 him his place to feed the machine. 
 
 Mitri took off his ragged coat, laid It out of the 
 way near the fence, and then began to work vig- 
 orously, raking the corn together and throwing 
 it into the machine. The work went on without 
 interruption until the dinner-hour. The cocks
 
 258 THERE ARE NO GUILTY PEOPLE 
 
 had crowed two or three times, but no one paid 
 any attention to them; not because the workers 
 did not believe them, but because they were 
 scarcely heard for the noise of the work and the 
 talk about it. At last the whistle of the squire's 
 steam thrasher sounded three miles away, and then 
 the owner came into the barn. He was a straight 
 old man of eighty. " It's time to stop," he said; 
 " It's dinner-time." Those at work seemed to 
 redouble their efforts. In a moment the straw 
 was cleared away; the grain that had been 
 thrashed was separated from the chaff and brought 
 in, and then the workers went into the hut. 
 
 The hut was smoke-begrimed, as its stove had 
 no chimney, but it had been tidied up, and benches 
 stood round the table, making room for all those 
 who had been working, of whom there were nine, 
 not counting the owners. Bread, soup, boiled 
 potatoes, and kvass were placed on the table. 
 
 An old one-armed beggar, with a bag slung over 
 his shoulder, came in with a crutch during the meal, 
 " Peace be to this house. A good appetite to 
 you. For Christ's sake give me something." 
 
 " God will give it to you," said the mistress, 
 already an old woman, and the daughter-in-law of 
 the master. " Don't be angry with us." An old 
 man, who was still standing near the door, said, 
 *' Give him some bread, Martha. How can you ? "
 
 THERE ARE NO GUILTY PEOPLE 259 
 
 " I am only wondering whether we shall have 
 enough." " Oh, It Is wrong, Martha. God tells 
 us to help the poor. Cut him a slice." 
 
 Martha obeyed. The beggar went away. The 
 man In charge of the thrashing-machine got up, 
 said grace, thanked his hosts, and went away to 
 rest. 
 
 MItrl did not He down, but ran to the shop to 
 buy some tobacco. He was longing for a smoke. 
 While he smoked he chatted to a man from 
 Demensk, asking the price of cattle, as he saw 
 that he would not be able to manage without sell- 
 ing a cow. When he returned to the others, they 
 were already back at work again; and so It went 
 on till the evening. 
 
 Among these downtrodden, duped, and de- 
 frauded men, who are becoming demoralised by 
 overwork, and being gradually done to death 
 by underfeeding, there are men living who 
 consider themselves Chrlstl'ans ; and others so 
 enlightened that they feel no further need for 
 Christianity or for any religion, so superior do 
 they appear In their own esteem. And yet their 
 hideous, lazy lives are supported by the degrading, 
 excessive labour of these slaves, not to mention 
 the labour of millions of other slaves, tolling In 
 factories to produce samovars, silver, carriages, 
 machines, and the like for their use. They live
 
 26o THERE ARE NO GUILTY PEOPLE 
 
 among these horrors, seeing them and yet not 
 seeing them, although often kind at heart — old 
 men and women, young men and maidens, mothers 
 and children — poor children who are being viti- 
 ated and trained into moral blindness. 
 
 Here is a bachelor grown old, the owner of 
 thousands of acres, who has lived a life of idle- 
 ness, greed, and over-indulgence, who reads The 
 New Times, and is astonished that the govern- 
 ment can be so unwise as to permit Jews to enter 
 the university. There is his guest, formerly the 
 governor of a province, now a senator with a big 
 salary, who reads with satisfaction that a congress 
 of lawyers has passed a resolution in favor of 
 capital punishment. Their political enemy, N. P., 
 reads a liberal paper, and cannot understand the 
 blindness of the government in allowing the union 
 of Russian men to exist. 
 
 Here is a kind, gentle mother of a little girl 
 reading a story to her about Fox, a dog that 
 lamed some rabbits. And here is this little girl. 
 During her walks she sees other children, bare- 
 footed, hungry, hunting for green apples that have 
 fallen from the trees; and, so accustomed is she 
 to the sight, that these children do not seem to her 
 to be children such as she is, but only part of the 
 usual surroundings — the familiar landscape. 
 
 Why is this?
 
 THE YOUNG TSAR
 
 h 
 
 THE YOUNG TSAR 
 
 The young Tsar had just ascended the throne. 
 For five weeks he had worked without ceasing, in 
 the way that Tsars are accustomed to work. He 
 had been attending to reports, signing papers, re- 
 ceiving ambassadors and high officials who came 
 to be presented to him, and reviewing troops. He 
 was tired, and as a traveller exhausted by heat 
 and thirst longs for a draught of water and for 
 rest, so he longed for a respite of just one day 
 at least from receptions, from speeches, from 
 parades — a few free hours to spend like an ordi- 
 nary human being with his young, clever, and 
 beautiful wife, to whom he had been married only 
 a month before. 
 
 It was Christmas Eve. The young Tsar had 
 arranged to have a complete rest that evening. 
 The night before he had worked till very late at 
 documents which his ministers of state had left 
 for him to examine. In the morning he was 
 present at the Te Deiivi, and then at a military 
 service. In the afternoon he received official 
 visitors; and later he had been obliged to listen 
 
 263
 
 264 THE YOUNG TSAR 
 
 to the reports of three ministers of state, and had 
 given his assent to many important matters. In 
 his conference with the Minister of Finance he 
 had agreed to an increase of duties on imported 
 goods, which should in the future add many mil- 
 lions to the State revenues. Then he sanctioned 
 the sale of brandy by the Crown in various parts 
 of the country, and signed a decree permitting the 
 sale of alcohol in villages having markets. This 
 was also calculated to increase the principal 
 revenue to the State, which was derived from the 
 sale of spirits. He had also approved of the 
 issuing of a new gold loan required for a financial 
 negotiation. The Minister of Justice having re- 
 ported on the complicated case of the succession 
 of the Baron Snyders, the young Tsar confirmed 
 the decision by his signature; and also approved 
 the new rules relating to the application of Arti- 
 cle 1830 of the penal code, providing for the pun- 
 ishment of tramps. In his conference with the 
 Minister of the Interior he ratified the order con- 
 cerning the collection of taxes in arrears, signed 
 the order settling what measures should be taken 
 in regard to the persecution of religious dissenters, 
 and also one providing for the continuance of 
 martial law in those provinces where it had al- 
 ready been established. With the Minister of 
 War he arranged for the nomination of a new
 
 THE YOUNG TSAR 265 
 
 Corps Commander for the raising of recruits, and 
 for punishment of breach of discipline. These 
 things kept him occupied till dinner-time, and even 
 then his freedom was not complete. A number 
 of high officials had been invited to dinner, and 
 he was obliged to talk to them : not in the way he 
 felt disposed to do, but according to what he was 
 expected to say. At last the tiresome dinner was 
 over, and the guests departed. 
 
 The young Tsar heaved a sigh of relief, 
 stretched himself and retired to his apartments 
 to take off his uniform with the decorations on it, 
 and to don the jacket he used to wear before his 
 accession to the throne. His young wife had also 
 retired to take off her dinner-dress, remarking 
 that she would join him presently. 
 
 When he had passed the row of footmen who 
 were standing erect before him, and reached his 
 room; when he had thrown off his heavy uniform 
 and put on his jacket, the young Tsar felt glad to 
 be free from work; and his heart was filled with a 
 tender emotion which sprang from the conscious- 
 ness of his freedom, of his joyous, robust young 
 life, and of his love. He threw himself on the 
 sofa, stretched out his legs upon It, leaned his head 
 on his hand, fixed his gaze on the dull glass shade 
 oi the lamp, and then a sensation which he had not 
 experienced since his childhood, — the pleasure of
 
 266 THE YOUNG TSAR 
 
 going to sleep, and a drowsiness that was irresist- 
 ible — suddenly came over him. 
 
 " My wife will be here presently and will find 
 ime asleep. No, I must not go to sleep," he 
 thought. He let his elbow drop down, laid his 
 cheek in the palm of his hand, made himself com- 
 fortable, and was so utterly happy that he only 
 felt a desire not to be aroused from this delight- 
 ful state. 
 
 And then what happens to all of us every day 
 happened to him — he fell asleep without know- 
 ing himself when or how. He passed from one 
 state into another without his will having any 
 share in it, without even desiring it, and without 
 regretting the state out of which he had passed. 
 He fell into a heavy sleep which was like death. 
 How long he had slept he did not know, but 
 he was suddenly aroused by the soft touch of a 
 hand upon his shoulder. 
 
 " It is my darling, it is she," he thought. 
 " What a shame to have dozed off! " 
 
 But it was not she. Before his eyes, which 
 were wide open and blinking at the light, she, 
 that charming and beautiful creature whom he was 
 expecting, did not stand, but he stood. Who he 
 was the young Tsar did not know, but somehow 
 it did not strike him that he was a stranger whom 
 he had never seen before. It seemed as if he had
 
 THE YOUNG TSAR 267 
 
 known him for a long time and v/as fond of 
 him, and as if he trusted him as he would trust 
 himself. He had expected his beloved wife, but 
 in her stead that man whom he had never seen 
 before had come. Yet to the young Tsar, who 
 was far from feeling regret or astonishment, it 
 seemed not only a most natural, but also a neces- 
 sary thing to happen. 
 
 " Come! " said the stranger. 
 
 " Yes, let us go," said the young Tsar, not 
 knowing where he was to go, but quite aware 
 that he could not help submitting to the com- 
 mand of the stranger. " But how shall we go? " 
 he asked. < 
 
 " In this way." 
 
 The stranger laid his hand on the Tsar's head, 
 and the Tsar for a moment lost consciousness. 
 He could not tell whether he had been uncon- 
 scious a long or a short time, but when he re- 
 covered his senses he found himself in a strange 
 place. The first thing he was aware of was a 
 strong and stifling smell of sewage. The place 
 in which he stood was a broad passage lit by the 
 red glow of two dim lamps. Running along one 
 side of the passage was a thick wall with windows 
 protected by iron gratings. On the other side 
 were doors secured with locks. In the passage 
 stood a soldier, leaning up against the wall, asleep.
 
 268 THE YOUNG TSAR 
 
 Through the doors the young Tsar heard the 
 muffled sound of living human beings: not of 
 one alone, but of many. He was standing at the 
 side of the young Tsar, and pressing his shoulder 
 slightly with his soft hand, pushed him to the 
 first door, unmindful of the sentry. The young 
 Tsar felt he could not do otherwise than yield, 
 and approached the door. To his amazement 
 the sentry looked straight at him, evidently with- 
 out seeing him, as he neither straightened himself 
 up nor saluted, but yawned loudly and, lifting 
 his hand, scratched the back of his neck. The 
 door had a small hole, and in obedience to the 
 ^pressure of the hand that pushed him, the young 
 Tsar approached a step nearer and put his eye to 
 the small opening. Close to the door, the foul 
 smell that stifled him was stronger, and the young 
 Tsar hesitated to go nearer, but the hand pushed 
 him on. He leaned forward, put his eye close 
 to the opening, and suddenly ceased to perceive 
 the odour. The sight he saw deadened his sense 
 of smell. In a large room, about ten yards long 
 and six yards wide, there walked unceasingly from 
 one end to the other, six men in long grey 
 coats, some in felt boots, some barefoot. There 
 were over twenty men in all in the room, but 
 in that first moment the young Tsar only saw 
 those who were walking with quick, even, silent
 
 THE YOUNG TSAR 269 
 
 steps. It was a horrid sight to watch the con- 
 tinual, quick, aimless movements of the men who 
 passed and overtook each other, turning sharply 
 when they reached the wall, never looking at one 
 another, and evidently concentrated each on his 
 own thoughts. The young Tsar had observed a 
 similar sight one day when he was watching a tiger 
 in a menagerie pacing rapidly with noiseless tread 
 from one end of his cage to the other, waving its 
 tail, silently turning when it reached the bars, and 
 looking at nobody. Of these men one, appar- 
 ently a young peasant, with curly hair, would 
 have been handsome were it not for the unnatural 
 pallor of his face, and the concentrated, wicked, 
 scarcely human, look in his eyes. Another was 
 a Jew, hairy and gloomy. The third was a lean 
 old man, bald, with a beard that had been shaven 
 and had since grown like bristles. The fourth was 
 extraordinarily heavily built, with well-developed 
 muscles, a low receding forehead and a flat nose. 
 The fifth was hardly more than a boy, long, 
 thin, obviously consumptive. The sixth was 
 small and dark, with nervous, convulsive move- 
 ments. He walked as if he were skipping, and 
 muttered continuously to himself. They were 
 all walking rapidly backwards and forwards past 
 the hole through which the young Tsar was look- 
 ing. He watched their faces and their gait with
 
 270 THE YOUNG TSAR 
 
 keen Interest. Having examined them closely, he 
 presently became aware of a number of other men 
 at the back of the room, standing round, or lying 
 on the shelf that served as a bed. Standing close 
 to the door he also saw the pail which caused 
 such an unbearable stench. On the shelf about 
 ten men, entirely covered with their cloaks, were 
 sleeping. A red-haired man with a huge bearti 
 was sitting sideways on the shelf, with his shirt 
 off. He was examining it, lifting it up to the 
 light, and evidently catching the vermin on it. 
 Another man, aged and white as snow, stood with 
 his profile turned towards the door. He was 
 praying, crossing himself, and bowing low, ap- 
 parently so absorbed in his devotions as to be 
 oblivious of all around him. 
 
 " I see — this is a prison," thought the young 
 Tsar. " They certainly deserve pity. It is a 
 dreadful life. But it cannot be helped. It is 
 their own fault." 
 
 . But this thought had hardly come into his 
 head before he, who was his guide, replied to 
 it. 
 
 " They are all here under lock and key by your 
 order. They have all been sentenced in your 
 name. But far from meriting their present con- 
 dition which is due to your human judgment, the 
 greater part of them are far better than you or
 
 THE YOUNG TSAR 271 
 
 those who were their judges and who keep them 
 here. This one " — he pointed to the handsome, 
 curly-headed fellow — " is a murderer. I do not 
 consider him more guilty than those who kill in 
 war or in duelling, and are rewarded for their 
 deeds. He had neither education nor moral 
 guidance, and his life had been cast among thieves 
 and drunkards. This lessens his guilt, but he has 
 done wrong, nevertheless, in being a murderer. 
 »He killed a merchant, to rob him. The other 
 man, the Jew, is a thief, one of a gang of thieves. 
 That uncommonly strong fellow is a horse-stealer, 
 and guilty also, but compared with others not as 
 culpable. Look!" — and suddenly the young 
 Tsar found himself in an open field on a vast 
 frontier. On the right were potato fields; the 
 plants had been rooted out, and were lying in 
 heaps, blackened by the frost; in alternate streaks 
 were rows of winter corn. In the distance a little 
 village with its tiled roofs was visible; on the left 
 were fields of winter corn, and fields of stubble. 
 No one was to be seen on any side, save a black 
 human figure in front at the border-line, a gun 
 slung on his back, and at his feet a dog. On the 
 spot where the young Tsar stood, sitting beside 
 him, almost at his feet, was a young Russian 
 soldier with a green band on his cap, and with his 
 rifle slung over his shoulders, who was rolling up
 
 272 THE YOUNG TSAR 
 
 a paper to make a cigarette. The soldier was 
 obviously unaware of the presence of the young 
 Tsar and his companion, and had not heard them. 
 He did now turn round when the Tsar, who was 
 standing directly over the soldier, asked, " Where 
 are we? " " On the Prussian frontier," his guide 
 answered. Suddenly, far away in front of them, 
 a shot was fired. The soldier jumped to his feet, 
 and seeing two men running, bent low to the 
 ground, hastily put his tobacco into his pocket, 
 and ran after one of them. " Stop, or I'll 
 shoot ! " cried the soldier. The fugitive, without 
 stopping, turned his head and called out something 
 evidently abusive or blasphemous. 
 
 " Damn you ! '' shouted the soldier, who put one 
 foot a little forward and stopped, after which, 
 bending his head over his rifle, and raising his 
 right hand, he rapidly adjusted something, took 
 aim, and, pointing the gun in the direction of the 
 fugitive, probably fired, although no sound was 
 heard. " Smokeless powder, no doubt," thought 
 the young Tsar, and looking after the fleeing man 
 saw him take a few hurried steps, and bending 
 lower and lower, fall to the ground and crawl on 
 his hands and knees. At last he remained lying 
 and did not move. The other fugitive, who was 
 ahead of him, turned round and ran back to 
 the man who was lying on the ground. He
 
 THE YOUNG TSAR 273 
 
 did something for him and then resumed his 
 flight. 
 
 " What does all this mean? " asked the Tsar. 
 
 " These are the guards on the frontier, enforc- 
 ing the revenue laws. That man was killed to 
 protect the revenues of the State." 
 
 " Has he actually been killed? " 
 
 The guide again laid his hand upon the head of 
 the young Tsar, and again the Tsar lost conscious- 
 ness. When he had recovered his senses he found 
 himself in a small room — the customs office. 
 The dead body of a man, with a thin grizzled 
 beard, an aquiline nose, and big eyes with the 
 eyelids closed, was lying on the floor. His arms 
 were thrown asunder, his feet bare, and his thick, 
 dirty toes were turned up at right angles and stuck 
 out straight. He had a wound in his side, and 
 on his ragged cloth jacket, as well as on his blue 
 shirt, were stains of clotted blood, which had 
 turned black save for a few red spots here and 
 there. A woman stood close to the wall, so 
 wrapped up in shawls that her face could scarcely 
 be seen. Motionless she gazed at the aquiline 
 nose, the upturned feet, and the protruding eye- 
 balls; sobbing and sighing, and drying her tears at 
 long, regular intervals. A pretty girl of thirteen 
 was standing at her mother's side, with her eyes 
 and mouth wide open. A boy of eight clung to
 
 274 THE YOUNG TSAR 
 
 his mother's skirt, and looked intensely at his dead 
 father without blinking. 
 
 From a door near them an official, an officer, a 
 doctor, and a clerk with documents, entered. 
 After them came a soldier, the one who had shot 
 the man. He stepped briskly along behind his 
 superiors, but the instant he saw the corpse he 
 went suddenly pale, and quivered; and dropping 
 his head stood still. When the official asked him 
 whether that was the man who was escaping across 
 the frontier, and at whom he had fired, he was 
 unable to answer. His lips trembled, and his 
 face twitched. " The s — s — s — " he began, but 
 could not get out the words which he wanted to 
 say. " The same, your excellency." The of- 
 ficials looked at each other and wrote something 
 down. 
 
 " You see the beneficial results of that same 
 system ! " 
 
 In a room of sumptuous vulgarity two men sat 
 drinking wine. One of them was old and grey, 
 the other a young Jew. The young Jew was 
 holding a roll of bank-notes in his hand, and was 
 bargaining with the old man. He was buying 
 smuggled goods. 
 
 " You've got 'em cheap," he said, smiling. 
 
 "Yes — but the risk—" 
 
 " This is indeed terrible," said the young Tsar;
 
 THE YOUNG TSAR 275 
 
 " but it cannot be avoided. Such proceedings are 
 necessary." 
 
 His companion made no response, saying 
 merely, " Let us move on," and laid his hand 
 again on the head of the Tsar. When the Tsar 
 recovered consciousness, he was standing in a 
 small room lit by a shaded lamp. A woman was 
 sitting at the table sewing. A boy of eight was 
 bending over the table, drawing, with his feel 
 < doubled up under him in the armchair. A stu 
 [■ dent was reading aloud. The father and daugh- 
 
 ter of the family entered the room noisily. 
 
 " You signed the order concerning the sale of 
 spirits," said the guide to the Tsar. 
 
 " Well? " said the woman. 
 
 " He's not likely to live." 
 
 "What's the matter with him?" 
 
 " They've kept him drunk all the time." 
 
 " It's not possible ! " exclaimed the wife. 
 
 " It's true. And the boy's only nine years old, 
 • that Vania Moroshkine." 
 
 " What did you do to try to save him? " asked 
 the wife. 
 
 " I tried everything that could be done. I gave 
 him an emetic and put a mustard-plaster on him. 
 He has every symptom of delirium tremens." 
 
 " It's no wonder — the whole family are drunk- 
 ards. Annisia is only a little better than the rest,
 
 276 THE YOUNG TSAR 
 
 and even she is generally more or less drunk," 
 said the daughter. 
 
 "And what about your temperance society?" 
 the student asked his sister. 
 
 " What can we do when they are given every 
 opportunity of drinking? Father tried to have 
 the public-house shut up, but the law is against 
 him. And, besides, when I was trying to convince 
 Vasily Ermiline that it was disgraceful to keep 
 a public-house and ruin the people with drink, 
 he answered very haughtily, and indeed got the 
 better of me before the crowd: 'But I have a 
 license with the Imperial eagle on it. If there 
 was anything wrong in my business, the Tsar 
 wouldn't have issued a decree authorising It.' 
 Isn't it terrible? The whole village has been 
 drunk for the last three days. And as for feast- 
 days, it is simply horrible to think of! It has 
 been proved conclusively that alcohol does no good 
 in any case, but invariably does harm, and it 
 has been demonstrated to be an absolute poison. 
 Then, ninety-nine per cent, of the crimes in the 
 world are committed through its influence. We 
 all know how the standard of morality and the 
 general welfare improved at once in all the coun- 
 tries where drinking has been suppressed — like 
 Sweden and Finland, and we know that it can be 
 suppressed by exercising a moral influence over
 
 THE YOUNG TSAR 277 
 
 the masses. But In our country the class which 
 couid exert that influence — the Government, the 
 Tsar and his officials — simply encourage drink. 
 Their main revenues are drawn from the continual 
 drunkenness of the people. They drink them- 
 selves — they are always drinking the health of 
 somebody: 'Gentlemen, the Regiment!' The 
 preachers drink, the bishops drink — " 
 
 Again the guide touched the head of the young 
 Tsar, who again lost consciousness. This time he 
 found himself in a peasant's cottage. The peas- 
 ant — a man of forty, with red face and blood- 
 shot eyes — was furiously striking the face of an 
 old man, who tried in vain to protect himself from 
 the blows. The younger peasant seized the beard 
 of the old man and held it fast. 
 
 " For shame! To strike your father — ! " 
 
 " I don't care, I'll kill him ! Let them send 
 me to Siberia, I don't care ! " 
 
 The women were screaming. Drunken officials 
 rushed Into the cottage and separated father and 
 son. The father had an arm broken and the son's 
 beard was torn out. In the doorway a drunken 
 girl was making violent love to an old besotted 
 peasant. 
 
 " They are beasts! " said the young Tsar. 
 
 Another touch of his guide's hand and the 
 young Tsar awoke in a new place. It was the
 
 278 THE YOUNG TSAR 
 
 office of the justice of the peace. A fat, bald- 
 headed man, with a double chin and a chain round 
 his neck, had just risen from his seat, and was 
 reading the sentence in a loud voice, while a crowd 
 of peasants stood behind the grating. There was 
 a woman in rags in the crowd who did not rise. 
 The guard gav^e her a push. 
 
 "Asleep! I tell you to stand up!" The 
 woman rose. 
 
 " According to the decree of his Imperial 
 Majesty — " the judge began reading the sen- 
 tence. The case concerned that very woman. 
 She had taken away half a bundle of oats as she 
 was passing the thrashing-floor of a landowner. 
 The justice of the peace sentenced her to two 
 months' imprisonment. The landowner whose 
 oats had been stolen was among the audi- 
 ence. When the judge adjourned the court the 
 landowner approached, and shook hands, and the 
 judge entered into conversation with him. The 
 next case was about a stolen samovar. Then 
 there was a trial about some timber which had 
 been cut, to the detriment of the landowner. 
 Some peasants were being tried for having as- 
 saulted the constable of the district. 
 
 When the young Tsar again lost consciousness, 
 he awoke to find himself in the middle of a vil-
 
 THE YOUNG TSAR 279 
 
 lage, where he saw hungry, half-frozen children 
 and the wife of the man who had assaulted the 
 constable broken down from overwork. 
 
 Then came a new scene. In Siberia, a tramp 
 is being flogged with the lash, the direct result of 
 an order issued by the Minister of Justice. Again 
 oblivion, and another scene. The family of a 
 Jewish watchmaker is evicted for being too poor. 
 The children are crying, and the Jew, Isaaks, is 
 greatly distressed. At last they come to an ar- 
 rangement, and he is allowed to stay on in the 
 lodgings. 
 
 The chief of police takes a bribe. The gov- 
 ernor of the province also secretly accepts a bribe. 
 Taxes are being collected. In the village, while 
 a cow is sold for payment, the police inspector is 
 bribed by a factory owner, who thus escapes taxes 
 altogether. And again a village court scene, and 
 a sentence carried into execution — the lash! 
 
 " Ilia Vasilievich, could you not spare me 
 that?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 The peasant burst into tears. " Well, of 
 course, Christ suffered, and He bids us suffer 
 
 too." 
 
 Then other scenes. The Stundists — a sect 
 ■ — being broken up and dispersed; the clergy re-
 
 2 8o THE YOUNG TSAR 
 
 fusing first to marry, then to bury a Protestant. 
 Orders given concerning the passage of the Im- 
 perial railway train. Soldiers kept sitting in the 
 mud — cold, hungry, and cursing. Decrees is- 
 sued relating to the educational institutions of the 
 Empress Mary Department. Corruption ram- 
 pant in the foundling homes. An undeserved 
 monument. Thieving among the clergy. The 
 reinforcement of the political police. A woman 
 being searched. A prison for convicts who are 
 sentenced to be deported. A man being hanged 
 for murdering a shop assistant. 
 
 Then the result of military discipline: soldiers 
 wearing uniform and scoffing at it. A gipsy en- 
 campment. The son of a millionaire exempted 
 from military duty, while the only support of a 
 large family is forced to serve. The university: 
 a teacher relieved of military service, while the 
 most gifted musicians are compelled to perform 
 it. Soldiers and their debauchery — and the 
 spreading of disease. 
 
 Then a soldier who has made an attempt to 
 desert. He is being tried. Another is on trial 
 for striking an officer who has insulted his mother. 
 He is put to death. Others, again, are tried for 
 having refused to shoot. The runaway soldier 
 sent to a disciplinary battalion and flogged to 
 death. Another, who is guiltless, flogged, and
 
 THE YOUNG TSAR 281 
 
 his wounds sprinkled with salt till he dies. One 
 of the superior officers stealing money belonging 
 to the soldiers. Nothing but drunkenness, de- 
 bauchery, gambling, and arrogance on the part of 
 the authorities. 
 
 What is the general condition of the people: 
 the children are half-starving and degenerate; the 
 houses are full of vermin; an everlasting dull 
 round of labour, of submission, and of sadness. 
 On the other hand: ministers, governors of prov- 
 inces, covetous, ambitious, full of vanity, and 
 anxious to inspire fear. 
 
 "But where are men with human feelings?" 
 
 " I will show you where they are." 
 
 Here is the cell of a woman in solitary confine- 
 ment at Schlusselburg. She is going mad. Here 
 is another woman — a girl — indisposed, violated 
 by soldiers. A man in exile, alone, embittered, 
 half-dead. A prison for convicts condemned to 
 hard labour, and women flogged. They are 
 many. 
 
 Tens of thousands of the best people. Some 
 shut up in prisons, others ruined by false educa- 
 tion, by the vain desire to bring them up as we 
 wish. But not succeeding in this, whatever might 
 have been is ruined as well, for it is made impos- 
 sible. It is as if we were trying to make buck- 
 wheat out of corn sprouts by splitting the ears.
 
 282 THE YOUNG TSAR 
 
 One may spoil the corn, but one could never 
 change it to buckwheat. Thus all the youth of 
 the world, the entire younger generation, is being 
 ruined. 
 
 But woe to those who destroy one of these little 
 ones, woe to you if you destroy even one of 
 them. On your soul, however, are hosts of them, 
 who have been ruined in your name, all of those 
 over whom your power extends. 
 
 " But what can I do? " exclaimed the Tsar in 
 despair. " I do not wish to torture, to flog, to 
 corrupt, to kill any one ! I only want the welfare 
 of all. Just as I yearn for happiness myself, so I 
 want the world to be happy as well. Am I actu- 
 ally responsible for everything that is done in my 
 name? What can I do? What am I to do to 
 rid myself of such a responsibility? What can I 
 do? I do not admit that the responsibility for all 
 this is mine. If I felt myself responsible for one- 
 hundredth part of it, I would shoot myself on the 
 spot. It would not be possible to live if that were 
 true. But how can I put an end to all this evil? 
 It is bound up with the very existence of the 
 State. I am the head of the State! What am I 
 to do? Kill myself? Or abdicate? But that 
 would mean renouncing my duty. O God, O God, 
 God, help me ! " He burst into tears and awoke. 
 
 " How glad I am that it was only a dream,"
 
 THE YOUNG TSAR 283 
 
 was his first thought. But when he began to 
 recollect what he had seen in his dream, and to 
 compare it with actuality, he realised that the 
 problem propounded to him in dream remained 
 just as important and as insoluble now that he was 
 awake. For the first time the young Tsar became 
 aware of the heavy responsibility weighing on him, 
 and was aghast. His thoughts no longer turned 
 to the young Queen and to the happiness he had 
 anticipated for that evening, but became centred 
 on the unanswerable question which hung over 
 him : " What was to be done ? " 
 
 In a state of great agitation he arose and went 
 into the next room. An old courtier, a co-worker 
 and friend of his father's, was standing there in 
 the middle of the room in conversation with the 
 young Queen, who v/as on her way to join her 
 husband. The young Tsar approached them, and 
 addressing his conversation principally to the old 
 courtier, told him what he had seen in his dream 
 and what doubts the dream had left in his mind. 
 
 " That is a noble Idea. It proves the rare 
 nobility of your spirit," said the old man. " But 
 forgive me for speaking frankly — you are too 
 kind to be an emperor, and you exaggerate your 
 responsibility. In the first place, the state of 
 things is not as you imagine it to be. The people 
 are not poor. They are well-to-do. Those who
 
 284 THE YOUNG TSAR 
 
 are poor are poor through their own fault. Only 
 the guilty are punished, and if an unavoidable 
 mistake does sometimes occur, it is like a thunder- 
 bolt — an accident, or the will of God. You have 
 but one responsibility: to fulfil your task coura- 
 geously and to retain the power that is given to 
 you. You wish the best for your people and God 
 sees that. As for the errors which you have com- 
 mitted unwittingly, you can pray for forgiveness, 
 and God will guide you and pardon you. All the 
 more because you have done nothing that demands 
 forgiveness, and there never have been and never 
 will be men possessed of such extraordinary qual- 
 ities as you and your father. Therefore all we 
 implore you to do is to live, and to reward our 
 endless devotion and love with your favour, and 
 every one, save scoundrels who deserve no happi- 
 ness, will be happy." 
 
 "What do you think about that?" the young 
 Tsar asked his wife. 
 
 " I have a different opinion," said the clever 
 young woman, who had been brought up In a free 
 country. " I am glad you had that dream, and I 
 agree with you that there are grave responsibili- 
 ties resting upon you. I have often thought about 
 it with great anxiety, and I think there is a simple 
 means of casting off a part of the responsibility
 
 THE YOUNG TSAR 285 
 
 you are unable to bear, If not all of it. A large 
 proportion of the power which is too heavy for 
 you, you should delegate to the people, to its 
 representatives, reserving for yourself only the 
 supreme control, that is, the general direction of 
 the affairs of State." 
 
 The Queen had hardly ceased to expound her 
 views, when the old courtier began eagerly to 
 refute her arguments, and they started a polite 
 but very heated discussion. 
 
 For a time the young Tsar followed their argu- 
 ments, but presently he ceased to be aware of 
 what they said, listening only to the voice of him 
 who had been his guide in the dream, and who 
 was now speaking audibly in his heart. 
 
 " You are not only the Tsar," said the voice, 
 " but more. You are a human being, who only 
 yesterday came into this world, and will perchance 
 to-morrow depart out of it. Apart from your 
 duties as a Tsar, of which that old man is now 
 speaking, you have more immediate duties not by 
 any means to be disregarded; human duties, not 
 the duties of a Tsar towards his subjects, which 
 are only accidental, but an eternal duty, the duty 
 of a man in his relation to God, the duty toward 
 your own soul, which is to save it, and also, to 
 serve God in establishing his kingdom on earth.
 
 286 THE YOUNG TSAR 
 
 You arc not to be guarded In your actions either 
 by what has been or what will be, but only by 
 what It Is your own duty to do. 
 
 He opened his eyes — his wife was awakening 
 him. Which of the three courses the young Tsar 
 chose, will be told in fifty years.
 
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