14/ hat are you doing? Are you insane?' 
 
 Photogravure. - From Photograph (Russian Stage 
 
 Production)
 
 SUuatrati'ti ffiibrarjj lEBitiun 
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 COLLECTED ARTICLES 
 DEATH OF I VAN ILICH . 
 
 DRAMATIC WORKS 
 THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 By 
 COUNT LEV N. TOLSTOY 
 
 Translated from the Original Russian 
 and edited by 
 
 PROFESSOR LEO WIENER 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 COLONIAL PRESS COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS
 
 Copyright, ig04 
 By Dana Estes & Company 
 
 Entered at Stationers' Hall 
 
 Colonial Press : Electrotyped and Printed by 
 C. H. Simonds & Co., Boston, Mass., U. S. A.
 
 mi 
 
 Oc| II />0^'S15 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 What Shall We Do Then? 3 
 
 On the Moscow Census ...... 343 
 
 Introduction to the Collected Articles, What Is 
 
 the Truth in Art? ...... 357 
 
 To the Dear Youth 363 
 
 What a Christian May Do, and What Not . . 371 
 
 Letter to N. N. (To Engelhard) .... 377 
 
 Introduction to T. M. Bondarev's Teaching . . 397 
 
 Letter to a Frenchman 415 
 
 The Holiday of Enlightenment of the 12th of 
 
 January . 429 
 
 POPULAR LEGENDS 
 
 How THE Devil Redeemed the Crust of Bread 
 The Repentant Sinner ...... 
 
 The Kernel of the Size of a Hen's Egg . 
 How Much Land a Man Needs .... 
 
 The Godson 
 
 Three Sons ....... 
 
 Labourer Emelyan and the Empty Drum 
 
 439 
 444 
 
 448 
 452 
 
 470 
 
 491 
 
 499

 
 LIST OF ILLUSTEATIONS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Visiting their Son 71 
 
 Amusements of the Rich 196 
 
 " What are yoit doing, are you insane? " (p. 154) 
 
 Frontispiece 
 
 " I will work myself " 123 
 
 " Do you know why he is so frightened? " . . 249 
 
 Vol. 9.
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 1886
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 And the people asked him, saying, What shall we do 
 then? 
 
 He auswereth and saith unto them. He that hath two 
 coats, let him impart to him that hath none ; and he that 
 hath meat, let him do likewise (Luke iii. 10, 11). 
 
 Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where 
 moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break 
 through and steal : 
 
 But" lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where 
 neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do 
 not break through nor steal. 
 
 For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also. 
 
 The light of the body is the eye : if therefore thine eye 
 be single, thy whole body shall be full of light. 
 
 But if thine eye be evil, thy whole body shall be full of 
 darkness. If therefore the light that is in thee be darkness, 
 how great is that darkness ! 
 
 No man can serve two masters : for either he will hate 
 the one, and love the other ; or else he will hold to the one, 
 and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and mammon. 
 
 Therefore I say unto you. Take no thought for your life, 
 what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink ; nor yet for your 
 body, what ye shall put on. Is not the life more than 
 meat, and the body than raiment ? 
 
 Therefore take no thought, saying. What shall we eat ? 
 or. What shall we drink ? or. Wherewithal shall we be 
 clothed ? 
 
 (For after all these things do the Gentiles seek :) for your 
 heavenly father knoweth that ye have need of all these 
 things. 
 
 But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteous- 
 ness, and all these things shall be added unto you (Matt, 
 vi. 19-25, 31-33). 
 
 It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, 
 than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God 
 (Matt. xix. 24 ; Luke xviii. 25 ; Mark x. 25). 
 
 3
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 I HAD passed all my life in the country. When, in the 
 year 1881, I moved to Moscow, I was struck by the pov- 
 erty of the city : I knew what the poverty of the village 
 was, but that of the city was new and incomprehensible 
 to me. In Moscow it is impossible to walk through a 
 street without meeting mendicants, of a particular type, 
 such as do not resemble those one sees in the country. 
 These beggars are not mendicants with a wallet and with 
 Christ's name, such as village beggars are imagined to be, 
 but beggars without a wallet and without Christ's name. 
 The beggars of Moscow do not carry a wallet and beg no 
 alms. As a rule, when they meet you or allow you 
 to pass them, they try to catch your eyes, and they beg 
 or not, according to your glance. 
 
 I know one such beggar from the gentry. The old 
 man walks slowly, putting his weight on each foot. 
 When he meets you, he puts his weight on one foot and 
 acts as though he were bowing to you. If you stop, he 
 takes hold of his cockaded cap, bows to you, and begs you 
 for an alms ; if you do not stop, he pretends just to have 
 such a gait, and passes on, bowing with a leaning on his 
 other foot. He is a real, trained Moscow beggar. At 
 first I did not know why the Moscow beggars did not beg 
 outright, but later I came to understand it, though I did 
 not understand their condition. 
 
 One day, as I was walking through Afanasev Lane, I 
 saw a policeman putting a tattered peasant, who was 
 pudgy with the dropsy, into a cab. I asked him why he 
 was doing this. 
 
 The policeman answered me : " For begging alms." 
 
 " Is that forbidden ? " 
 
 " I guess it is," replied the policeman. 
 
 The dropsical man was taken away in the cab. I took
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 5 
 
 another cab and followed them. I wanted to find out 
 whether it was true that it was prohibited to beg alms, 
 and how this prohibition was carried out. I could not 
 make out how one man could be kept from asking a thing 
 of another, and, besides, I could not make myself believe 
 that there could be a law against begging, since Moscow 
 was full of beggars. I had myself driven to the police 
 station whither they took the beggar. In the station a 
 man with a sword and a pistol was sitting at a table. 
 I asked him : 
 
 " Why was this peasant arrested ? " 
 
 The man with the sword and the pistol looked sternly 
 at me, and said : 
 . " That is not your business." 
 
 However, as he felt the necessity of explaining some- 
 thing to me, he added : 
 
 " The authorities order such people to be arrested, and 
 so it is right." 
 
 I went away. The policeman who had brought the 
 beggar was sitting in the vestibule on a window-sill, and 
 looking gloomily into a memorandum-book. I asked 
 him : 
 
 " Is it true that beggars are not permitted to beg in 
 Christ's name ? " 
 
 The pohceman was startled. He looked at me, then 
 half frowned, half fell asleep again, and, seating himself 
 back on the window-sill, said : 
 
 " The authorities order it, and so it is right," and started 
 to busy himself once more with his book. 
 
 I went out on the porch to the cabman. 
 
 "Well, how is it? Did they take him?" asked the 
 cabman. 
 
 The cabman was evidently interested in the same 
 thing. 
 
 « They did," I replied. 
 
 The driver shook his head.
 
 <> WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 " How is this ? Do they Dot allow people here in Mos- 
 cow to beg iu the name of Christ ? " I asked. 
 
 " Who can make them out ? " said the driver. 
 
 " But how is this ? " I said. " A beggar is Christ's, and 
 they take him to the station." 
 
 " They have stopped it all in these days, — they don't 
 let them." 
 
 After that I saw pohcemen on several occasions, taking 
 beggars to the station and from there to Yusupov Work- 
 house. One day I met a crowd of such beggars, about 
 thirty of them, in Myasnitskaya Street. They were 
 preceded and followed by pohcemen. I asked one of 
 them why they were taken away. 
 
 " For begging alms." 
 
 So it turns out that according to the law alms may not 
 be asked by any of those mendicants of whom one meets 
 several at a time in every street, and rows of whom stand 
 in froDt of the churches during divine service and espe- 
 cially during funerals. 
 
 But why are some caught and locked up somewhere, 
 while others are let alone ? That I was unable to make 
 out. Or are there among them lawful and unlawful beg- 
 gars ? Or are there so many of them that it is impossible 
 to apprehend all ? Or do they take some away, while 
 others take their place ? 
 
 In Moscow there are many beggars of every kind : there 
 are some who make a living in this manner ; others are 
 real beggars, who in one way or another are stranded in 
 Moscow, and really suffer want. 
 
 Among these beggars there are frequently simple peas- 
 ants, men and women, in peasant attire. I have often 
 come across such. Some of these fell sick and came out 
 of hospitals, and are unable to provide food for themselves, 
 or to get out of Moscow. Others again have, in addition, 
 been on sprees (such, no doubt, was that dropsical man) ; 
 others were not convalescents, but men who had lost their
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 7 
 
 property in fire, or old men, or women with children ; 
 others again were quite well and able to work. 
 
 These well peasants, who were begging alms, interested 
 me more particularly. These healthy, able-bodied beg- 
 gars interested me also for the reason that ever since 
 my arrival in Moscow I had made it my habit to take my 
 exercise by going out to the Sparrow Hills and working 
 there with two peasants who were sawing wood. These 
 two peasants were just such beggars as those whom I met 
 in the streets. One of them was Peter, a Kaluga peas- 
 ant, the other Semen, from the Government of A^ladimir. 
 All they possessed was what they wore on their backs, 
 and their hands. And with these hands they, by work- 
 ing very hard, earned from forty to forty-five kopeks per 
 day, out of which amount they saved up money : the 
 Kaluga peasant, — to buy himself a fur coat, and the 
 Vladimir peasant, — to get enough money with wliich 
 to return home. For this reason I was particularly 
 interested in such people, when I met them in the streets. 
 
 Why do those work, while these beg ? 
 
 "Whenever I met such a peasant, I generally asked him 
 what had brought him into such a plight. One day I met 
 a peasant with his beard streaked gray and with a sound 
 body. He was begging. I asked him who he was and 
 whence he came. He said that he had come from Kaluga 
 to try to earn something. At first he and his friend had 
 found some work to do, — cutting up old lumber for fire- 
 wood. They had finished the job, and had been looking 
 for more work, but could find none. In the meantime 
 his friend had strayed from him, and here he was strug- 
 gling the second week, and had spent everything, and did 
 not have a kopek to buy a saw or an axe with. I gave 
 him money with which to buy a saw, and told him where 
 to come to work. I had already left word with Peter 
 and Sem^n to receive him and find a partner for him. 
 
 " Be sure and come ! There is lots of work there."
 
 8 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 " I will, of course I will come. What good," he said, 
 " is there in begging ? I can do a day's work." 
 
 The peasant swore that he would coiue, and I thought 
 that he was not deceiving me, but fully intended to 
 come. 
 
 On the following day I went to my friends, the peas- 
 ants, to ask them whether he had come. No, he had not. 
 And thus a number of men deceived me. I was also 
 deceived by such as wanted money just for a ticket with 
 which to get home, but whom a week later I met in the 
 street again. Many of these I came to know, just as they 
 knew me ; at times they forgot me and approached me 
 again with the same deception, and at other times they 
 went away the moment they saw me. Thus I saw that 
 among the number of these people there were also many 
 cheats ; but even these cheats were very pitiful : they were 
 all half-naked, poverty-stricken, emaciated, sickly people ; 
 they were of that class who really freeze to death and 
 hang themselves, as we know from the newspapers.
 
 II. 
 
 Whenever I spoke of this urban wretchedness to city 
 people, I was always told : " Oh that is nothing ! You 
 have not seen everything : you must go to Khitrov Market 
 and to the doss-houses thereabout. There you will see 
 the genuine crack company." One jester told me that it 
 was no longer a company, but a crack regiment, for there 
 were so many of them. The jester was right, but he 
 would have been still more in the right if he had said that 
 there was, not a company, and not a regiment, but a whole 
 army of them in Moscow : I think there are fifty thousand 
 of them. Old citizens, in speaking to me of the urban 
 wretchedness, always spoke with a certain degree of pleas- 
 ure, as though they were proud to know it. I remember, 
 when I was in London, the natives seemed to speak 
 boastfully of the London poverty, as much as to say : 
 " That's the way we do things." 
 
 I wanted to see the wretchedness of which I was told. 
 I started several times to go to Khitrov Market, but I felt 
 every time uncomfortable and ashamed. 
 
 " Why should I go to see the sufferings of men whom I 
 am unable to help ? " one voice said. 
 
 " No, if you live here and see all the joys of city life, 
 go and see this also," another voice said. 
 
 And so, in the month of December of the third year, on 
 
 a cold and stormy day, I started for this centre of city 
 
 wretchedness, for Khitrov Market. It was a week-day, 
 
 about four o'clock in the afternoon. As I was going down 
 
 the Solyanka, I began to notice more and more people in 
 
 strange apparel, evidently not their own, and in still 
 
 9
 
 10 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 stranger footgear, — people with an unusually sickly com- 
 plexion and, above all, with a special expression of indif- 
 ference to the surroundings, which was common to them 
 all. Though wearing the strangest kinds of garments, of 
 most unseemly patterns, these people wa\ked along freely, 
 evidently devoid of all thought as to how they might 
 strike other people. All these were walking in the same 
 direction. 
 
 I did not ask for the road, though I did not know it, 
 but followed them, and came out on Khitrov Market. In 
 the market-place just such women, young and old, in tat- 
 tered capes, cloaks, jackets, boots, and overshoes, acting 
 with just as little constraint, in spite of the monstrosity 
 of their attire, were sitting and hawking something, or 
 walking about and cursing. There were few people in 
 the market-place. Apparently it was past market-time, 
 and the majority of people were going up-hill, past the 
 market and across it, all of them in the same direction. 
 I followed them. The farther I went, the greater was 
 the throng of people walking in the same direction. 
 After I had passed the market I walked up the street, 
 falling in with two women, one of them old, the other 
 young. Both wore torn gray clothes. They were walking 
 and talking about something. 
 
 After every necessary word they uttered one or two 
 unnecessary, extremely improper words. They were not 
 drunk, but were agitated by something; the men who 
 were walking toward them, and preceding or following 
 them, did not pay the slightest attention to their strange 
 expressions. In these places evidently all people spoke 
 in the same way. 
 
 On the left were private lodging-houses, and a few 
 stopped here, while others walked on. After ascending 
 the hill, we came to a large corner house. The majority 
 of those who were walking with me stopped at this house. 
 On the whole sidewalk in front of this house just such
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 11 
 
 people walked about or sat down on the walk or in the 
 snow of the street. On the right hand of the entrance 
 door were women, and on the left — men. I walked past 
 the women, and then past the men (there were several 
 hundreds of them), and stopped where their file came to an 
 end. The house, in front of which these people were 
 stopping, was the free Lyapinski lodging-house. The 
 crowd of people were waiting to be admitted for a night's 
 lodging. The doors are opened at five o'clock, when the 
 people are admitted. It was to this place that the major- 
 ity of people past whom I had walked were trying to 
 get. 
 
 I stopped where the file of men came to an end. The 
 people nearest to me began to look at me and attracted 
 me with their glances. The remnants of the garments 
 that covered their bodies were quite varied ; but the 
 expression of all the glances that these people directed at 
 me was absolutely the same. In all their glances one 
 could read the question, " Why did you, a man from 
 another world, stop here by the side of us ? Who are 
 you ? Are you a self-satisfied rich man, who is trying 
 to take delight out of our misery, to distract yourself in 
 your ennui, and to torture us ? Or are you — what does 
 not happen and cannot be — a man who pities us ? " 
 
 This question was on all the faces. A man would 
 glance at me, meet my glance, and turn away again. I 
 felt like starting up a conversation with some one, but for 
 a long time I could not make up my mind to do so. But 
 while we were silent, our glances were bringing us closer 
 together. No matter how much life separated us, we felt 
 after the exchange of two or three glances that we were 
 all men, and we ceased fearing one another. Nearest to 
 me stood a peasant with a swollen face and a red beard, 
 in a torn caftan and overshoes worn down to the skin. It 
 was eight degrees Reaumur below zero. Our eyes met 
 for the third or fourth time, and I felt myself so close to
 
 12 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 him that, far from feeling ashamed to speak with him, I 
 felt that I should be ashamed if I did not strike up a 
 conversation with him. 
 
 I asked him where he came from. He answered cheer- 
 fully, and began to talk ; others came up to us. He was 
 from Smolensk, and had come to find work with which to 
 earn money for grain and for the taxes. 
 
 " You cannot find any work," he said, " for the soldiers 
 nowadays get all the work away from us. And so I am 
 wandering about. I swear by God I have not had any- 
 thing to eat for two days." 
 
 This he said timidly, with an attempt at a smile. A 
 sbiten ^ peddler, an old soldier, was standing near by. I 
 called him up. He filled up a glass of sbiten. The peas- 
 ant took the hot glass into his hands and, before drinking 
 it, warmed his hands over it, trying not to waste any of 
 the heat. While he was warming his hands he told me 
 his adventure. The adventures, or the stories of the 
 adventures, are nearly always the same : he had a small 
 job, but it stopped, and his purse with his money and his 
 ticket were stolen in a lodging-house. Now he was un- 
 able to get away from Moscow. He told me that in the 
 daytime he warmed liimself in taverns and fed on free 
 lunches (bits of bread in the taverns) ; at times they let 
 him have a piece, and at times they drove him out ; he 
 passed his nights in the free Lyapinski House. He was 
 waiting for the policy raid which would take him to jail, 
 as he had no passport, and would send him by ^tappe 
 back to his place of residence. " They say the raid will 
 happen on Thursday." (The jail and the ^tappe presented 
 themselves to him as a promised land.) 
 
 While he was telling me this, two or three men from 
 among the crowd confirmed his words, saying that they 
 were in precisely the same condition. A lean, pale, long- 
 
 J A drink composed of water, honey, and laurel leaves, or sage, 
 used by the masses in the place of tea.
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 13 
 
 nosed young man, \\'ith nothing but a shirt over the upper 
 part of his body, with holes above his shoulders, and in a 
 visorless cap, pushed his way toward me sidewise through 
 the crowd. He was trembling all the time with a violent 
 chill, but tried to smile contemptuously at the remarks of 
 the peasants, hoping thus to fall in with my tone, and 
 kept looking at me. I offered him also a glass of sbiten. 
 He, too, took the glass and warmed himself over it, and 
 just as he began to talk he was pushed aside by a tall, 
 swarthy, hook-nosed man, in a chintz shirt and a vest, and 
 without a hat. 
 
 The hook-nosed fellow, too, asked me for some sbiten. 
 Then came a long-legged old man with a wedge-shaped 
 beard, wearing an overcoat with a rope girdle and bast 
 shoes, — he was drunk ; then a little fellow with a 
 swollen face and tearful eyes, who wore a brown nankeen 
 frock coat, and whose bare knees could be seen through 
 the holes of his summer pantaloons, striking one against 
 the other from the cold. He could not hold the glass 
 because of his chill, and spilled its contents over himself. 
 They began to scold him. He only smiled pitifully and 
 trembled. 
 
 Then there came a crooked cripple with rags on his 
 body and on his bare feet, then something that resembled 
 an officer, and something that resembled a clergyman, 
 then something strange and noseless, — all that cold 
 and hungry, imploring and humble mass crowded about 
 me and made for the sbiten. They all drank the sbiten. 
 One of them asked for some money, and I gave it to him. 
 A second, a third, asked for money, and I was besieged by 
 the crowd. The janitor of a neighbouring house shouted 
 to the crowd to clear the sidewalk in front of his house, 
 and the people submissively executed his command. 
 Some men in the crowd took the matter in hand, and 
 offered me their protection : they wanted to take me out 
 of the crush, but the crowd, which before had been
 
 14 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 stretched out along the sidewalk, was now in commotion, 
 pressing close to me. They all looked at me, and begged 
 me for something ; and one face was more pitiful, more 
 emaciated, and more humbled than another. I gave them 
 everything I had. I did not have much money with me, 
 — something Uke twenty roubles, — and I entered the 
 lodging-house with the crowd. 
 
 The lodging-house is enormous. It consists of four 
 divisions. In the upper stories are the apartments for 
 men, and in the lower those for women. At first I 
 entered the female division : a large room is here taken 
 up by bunks, reseml)ling those of third-class railway-cars. 
 The bunks are arranged in two tiers. Strange, ragged 
 women, both old and young, with nothing but the clothes 
 they had on, kept coming in and occupying their places, 
 some below, and others above. Some of them, the older 
 ones, made the sign of the cross and prayed for him 
 who had founded this asylum, while others laughed and 
 cursed. 
 
 I went up-stairs. There the men took up their bunks ; 
 among them I saw one of those to whom I had given 
 money. When I saw him, I suddenly felt dreadfully 
 ashamed, and I hurried to get out. I left this house with 
 the sensation of having committed a crime, and went 
 home. At home I walked over the carpet of the stair- 
 case into an antechamber, the floor of which was covered 
 with cloth, and, having taken off my fur coat, I sat down 
 at>a five-course dinner, which was served by two lackeys 
 in dress coats, white ties, and white gloves. 
 
 Thirty years ago I saw in Paris a man decapitated by a 
 guillotine in the presence of a thousand spectators. I 
 knew that this man was a terrible criminal ; I knew all 
 those reflections which men had been writing for so many 
 centuries, in order to justify such acts ; I knew that it 
 was being done intentionally, conscientiously ; but at the 
 moment when the head and the body separated and fell
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 15 
 
 into the box, I groaned, and I understood, not with my 
 mind, not with my heart, but with my whole being, that 
 all the reflections which I had heard about capital punish- 
 ment were a horrible blunder ; that, no matter how many 
 people might come together in order to commit murder, — 
 the worst crime on earth, — and no matter how they 
 might call themselves, murder was murder, and that this 
 sin had been committed in my sight. By my presence 
 and non-interference I approved of this sin, and took part 
 in it. 
 
 Even so now, at the sight of this starvation, cold, and 
 humiliation of thousands of men, I understood, not with 
 my reason, nor with my heart, but with my whole being, 
 that the existence of tens of thousands of such men in 
 Moscow, while I with other thousands gorge myself on 
 fillet and sturgeon, and cover the floors and the horses 
 with stuffs and carpets, — no matter what all the wise 
 men of the world may tell me about its being necessary, 
 — is a crime, which is not committed once, but is being 
 committed all the time, and that I, with my luxury, not 
 only incite to it, but also take part in it. For me the 
 difference of these two impressions consisted in this, that 
 there all I could have done was to have called out to the 
 murderers who were standing near the guillotine and 
 attending to the murder, that they were doing wrong, 
 and to have tried in every way to interfere with them ; 
 but in doing so, I might have known that that act of 
 mine would not have prevented the murder. But here I 
 not only was able to give the sbiten and all the miserable 
 little sum wMch I had with me, but might have given 
 away my overcoat and everything which I had at home. 
 I did not do so, and so I felt, and feel even now, and 
 shall never stop feeling, that I am a participant in a 
 crime which is taking place all the time, so long as I 
 have superfluous food, and another man has none, and 
 I have two garments, when another has not even one.
 
 III. 
 
 That very evening, upon my return from Lyapinski 
 House, I told my impressions to a friend of miue. 
 My friend — a denizen of Moscow — began to tell me, 
 not without pleasure, that this is a very natural urban 
 phenomenon ; that it was only my provincialism which 
 made me see something peculiar in it ; that it had been 
 so all the time and would always be so, and that it was 
 an inevitable couditiou of civilization. In Loudon it 
 was worse still, — consequently there was nothing bad 
 in tliis, and there was no reason for being dissatisfied 
 with it. 
 
 I began to retort to my friend, but did this with so 
 much excitement and vim that my wife came running in 
 from the other room, to ask what had happened. It was 
 discovered that, without knowing it myself, I had been 
 shouting with tears in my voice and waving my arms in 
 my friend's face. I yelled, " It is impossible, it is impos- 
 sible to live in such a way, impossible ! " I was put to 
 shame for my excessive excitement, and I was told that 
 I could not speak calmly about anything and that I 
 became unpleasantly irritated, and, above all else, it was 
 proved to me that the existence of such unfortunates 
 could by no means be a cause for poisoning the life of 
 one's family. 
 
 I felt that that was quite true, and I grew silent ; but 
 in the depth of my soul I felt that I was right, and I 
 could not calm myself. 
 
 The city life, which had been strange and alien to me 
 before, now disgusted me so much that all those joys of a 
 
 16
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 17 
 
 luxurious life, which heretofore had appeared as joys to 
 me, now became a torment for me. No matter how 
 much I tried to find in my soul some kind of a justifica- 
 tion of our life, I could not without irritation look either 
 at my own drawing-room or at that of another person, 
 nor at a cleanly, elegantly set table, nor at a carriage, nor 
 at a fat coachman and his horses, nor at shops, theatres, 
 or assembhes. I could not help but see side by side with 
 them the cold, hungry, and humiliated inmates of Lya- 
 pinski House. I could not rid myself of the idea that 
 these two things were connected and that one grew out 
 of the other. I remember how the feeling of guilt re- 
 mained in me the same it had appeared in the first 
 moment ; but very soon another sentiment mingled with 
 this and overshadowed it. 
 
 When I spoke of my impression of Lyapinski House to 
 my near friends and acquaintances, all gave me the same 
 answer that was given me by my first friend, to whom I 
 had been yelling so, but they, in addition to that, ex- 
 pressed their approval of my goodness and sensitiveness, 
 and gave me to understand that this spectacle acted upon 
 me thus only because I, Lev Nikolaevich, was good and 
 kind. I believed them readily. Before I had a chance 
 to look around, the feeling of resentment and repentance, 
 which I had experienced at first, gave way in me to a 
 feeling of satisfaction with my virtue, and a desire to 
 express it to other people. 
 
 "No doubt," I said to myself, "it is not I who am 
 guilty here with my luxurious life, but the necessary 
 conditions of life. The change of my life could certainly 
 not change the evil which I saw. By changing my hfe 
 I should only make myself and my family unhappy, 
 while those misfortunes will remain what they are. 
 
 " Consequently, my task does not consist in changing 
 my life, as I had thought at first, but in contributing, as 
 much as it lies in my power, to the improvement of the
 
 18 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 condition of those unfortunates who have called forth my 
 compassion. The whole matter is that I am a very good 
 and kindly man and wish to do my neighbours some 
 good." 
 
 And so I began to consider a plan of philanthropic 
 activity in which I should have a chance to give expres- 
 sion to my virtue. I must, however, say that, while 
 reflecting on this philanthropic activity, I, in the depth 
 of my soul, felt that it was not the right thing, but, as 
 frequently happens, the activity of my mind and of my 
 imagination drowned in me this voice of my conscience. 
 
 Just then they were taking the census. This seemed 
 to me to be a chance for the exercise of that philanthropy 
 in which I wanted to express my virtue. I knew of 
 many charitable institutions and societies that existed in 
 Moscow, but their activity seemed to me to be falsely 
 directed and insignificant in comparison with what I 
 wanted to do. And so I hit on the following : I would 
 call forth in the rich a sympathy for the city's wretched- 
 ness ; would collect money and bring together men who 
 would be willing. to cooperate in this matter; would visit 
 with the census-takers all the purlieus of poverty and, 
 besides the work of taking the census, would enter into 
 communion with the unfortunates ; would find out the 
 details of their needs and aid them with money, with 
 work, with sending them out of Moscow and locating the 
 children in schools and the old people in homes and poor- 
 houses. More than this : I thought that out of those 
 people who would busy themselves with this there would 
 be formed a permanent organization, which, dividing up 
 among themselves the wards of Moscow, would see to 
 it that the poverty and misery should not become infec- 
 tious ; would always destroy the infection, at its incep- 
 tion ; would attend not so much to the duty of curing as 
 to the hygiene of the urban poverty, I imagined that, 
 not to speak of the mendicants, there would not be any
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 19 
 
 merely needy people in the city ; and that it would be I 
 who would do all this; and that we, the rich people, 
 would after that sit quietly in our drawing-rooms, and 
 eat five-course dinners, and travel in carriages to theatres 
 and assemblies, no longer troubled by such sights as I 
 had seen near Lyapinski House. 
 
 Having formed this plan, I wrote an article about it, 
 and, before sending it to be printed, called on acquaint- 
 ances whose cooperation I hoped to get. To all whom I 
 saw during that day (I turned mainly to the rich) I re- 
 peated the same words, almost what I had written in the 
 article : I proposed to make use of the census for the pur- 
 pose of discovering all about the poverty in Moscow, and 
 helping it with works and with money, and seeing to it 
 that there should be no poor in Moscow, so that we, the 
 rich people, might with a calm conscience enjoy the bene- 
 fits of life to which we were accustomed. AU listened to 
 me attentively and seriously, but precisely the same thing 
 took place with every one of them. The moment my 
 hearers understood what it was all about, they seemed to 
 feel uncomfortable and a little conscience-stricken. They 
 felt embarrassed, mainly for my sake, because I was talk- 
 ing such foohsh things, and yet such that it was impos- 
 sible to say outright that they were foolish. It was as 
 though some external cause compelled the hearers to nod 
 consent to this my foolishness. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! Of course. It would be so nice," they 
 said to me. " It goes without saying that we must sym- 
 pathize with that. I thought so myself, but our people 
 are in general so indifferent that it is scarcely possible to 
 count on much success — However, I on my part am, 
 of course, prepared to cooperate." 
 
 All told me very nearly the same. All consented, but 
 they did so, as I thought, not in consequence of my con- 
 viction and not in consequence of their own desire, but in 
 consequence of some external cause which made it impos-
 
 20 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 sible for them not to agree. This I noticed from the fact 
 that not one of those who offered me their cooperation by 
 contributing money himself defined the sum which he 
 intended to give, so that I was compelled to determine it 
 by asking, " So I may count on you to the extent of 300, 
 or 200, or 100, or 125 roubles ? " and not one of them 
 gave the money. I mention this, because when people 
 contribute money for something they sympathize witli, 
 they are generally in a hurry to give the money. For 
 a box at Sarah Beruhardt's performance people pay out 
 the money at once, in order to secure the matter ; but here, 
 not one of all those who agreed to contribute, and who 
 expressed their sympathy, offered to pay the money at 
 once ; they only acquiesced in the sum which I de- 
 termined for them. 
 
 In the last house in which I happened to be on that 
 evening, I accidentally met a large company. Tbe hostess 
 of this house had for some years been busying herself with 
 philanthropy. At the entrance stood several carriages, 
 and in the antechamber sat a number of lackeys in costly 
 liveries. In the large drawing-room married and unmar- 
 ried ladies, wearing expensive garments, were seated at 
 two tables with lamps, dressing small dolls, and near 
 them were also a few young men. The dolls which 
 were being fixed up by these ladies were to be raffled off 
 for the benefit of the poor. 
 
 The sight of this drawing-room and of the men who 
 were gathered in it struck me very disagreeably. Not to 
 mention the fact that the fortunes of the people gathered 
 there were equal to several millions ; that the mere inter- 
 est of the capital which was expended here on garments, 
 lace, bronzes, brooches, carriages, horses, liveries, lackeys, 
 would be a hundred times greater than what these ladies 
 were manufacturing here, — not to mention all that, the 
 expenses incurred by the ladies and gentlemen in coming 
 out here, — their gloves, their linen, their travelling, the
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 21 
 
 candles, tea, sugar, and cake furnished by the hostess 
 amounted to a hundred times the sum they would reahze 
 from their work. I saw all this, and so I ought to have 
 known that there I should not find any sympathy for the 
 business which brought me there ; but I had come to 
 make my proposition, and, no matter how hard this was 
 for me, I told them what I wanted (I repeated almost 
 word for word what I had written in my article). 
 
 One of the ladies present offered me money, saying that 
 she did not feel strong enough on account of her nerves to 
 visit the poor, but that she would give money ; how much 
 she would give, and when she would furnish it, she did 
 not say. Another lady and a young man offered their 
 services in making the round of the poor ; but I did not 
 avail myself of their offer. The chief person to whom I 
 addressed myself told me that it would not be possible to 
 do much, because the means were insignificant. The means 
 were not sufficient because all the rich people of Moscow 
 were already booked for other charities, and everything 
 that possibly could be obtained from them had been 
 extorted from them ; that all these philanthropists had 
 already received their ranks, medals, and other honours ; 
 that in order to secure a financial success it would be 
 necessary to obtain the grant of new honours from the 
 authorities, and that this was the one effective means, but 
 that it was hard to obtain it. 
 
 When I returned home that night, I lay down to sleep, 
 not only with the presentiment that nothing would come 
 of my idea, but also with shame and with the conscious- 
 ness that I had done something very contemptible and 
 disgraceful on that whole day. But I did not throw up 
 the matter. In the first place, the matter had been set 
 a-going, and a false shame kept me from giving it up ; in 
 the second place, not only the success of this matter, but 
 my every occupation with it, made it possible for me to 
 continue life in those conditions in which I was living,
 
 22 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 while its failure subjected me to the necessity of renounc- 
 ing my life and of seeking new paths of hfe. Of this I 
 was unconsciously afraid. I did not believe my inner 
 voice, and continued what I had begun. 
 
 I sent my article ^ to the printer, and read it in proof 
 to the City Council. As I read it, I blushed to tears and 
 faltered in speech, for 1 felt so uncomfortable. Appar- 
 ently all my hearers felt as uncomfortable as I. In reply 
 to my question, which I put at the end of my reading, 
 whether the managers of the census accepted my propo- 
 sition, which was that they should stay in their places in 
 order that they might be mediators between society and 
 the needy, there ensued an awkward silence. Then two 
 orators delivered speeches. These seemed to mend the 
 awkwardness of my proposition : they expressed sympa- 
 thy for me, but pointed out the inapplicability of my 
 idea, which was approved by all of them. They felt a 
 rehef. 
 
 But when I later none the less tried to gain my point, 
 and asked the managers privately whether they consented 
 at the census to investigate the needs of the poor, and to 
 remain in their posts for the purpose of serving as media- 
 tors between the poor and the rich, they again felt ill at 
 ease. They seemed to be saying to me with their glances : 
 " Here we have, out of respect for you, whitewashed your 
 stupid break, and you annoy us once more with it." Such 
 was the expression of their faces, but in words they told 
 me that they agreed with me ; two of them, each one 
 separately, as though having plotted together, told me in 
 the same words : " We consider ourselves morally ohliged 
 to do so." 
 
 The same impression was produced by my communica- 
 tion on the student census-takers, when I told them that 
 in taking the census we should not only pursue the aims 
 of the census itself, but also those of philanthropy. I 
 1 " On the Census in Moscow," given in this present volume.
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 23 
 
 noticed that, while I was speaking to them of it, they 
 looked with embarrassment iuto my eyes, just as one is 
 embarrassed to look iuto the eyes of a good man who 
 is talking some nonsense. The same effect was produced 
 on the editor of the newspaper, by my article, when I 
 handed it to him, and on my son, on my wife, and on 
 people of every description. All for some reason felt 
 ill at ease, but all of them considered it necessary to 
 approve of the idea itself, and immediately after such an 
 approval began to express their doubts as to the success, 
 and for some reason (all of them without exception) to 
 condemn the evident indifference and coldness of our 
 society and of all men, except of themselves. 
 
 In the depth of my heart I continued to feel that I was 
 not doing the right thing, and that nothing would come 
 of it ; but the article was printed, and I began to take 
 part in the census : I had set the matter a-going, and it 
 drew me along.
 
 IV. 
 
 At my request they assigned to me a district of the 
 Khamovnicheski Ward, near Smolensk Market, along Pro- 
 tochny Lane, between Beregovoy Passage and Nikolski 
 Lane. In this district are the houses which are collect- 
 ively called Ezlianov House, or Rzhanov Fort. These 
 houses at one time belonged to Merchant Rzhanov, but 
 now belong to the Zimins. I had long ago heard of this 
 place as the purlieus of the most terrible luisery and 
 debauch, and so had asked the managers of the census to 
 assign me to this district. My wish was fulfilled. 
 
 After receiving the instructions from the City Council, 
 and a few days before the taking of the census, I started 
 on a round of my district. From the plan which was 
 given to me I immediately found Rzhanov Fort. 
 
 I entered by Nikolski Lane. Nikolski Lane ends on 
 the left with a gloomy house, which has no gate fac- 
 ing this side ; I guessed from the aspect of the house 
 that this was Rzhanov Fort. 
 
 As I descended Nikolski Street, I came abreast of some 
 boys from ten to fourteen years of age, dressed in jackets 
 and paltry overcoats, who were sliding down-hill or 
 skating on one skate along the frozen incline of the side- 
 walk in front of this house. The boys were all in rags, 
 and, like all city boys, bold and daring. I stopped to 
 take a look at them. A tattered old woman, vdth sallow, 
 flabby cheeks, came around the corner. She was walking 
 toward the city, in the direction of Smolensk Market, and 
 wheezing terribly, hke an asthmatic horse, at every step 
 
 she was taking. When she came abreast with me, she 
 
 24
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 25 
 
 stopped to draw a snarliug breath. In any other place 
 this woman would have asked me for some money, but 
 here she only struck up a conversation with me. 
 
 " You see," she said, pointing to the skating boys, " they 
 are wasting time ! They will be just such Ezhanovians 
 as their fathers." 
 
 One of the boys in an overcoat and vizorless cap heard 
 her words and stopped. 
 
 " Don't scold ! " he shouted to the old woman. " You 
 are yourself a Ezhanov viper ! " 
 
 I asked the boy : " Do you live here ? " 
 
 " Yes, and she does, too. She has stolen a boot-leg ! " 
 shouted the boy, and, raising his foot, he skated past 
 me. 
 
 The old woman discharged a lot of curses, which were 
 interrupted by her cough. Just then a ragged old man 
 with snow-white hair came down the middle of the street, 
 swaying his arms (in one of them he carried a bundle 
 with a white loaf and some cracknels). The old man 
 looked as though he had just braced himself with a dram. 
 Evidently he had heard the old woman's curses, and he 
 took her part. 
 
 " Just let me catch you, little devils ! " he shouted to 
 the boys, pretending to make for them. After passing me 
 he stepped on the sidewalk. On the Arbat this old man 
 startles people by his decrepitude, old age, and wretched- 
 ness ; here he was a merry labourer returning from his 
 daily labour. 
 
 I followed the old man. He turned a corner to the 
 left, into Protochny Lane, and, after passing the whole 
 house and the gate, disappeared in the door of a restau- 
 rant. 
 
 Two gates and several doors front on Protochny Lane : 
 they are those of a restaurant, a tavern, and a few gro- 
 ceries and other shops. This, indeed, is Ezhanov Fort. 
 Everything is here gray, diriy, and stinking, — the build-
 
 26 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 ings, the shops, the yards, the people. The majority of the 
 people whom I met here were tattered and half-dressed. 
 Some were passing by, while others ran from door to door. 
 Two of them were haggling about a piece of some rag. I 
 walked all around the building from the side of Protochny 
 Lane and Beregovoy Passage, and, upon returning, stopped 
 at the gate of one of the houses. I wanted to go in and 
 see what they were doing there, inside, but I felt ill at 
 ease at what I should say if they asked me what I 
 wanted. Still, after some hesitation, I entered. 
 
 The moment I entered the courtyard I was struck by a 
 disgusting stench. The yard was terribly dirty. I 
 turned around a corner, and that very moment heard 
 to the left of me, in an upper wooden gallery, the tramp 
 of men running, at first along the deals of the gallery, 
 and then over the steps of the staircase. First there 
 came running out a lean woman with sleeves rolled up, in 
 a faded pink dress and with shoes on her bare feet. 
 After her came a shaggy-haired man in a red shirt and 
 pantaloons which were as wide as a petticoat, and in 
 galoshes. 
 
 At the foot of the stairs the man caught the woman, 
 
 " You will not get away from me," he said, laughing. 
 
 " You cross-eyed devil," began the woman, apparently 
 flattered by this persecution ; but, upon seeing me, she 
 shouted : " Whom do you want ? " 
 
 As I did not want anybody, I felt embarrassed and 
 went away. There was nothing remarkable about it, but 
 after what I had seen outside the yard, — the cursing 
 woman, the merry old man, and the skating boys, — this 
 incident suddenly showed me my undertaking from an 
 entirely new side. I had undertaken to benefit these 
 people with the aid of the Moscow rich. Now I under- 
 stood for the first time that all these unfortunates, whom 
 I wanted to benefit, had not only a time when, suffering 
 from hunger and cold, they waited to be admitted to the
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 27 
 
 house, but also a time which they used to some purpose ; 
 that they had twenty-four hours each day and a whole life, 
 which I had never thought before. I now understood for 
 the first time that all these people had not only the 
 desire to protect themselves against the cold and to get 
 something to eat, but also must hve somehow those 
 twenty-four hours of each day, which they had to live 
 like any other being. 1 understood that these men 
 had also to be angry, and feel weary, and brace them- 
 selves, and have their brown studies, and make merry. 
 However strange this may sound, I now clearly under- 
 stood for the first time that what I had undertaken could 
 not consist merely in feeding and clothing a thousand 
 people, — like feeding and putting under a roof a thou- 
 sand sheep, — but that it ought to consist in doing people 
 good. When I understood that each of these thousand 
 people was just such a man as I was, with just such 
 a past, just such passions, temptations, and delusions, just 
 such thoughts, just such questions, my undertaking sud- 
 denly appeared so difficult to me that I felt my impo- 
 tence. But the thing was begun, and I continued it.
 
 On the first appointed day the student census-takers 
 started in the morning, but I, the benefactor, did not get 
 to them before noon. I could not have come earher, 
 because I arose at ten, then drank coffee and smoked, 
 waiting for my digestion to take place. I arrived at noon 
 at the gate of Ezhanov House. 
 
 A policeman showed me a restaurant on Beregovoy 
 Passage, where the census-takers asked those to come who 
 wanted to see them. I entered the restaurant. It was 
 a dark, stinking, dirty place. In front was the counter, 
 on the left, a small room with tables that were covered 
 with dirty napkins ; on the right, a large room with 
 columns, and similar tables at the windows, along the 
 walls. At some of the tables, drinking tea, sat tattered 
 and decently dressed men, such as workmen and small 
 traders, and a few women. The restaurant was very dirty, 
 but apparently it did a good business. The facial expres- 
 . sion of the clerk behind the counter was businesslike, and 
 the waiters were quick and attentive : I had barely 
 entered, when a waiter got ready to take off" my overcoat 
 and receive my order. Obviously they were here in the 
 habit of doing prompt and exact work. 
 
 I asked about the census-takers. 
 
 " Vanya ! " shouted a small man, dressed in German 
 fashion, who was putting something into a cupboard 
 behind the counter ; he was the proprietor of the restau- 
 rant, a Kaluga peasant, Ivan Fedotych, who rented half 
 the apartments of the Zimin houses, in order to sublet 
 them to other people. A waiter, a boy of about eighteen 
 
 28
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 29 
 
 years of age, lean, hook-nosed, sallow-faced, ran up to 
 him. " Take the gentleman to the census-takers : they 
 have gone to the main wing, above the well." 
 
 The lad threw down the napkin, put on an overcoat 
 over his white shirt and white trousers, and a cap with 
 a large vizor, and, rapidly moving his white legs, led me 
 through a back door which shut with a block. In the 
 nasty, stinking kitchen in the vestibule we met an old 
 woman who was cautiously carrying terribly malodorous 
 guts that were wrapped in a rag. From the vestibule we 
 went down into an inclined yard, which was all filled up 
 with frame buildings on lower stone stories. The stench 
 in this yard was very great. The centre of this stench 
 was a privy, near which there was always a crowd, no 
 matter how often I passed there. The privy itself was 
 not a place of defecations, but it served as an indication 
 of the place near which it was customary to defecate. It 
 was impossible not to notice this place, whenever one 
 crossed the ' yard ; it was oppressive to enter into the 
 pungent atmosphere of the stench which rose from it. 
 
 The lad cautiously guarded his white pantaloons, care- 
 fully led me past this spot over the frozen impurities, and 
 walked in the direction of one of the buildings. The 
 men who were crossing the yard and the galleries stopped 
 to take a look at me. Apparently a neatly dressed man 
 was a rarity in these places. 
 
 The lad asked a woman whether she had not seen 
 where the census-takers were, and three men at once 
 answered this question ; some said that they were above 
 the well ; others said that they had gone from there, and 
 were now with Nikita Ivanovich. An old man in a shirt, 
 who was fixing himself near the privy, said that they 
 were in Number 30. The lad decided that this informa- 
 tion was the most reliable, and so led me to Number 30, 
 under the cover of a basement story, into darkness and into 
 a stench which was different from the one in the yard. We
 
 30 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 descended lower and walked along an earth floor of a 
 dark corridor. As we were walking along the corridor, 
 a door was opened with a start, and a drunken old man 
 in a shirt, who was evidently not a peasant, rushed out 
 from the room. A washerwoman, with sleeves rolled up. 
 and soapy hands, was driving and pushing this man with 
 a piercing shriek. Vanya, my guide, pushed the drunken 
 man aside and rebuked him. 
 
 " It will not do to make such a racket," he said, " and 
 you are an officer, too." 
 
 Then we arrived at the door of Number 30. Vanya 
 pulled the door : it smacked, having been stuck, and 
 opened, and we were surrounded by vapours of soap-suds 
 and by the pungent odour of bad victuals and of tobacco, 
 and entered into complete darkness. The windows were 
 on the opposite side, while nearer to us were board 
 corridors on the right and on the left, and little doors at 
 all kinds of angles, leading into rooms that were unevenly 
 partitioned off by shingles that were painted white with 
 a watery paint. In a dark room on the left could be 
 seen a woman washing something in a trough. Through 
 a door on the right an old woman could be seen. 
 Through another open door I saw a bearded, red-faced 
 peasant in bast shoes, who was sitting on a bed bench ; 
 he was holding his hands on his knees, swaying his bast 
 shoe covered feet, and looking gloomily at them. 
 
 At the end of the corridor there was a little door which 
 led into the room where the census-takers were. This 
 was the room of the landlady of the whole of Number 30, 
 She rented the whole number from Ivan Fedotych, and 
 let it out to permanent renters and to night lodgers. In 
 this tiny room a student census-taker, with his cards, was 
 sitting under a foil image and, like an investigating mag- 
 istrate, examining a man in a shirt and vest. This was 
 the landlady's friend, who was answering the (questions for 
 her. Here was also the landlady — an old woman —
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 31 
 
 and two curious lodgers. When I arrived, the room was 
 crowded to its fullest capacity. I pushed my way to the 
 table. The student and I exchanged greetings, and he 
 continued his questions. I looked around and questioned 
 the inmates of this apartment for my own purposes. 
 
 It turned out that in this apartment I did not find one 
 on whom my benefaction could be bestowed. In spite of 
 the poverty, smallness, and dirt of these quarters, which 
 startled me when I compared them with the mansion in 
 which I lived, the landlady hved in comparative ease, 
 as compared with the poor inhabitants of the cities ; but 
 in comparison with the village poverty, with which I was 
 well acquainted, she lived even in luxury. She had a 
 feather bed, a quilted coverlet, a samovar, a fur coat, 
 a cupboard with dishes. The landlady's friend had the 
 same well-to-do appearance : he even had a watch with a 
 chain. The lodgers were poor, but there was not one who 
 demanded immediate aid. Those who wanted help were 
 the woman at the wash-trough, who had been abandoned 
 with her children by her husband, an old widow, who, 
 as she said, had no means of support, and that peasant in 
 the bast shoes, who told me that he had not had that day 
 anything to eat. But upon closer inquiry it appeared 
 that all these persons were not in particular want, and 
 that, in order that I might aid them, I should have to 
 become better acquainted with them. 
 
 When I proposed to the woman, whom her husband 
 had abandoned, to put the children in a children's home, 
 she became confused, fell to musing, and thanked me, 
 but apparently it was not what she wanted : she pre- 
 ferred a contribution in money. Her eldest girl helped 
 her to wash, and her middle girl took care of her boy. 
 The old woman wanted very much to go to a poor- 
 house, but, upon examining her corner, I saw that the 
 woman was not in straits. She had a httle trunk with 
 some possessions, a teapot with a tin mouth, and Mont-
 
 32 WHAT tiHALL WE DO THEN ? 
 
 pensier boxes with sugar and tea. She knitted stockings 
 and gloves, and received a monthly allowance from a 
 benefactress. But the peasant was evidently not so 
 much in need of something to eat as of something to 
 drink, and anything wliich might have been given to him 
 would have gone into the tavern. 
 
 Thus these quarters did not contain people with whom, 
 I thought, the house was filled, such as I could make 
 happy by giving them money. These poor, so it seemed 
 to me, were of a doubtful character. I made a note of 
 the old woman, of the woman with the children, and 
 of the peasant, and decided that it would be necessary to 
 look after them, but only after I should have busied 
 myself with those particularly unfortunate people whom I 
 expected to find in the house. I decided that the aid 
 would have to be furnished in a given order, — at first to 
 those who needed it most, and then to these people. But 
 in the next quarters, and in the next, it was the same : 
 the people were all such as had to be investigated before 
 any aid was offered them. There were no unfortunates to 
 whom money was to be given, and who, having been 
 unhappy, would become happy. Though I ought to be 
 ashamed to say so, I began to be disappointed, because 
 I did not find in these houses anything I had expected. I 
 had expected to find people of a particular kind, but when 
 I had made the round of all the quarters, I convinced my- 
 self that the inhabitants of these houses were not at all a 
 particular kind of men, but precisely such men as I saw 
 myself surrounded by. Even as among us, there were 
 among them people who were more or less good, more or 
 less bad, more or less happy, more or less unhappy. The 
 unfortunate ones were just as unfortunate as those among 
 us, whose misfortune was not in external conditions but 
 within themselves, — a misfortune which could not be 
 mended by a bill.
 
 VI. 
 
 The inniates of these houses form the lower urban 
 population, of whom there must be more than one hun- 
 dred thousand in Moscow. Here, in this house, there are 
 representatives of all kinds of this population ; here you 
 will find small masters and proprietors, bootmakers, brush- 
 makers, joiners, turners, shoemakers, tailors, blacksmiths, 
 drivers, self-supporting traders and huckstresses, washer- 
 women, second-hand dealers, usurers, day-labourers and 
 people without any definite occupations, and beggars, 
 and prostitutes. 
 
 Here are many of the same class of people which I 
 saw in front of Lyapinski House, but here they are scat- 
 tered among working people. Besides, those others I had 
 seen at their very worst time, when everything was spent 
 in food and drink, and they, freezing and starving and 
 driven out of the restaurants, were waiting, as for the 
 heavenly manna, for admission into the free lodging- 
 house, and from there to the longed-for jail, in order to 
 be sent back to their domicile ; whereas here I saw them 
 amidst a majority of labouring people, and at a time when 
 in one way or another they had gained three or five kopeks 
 for a night's lodging, and at times roubles for food and 
 drink. 
 
 And, no matter how strange this may sound, I here 
 experienced nothing resembling the feeling which I had 
 experienced in Lyapinski House ; on the contrary, dur- 
 ing my first round, both I and the students experienced 
 almost a pleasant sensation, — but why do I say " almost 
 pleasant " ? That is not true : the sensation evoked by 
 
 33
 
 34 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 
 
 the intercourse with these people, no matter how strange 
 this may seem, was simply exceedingly pleasant. 
 
 The first impression was that the majority of people 
 who were living here were labourers and very good 
 people. 
 
 The greater part of the inmates we found at work, — 
 the washerwomen over their troughs, the joiners at their 
 tables, the shoemakers on their stools. The close quar- 
 ters were filled with people, and they were working ener- 
 getically and merrily. There was an odour of workmen's 
 perspiration, and of hides at the shoemaker's, and of shav- 
 ings at the joiner's, and frequently we heard songs, and 
 saw the bared muscular arms which went through the 
 habitual motions with rapidity and with agility. We 
 were everywhere met with mirth and with kindness : 
 nearly everywhere our intrusion into the habitual life of 
 these people failed to rouse those ambitions, that desire to 
 show their importance and to snub, which the appearance 
 of the census-takers produced in the majority of the quar- 
 ters of the well-to-do people ; on the contrary, to all our 
 questions these people answered as was proper, without 
 ascribing any special significance to them. Our questions 
 merely served for them as a cause for amusement and 
 jesting as to how one was to be written down, who was 
 to be put down for two, and what two would stand for 
 one, and so forth. 
 
 Many we found at dinner or at tea, and to our greeting, 
 " Bread and salt," or " Tea and sugar," they invariably 
 replied by, " Please to join us," and even moved aside to 
 make place for us. Instead of purlieus of a constantly 
 changing population, which we had expected to find here, 
 it turned out that in this house there were many apart- 
 ments where people had lived for a long time. A joiner 
 and his workmen, a shoemaker and his master workman 
 had lived for ten years in one place. At the shoemaker's 
 it was very dirty and crowded, but the people at work
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 35 
 
 were very cheerful. I tried to talk to one of the work- 
 men, as I wished to get from him an account of the 
 wretchedness of his condition and of his indebtedness to 
 the master, but the workman did not understand me and 
 spoke in the highest terms of his master and his life. 
 
 In one apartment there hved an old man and his wife. 
 They were selling apples. Their room was warm, clean, 
 and full of every good thing. The floor was carpeted with 
 straw matting, which they got in the apple shop. There 
 were trunks, a safe, a samovar, and dishes. In the cor- 
 ner were a number of images, and in front of them two 
 lamps were burning. Covered fur coats were hanging on 
 the wall behind a sheet. The old woman had star-shaped 
 wrinkles : she was kind and talkative, and apparently 
 took delight in her quiet, well-arranged life. 
 
 Ivan Feddtych, the proprietor of the restaurant and the 
 landlord of the apartments, came from the restaurant and 
 walked with us. He jested cheerfully with many renters, 
 calling them by their names and patronymics, and gave 
 us short sketches of them. They were all people like 
 the rest of us, — Martin Sem^noviches, Peter Petroviches, 
 Marya Ivanovnas, — people who did not consider them- 
 selves unfortunate, and who indeed were like the rest of 
 us. 
 
 We had prepared ourselves to see nothing but what 
 would be terrible ; but, instead of anything terrible, we 
 saw nothing but what was good, what involuntarily evoked 
 our respect. And of these good people there was such a 
 multitude that the ragged, hopeless, idle people, who now 
 and then were met with among them, did not impair the 
 general impression. 
 
 The students were not so startled by it as I was. 
 They were simply out doing something useful for science, 
 as they thought, and at the same time made their casual 
 observations ; but I was a benefactor, — I went out to 
 help the unfortunate, lost, corrupt people, whom I had
 
 36 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 expected to find in this house. Suddenly, instead of un- 
 fortunate, lost, and corrupt people, I saw a large number 
 of calm, satisfied, happy, kind, and very good working 
 people. 
 
 This impressed itself upon me very vividly, whenever 
 I met in these quarters that very crying want which I 
 was prepared to assist. 
 
 Whenever I met this want, I found that it was already 
 attended to, and that the aid which I wanted to offer 
 to it had already been given. This aid had been given 
 before me, and by whom ? By those same unfortunate, 
 corrupt creatures, whom I was prepared to help, and it 
 was given in a way which I could not emulate. 
 
 In a basement lay a lonely old man who was sick with 
 the typhus. The old man did not have a friend. A 
 widow with a little girl, a stranger to him, but a neigh- 
 bour of his, took care of him, brought tea to him, and 
 bought medicine for him with her own money. In an- 
 other apartment a woman was lying sick with puerperal 
 fever. A woman who was making a living by debauch 
 rocked the baby, made a sucking-rag for it, and for two 
 days did not go out to her calling. A girl who was left an 
 orphan was taken into the family of a tailor, who him- 
 self had three children. Thus the only unfortunates that 
 were left were some idle people, officials, scribes, lackeys 
 out of a job, beggars, drunkards, prostitutes, cliildren, who 
 could not be at once helped with money, but who had 
 to be carefully examined, taken care of, and given work. 
 I was in search of pure unfortunates, such as were unfor- 
 tunate through poverty, and as could be helped by giving 
 them of our abundance ; but it seemed to me that I failed 
 to find such, and that all the unfortunates I came across 
 were such that much time and care would have to be 
 expended on them.
 
 VII. 
 
 The unfortunates whom I marked down naturally clas- 
 sified themselves in my imagination according to three 
 categories, namely, as people who had lost their former 
 profitable situation and were waiting to return to it (such 
 people belonged both to the higher and to the lower con- 
 ditions of life) ; then prostitutes, of whom there were verj- 
 many in these houses ; and the third category, — children. 
 The largest number marked down by me belonged to the 
 first category, to those who had lost their profitable sit- 
 uations and were wishing to return to them. Of such 
 people, especially of those who belonged to the burgher 
 and the official worlds, there were very many in these 
 houses. In nearly all the quarters which we entered 
 with the landlord, Ivan Fedotych, we were told by him : 
 " Here you do not need to write the census card your- 
 selves ; here you will find a man who can do all that, if 
 only he is not on a spree." 
 
 Ivan Fedotych w^ould call such a man by his first name 
 and patronymic, and it always turned out to be one of 
 those men who had fallen from a higher condition of hfe. 
 To Ivan Fedotych's call an impoverished gentleman or 
 official would creep out from some dark corner, and he 
 would generally be drunk and always undressed. If he 
 was not drunk, he was always delighted to take hold 
 of the matter which was placed before him, significantly 
 shook his head, frowned, put in his remarks with learned 
 terms, and with cautious tenderness held the clean, 
 printed red card in his trembling, dirty hands, and with 
 contempt eyed his fellow lodgers, as though triumphantly 
 
 37
 
 38 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 asserting the superiority of his education before those 
 who had humiHated him so often. He was obviously 
 glad to commune with that world where they printed 
 cards on red paper, and where he had once been 
 himself. To my inquiries about his hfe, such a man 
 nearly always rephed readily and began with enthusiasm 
 to recite, like a prayer learned by rote, the history of those 
 calamities to which he had been subjected, and, above all, 
 of his former position, where he belonged according to his 
 education. 
 
 Such men were widely scattered through Rzhanov 
 House. One of the apartments is solidly occupied by 
 such men and women. Wlien we came up to it, Ivan 
 Feddtych said to us : " Here comes the apartment of the 
 gentry." The apartment was quite full : nearly all of 
 them, about forty, were at home. More thoroughly fallen, 
 unfortunate, neglected old persons, and pale, hopeless 
 young persons could not be found in the whole house. I 
 talked with some of them. It was nearly always the 
 same story, only in various degrees of evolution. Each of 
 them had been rich, or a father, a brother, uncle, had been 
 or still was rich, or his father, or he himself, had occupied 
 a fine position. Then a misfortune occurred, caused by 
 some envious person, or by his own goodness, or by some 
 special accident, and he lost everything, and now was 
 doomed to perish in these improper, hateful surroundings, 
 — covered with lice, dressed in rags, among drunkards 
 and harlots, feeding on liver and bread, and extending the 
 hand for alms. 
 
 All the thoughts, wishes, and recollections of these 
 people are directed only to the past. The present ap- 
 pears to them as something unnatural, abominable, and 
 unworthy of attention. Not one of them has a present. 
 They have only recollections of the past and expectations 
 in the future, which may be realized at any moment, and 
 for the realization of which very little is needed, but this
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 39 
 
 very little is wanting and is not to be had, and so life is 
 being uselessly ruined, one having suffered for a year, 
 another for five, and a third for thirty years. One needs 
 only to dress himself in decent clothes, in order to make 
 his appearance before a person who is favourably inclined 
 to him ; another needs only to put on decent clothes, pay 
 his bills, and reach Or^l ; a third needs only to redeem his 
 mortgaged property and obtain some small means for 
 the continuation of his case at law, wliich must end in his 
 favour, and then all will be well again. They all say that 
 they need only something external, in order that they 
 may get back to the condition which alone they consider 
 natural and happy for them. 
 
 If I had not been befogged by my pride of virtue, I 
 needed only to scan a little their young and their old, for 
 the most part weak, sensual, but good faces, in order to 
 understand that their misfortune was incorrigible by 
 external means ; that they could not be happy in any 
 situation, if their view of life remained the same ; that 
 they were not a special class of people, in unusually 
 unfortunate circumstances, but just such people as we 
 were surrounded by on all sides, and as we ourselves were. 
 I remember that my communion with this class of unfor- 
 tunates was particularly hard for me. Now I understand 
 why it was so : I saw myself in them as in a mirror. If 
 I had stopped to think of my life and of the lives of the 
 men of our circle, I should have seen that between us 
 there was no essential difference. 
 
 If those who are around me now live in grand quarters 
 and in their own houses on the Sivtsev Vrazhok and on 
 the Dmitrovka, and not in Ezhanov House, and still eat 
 and drink palatable things, and not liver and herring with 
 bread, that does not keep them from being just as un- 
 happy. They are just as dissatisfied with their situation, 
 regretting the past and wishing for something better, and 
 this better situation which they wish for is just such as
 
 40 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 
 
 the inmates of Rzhanov House desii-e, that is, such as will 
 make it possible for them to work less and make more 
 extensive use of the labours of others. The diflerence is 
 only in the degree and the time. 
 
 If I had then stopped to think, I should have under- 
 stood it ; but I did not stop to think : I questioned these 
 people and noted them down, hoping to aid them later, 
 after I should have learned of their conditions and their 
 needs. I did not understand then that such a man could 
 be helped only by changing his world conception ; but, in 
 order to change the world conception of another person, 
 a man must first have his own better world conception 
 and Uve in accordance with it, whereas mine was just 
 such as theirs was, and I lived in accordance with the 
 world conception which had to be changed in order that 
 these people should stop being unhappy. 
 
 I did not see that these people were unhappy, not 
 because they, so to speak, lacked nutritive food, but 
 because their stomachs were ruined, and they no longer 
 demanded nutritive food, but such as roused their 
 appetite ; I did not see that, to aid them, I was not to 
 offer them food, but should cure their ruined stomachs. 
 Though I am anticipating here, I will say that I actually 
 did not help a single one of the men whose names I had 
 taken down, although for some of them precisely that 
 was done which they had wanted, and which, it seemed, 
 ought to have put them on their feet. I specially re- 
 member three of these people. All three of them are, 
 after numerous upliftings and falls, in precisely the same 
 condition in which they were three years ago.
 
 VIII. 
 
 The second category of unfortunates whom I had hoped 
 to help later was that of the prostitutes ; of such women 
 there is a very large variety in Kzhanov House, — from 
 young ones, who resemble women, to old ones, terrible to 
 look at, who have lost every human semblance. This 
 hope of helping the women, w^hich I had not had in mind 
 before, arose under the following circumstance. 
 
 It was in the middle of our census-taking, and we had 
 by that time worked out a certain mechanical method of 
 procedure. 
 
 As we entered new quarters, we immediately asked for 
 the landlord of the rooms ; one of us sat down, clearing a 
 place where he could write, and a second walked from 
 corner to corner, questioning each person separately, and 
 transmitting the information to the recorder. 
 
 Upon entering one of the apartments of the basement 
 story, a student went to find the landlord, while I began 
 to question all those who were in these quarters. The 
 quarters were arranged as follows : In the middle of a 
 room twenty feet square there was a stove ; from the 
 stove radiated four partitions, forming four smaller com- 
 partments. In the first passage room there were four 
 cots and two persons, — an old man and a woman. After 
 this came a long compartment : here was the landlord, 
 a young, respectable-looking, extremely pale burgher, 
 dressed in a gray cloth coat without sleeves. On the 
 left of the first corner was the third compartment : there 
 was a man asleep, no doubt drunk, and a woman in a 
 
 pink blouse, which was open in front and gathered 
 
 41
 
 42 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 
 
 behind ; the fourth compartment was beyond a partition : 
 it was entered from the landlord's room. 
 
 The student went to the landlord's room, and- 1 stopped 
 in the passage room to question the old man and the 
 woman. The man was a master printer, but now had no 
 means of support. The woman was the wife of a cook. 
 I went to the third compartment and questioned the 
 woman in the blouse about the sleeping man. She said 
 that he was a guest. I asked the woman who she was. 
 She said she was a Moscow burgher woman. 
 
 " What is your occupation ? " 
 
 She laughed, and gave me no answer. 
 
 " How do you support yourself ? " I repeated, thinking 
 that she had not understood my first question. 
 
 " I sit in the restaurant," she said. 
 
 I did not understand, and again asked : 
 
 " What do you hve by ? " 
 
 She made no reply, and only laughed. In the fourth 
 compartment, where we had not yet been, there were also 
 heard laughing female voices. The landlord came out of 
 his compartment, and walked over to us. He had appar- 
 ently heard my questions and the woman's answer. He 
 cast a stern glance upon the woman, and turned to me : 
 " A prostitute," he said, obviously satisfied, because he 
 knew the word which is used in official language and 
 pronounced it correctly. Having said this, he with a 
 faint and respectful smile of satisfaction, which was meant 
 for me, turned to the woman. The moment he turned to 
 her, his whole face was changed. Speaking in that pecul- 
 iar, contemptuous, quick tone, with which one addresses 
 a dog, and without looking at her, he said : 
 
 " What use is there of talking bosh, ',1 sit in a restau- 
 rant ' ? You sit in a restaurant ! Say outright, — a 
 prostitute," he repeated the word. " She does not know 
 how to call herself." 
 
 His tone offended me.
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 43 
 
 " It is not proper for us to put her to shame," I said. 
 " If all of us lived in godly fashion, there would be none 
 of them." 
 
 " Well, that is so," said the landlord, with an unnatural 
 smile. 
 
 " Then we ought not to rebuke them, but to pity them. 
 Is it their fault ? " 
 
 I do not remember how I expressed myself, but I 
 remember that I was offended by the contemptvious tone 
 of this youthful landlord of the quarters which were full 
 of women whom he called prostitutes, and I was sorry 
 for this woman, and so I expressed both sentiments. The 
 moment I had said this, the boards of the beds in the 
 compartment where the female voices were heard began 
 to creak, and above the partition, which did not reach as 
 high as the ceiling, there rose a curly, dishevelled female 
 head with small, swollen eyes and a shining red face, and 
 after her a second and a third head. They were evidently 
 standing on their beds, and all three of them stretched 
 their necks and with bated breath and strained attention 
 looked silently at us. 
 
 There ensued an embarrassing silence. The student, 
 who had been smiling before, became serious ; the land- 
 lord became embarrassed, and lowered his eyes ; the 
 women did not dare to draw breath, and looked at me, 
 and waited. I was embarrassed more than the rest. I 
 had not expected to see a casual word produce such an 
 effect. It was as though Ezekiel's field of death, covered 
 with dead bones, had quivered by the touch of th^ spirit, 
 and the dead bones had come to life. I unwittingly 
 uttered a word of love and of compassion, and this word 
 acted upon all persons as though they had all been waiting 
 for this word, in order to cease being corpses, and come to 
 life again. They kept looking at me and waiting for 
 what would come next. They were waiting for me to say 
 those words and do those acts which would make the
 
 44 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 
 
 bones come together, be covered with flesh, and come to 
 life again. But I felt that I did not possess those words 
 nor those acts with which I might continue what I had 
 begun ; I felt in the bottom of my heart that I had lied, 
 that I was precisely such as they were, and that I had 
 nothing else to say, and I began to record the names and 
 occupations of all the persons in these quarters. 
 
 This incident led me into a new delusion, — into the 
 thought that it was possible to help these unfortunates 
 also. In my self-conceit it then appeared to me that 
 that was easy. I said to myself : " We will note down 
 these women also and later we " (I did not render myself 
 any account as to who these " we " were) " shall busy our- 
 selves with them." I imagined that we, those men who 
 for the period of several generations had brought these 
 women to such a state, would one beautiful day bethink 
 ourselves and mend all that at once. And yet, if I had 
 only recalled my conversation with that lewd woman who 
 was rocking the baby of the woman sick in childbirth, I 
 might have comprehended the whole madness of this 
 supposition. 
 
 When we saw this woman with the child, we thought 
 that it was her child. In reply to the question who she 
 was, she answered outright, " A girl." She did not say, 
 " A prostitute." It was only that burgher, the landlord, 
 who had used that terrible word. My supposition that 
 she had a baby gave me the idea of bringing her out of 
 her situation. I asked : 
 
 " Is this your child ? " 
 
 " No, it belongs to this woman." 
 
 " Why, then, do you rock it ? " 
 
 " She asked me to : she is dying." 
 
 Though my supposition proved incorrect, I continued to 
 speak to her in the same spirit. I asked her who she was, 
 and how she had come to her present condition. She 
 cheerfully and in a simple manner told me her story.
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 45 
 
 She was the daughter of a factory hand, a Moscow 
 burgher. She had been left an orphan, and her aunt took 
 her to her house. From her aunt's she started frequenting 
 the restaurants. Her aunt was dead now. When I asked 
 her whether she did not want to change her manner of 
 life, my question apparently did not even interest her. 
 Indeed, how could the proposition of something quite 
 impossible interest a person ? She smiled, and said : 
 
 " But who will take me with my yellow police card ?" 
 
 " Suppose I found you a place as a cook ? " I said. 
 
 This idea occurred to me, because she was a strong, 
 blonde woman, with a silly-looking round face. Cooks 
 are generally of this description. My words evidently 
 displeased her. 
 
 " A cook ! But I cannot bake bread," she said, laugh- 
 ing. She said that she could not be one, but I saw by 
 her face that she did not want to be a cook, because she 
 considered the position and calling of a cook to be 
 low. 
 
 This woman, who in the simplest manner possible, like 
 the widow of the Gospel, sacrificed everything she had for 
 the sake of the sick mother, like her other companions, 
 regarded the condition of a working man as low and worthy 
 of contempt. She was brought up to live, without work- 
 ing, and to live a life which by those who surrounded her 
 was considered natural for her. In this did her mis- 
 fortune lie. Through this misfortune she had got into 
 her present state and was maintaining herself in it. That 
 had brought her to loaf in restaurants. Which of us, 
 man or woman, will correct her false conception of life ? 
 Where, in our midst, are those people who are convinced 
 that any life of labour is more respectable than a life of 
 idleness, — who are convinced of it, and live in accord- 
 ance with that conviction, and in accordance with that 
 conviction value and esteem people ? If I had stopped to 
 think of it, I should have comprehended that neither I
 
 46 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 nor any one else of those whom I know could cure this 
 disease. 
 
 I should have comprehended that those startled and 
 meek heads that were thrust forward above the partition 
 were expressing nothing but amazement at the sympathy 
 which I had given utterance to, and by no means hope in 
 having their immorality mended. They do not see the 
 immorality of their lives. They see that they are despised 
 and cursed, but it is impossible for them to comprehend 
 why they are despised. Their lives have been passed 
 since childhood amidst just such women, who, they know 
 full well, have always existed and are necessary to society, 
 so necessary that there are special officers whose duty it 
 is to look after their regular existence. Besides, they 
 know that they exercise power over men and control 
 them, often more completely than do other women. They 
 see that their position in society, despite the fact that 
 everybody curses them, is recognized by women and by 
 men and by the authorities, and so they fail to under- 
 stand what they are to repent of or why they should 
 mend. 
 
 During one of the rounds a student told me that in one 
 of the rooms there was a woman who carried on a trade 
 with her thirteen-year-old daughter. As I wished to save 
 this girl, I went directly to that room. The mother and 
 the daughter were living in great poverty. The mother, 
 a small, swarthy prostitute of about forty years of age, 
 was not merely homely, but disagreeably so. The daughter 
 was just as repulsive. To all my roundabout questions 
 as to their life, the mother answered me curtly, and with 
 suspicion and hostility, obviously feeling me to be an 
 enemy with evil intentions ; the daughter made no replies 
 and did not look at her mother, having evidently full 
 confidence in her mother. They did not evoke any sincere 
 pity in me, but rather disgust ; but I decided that it was 
 necessary, to save the daughter, to get the ladies interested
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 47 
 
 who sympathized with the miserable condition of these 
 women, and to send them thither. 
 
 However, if I had stopped to think of the mother's 
 long past, of how she had borne, reared, and brought up 
 her daughter in her condition, no doubt without the 
 slightest aid from people and with heavy sacrifices ; if I 
 had stopped to think of that view of hfe which had formed 
 itself in this woman, — I should have understood that in 
 the mother's act tliere was positively nothing bad or 
 immoral : she was doing for her daughter all she could, 
 that is, what she considered best for herself. It is possible 
 by force to take the daughter away from her mother ; but 
 it is impossible to convince the mother that she is doing 
 wrong in selling her daughter. If it comes to saving, it 
 is the mother that ought to be saved ; above all, she 
 ought to be saved from that view of life, approved by all 
 men, which makes it possible for a woman to live out of 
 wedlock, that is, without bearing children and without 
 working, serving only for the gratification of sensuality. 
 
 If I had stopped to think of it, I should have compre- 
 hended that the majority of those ladies whom I wanted 
 to send there for the purpose of saving this girl not only 
 hved themselves without bringing forth children and 
 without work, serving only the gratification of sensuality, 
 but also brought up their daughters for the same life : one 
 mother takes her daughter to the restaurant, another takes 
 hers to court or to balls. But the world conception is 
 the same with either mother, namely, that a woman must 
 gratify a man's lust, and that for this she has to be fed, 
 and dressed, and taken care of. How, then, can our ladies 
 improve this woman and her daughter ?
 
 IX. 
 
 MoEE extravagant still was my relation to the children. 
 In my capacity of benefactor I turned my attention to 
 the children also, wishing to save the innocent creatures 
 that w^ere going to perdition in this den of debauch, and 
 took down their names, intending to busy myself with 
 them later. 
 
 Among the children I^was particularly struck by twelve- 
 year-old Serezha. This bright, wide-awake boy, who had 
 been living at a shoemaker's, but was now left without a 
 home, because his master was in jail, I pitied with my 
 whole soul, and I wanted to do him some good. 
 
 I will now tell how my attempt at benefiting him 
 ended, because the story of this boy shows better than 
 anything my false position in my capacity as benefactor. 
 I took the boy to my house, and put him in the kitchen, 
 — it was certainly impossible to take a lousy boy out of 
 the den of debauch into my children's rooms ! And I 
 considered myself particularly good and kind, because he 
 did not embarrass me, but the servants in the kitchen, 
 and because it was not I who fed him, l)ut our cook, and 
 because I gave him some old clothes to wear. 
 
 The boy stayed about a week. During this time I once 
 or twice, in passing him, said a few words to him, and 
 during my constitutional called on a shoemaker I knew, 
 offering him the boy as an apprentice. A peasant, who 
 happened to call at my house, invited him to join his 
 family in the village : the boy refused, and within a week 
 disappeared. I went to Ezhanov House to inquire about 
 him. He had returned there, but when I called he was 
 not at home. This was the second day he had been going 
 
 48
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 49 
 
 to Pryesnenski Ponds, where he hired out at thirty kopeks 
 a day to act as a costumed wild man leading an elephant 
 in a procession. They were giving some kind of a show 
 there. I called a second time, but he was so ungrateful 
 that he evidently avoided me. 
 
 If I had then stopped to think of the life of this boy 
 and of my own, I should have comprehended that the 
 boy was spoiled by this, that he had discovered the possi- 
 bility of a merry hfe without labour, that he had lost the 
 habit of work. And I, to benefit and improve him, took 
 him to my house, where he saw what ? My children, — 
 those who were older than he, and younger, and of his 
 age, — who not only had never worked for themselves, 
 but did everything in their power to give work to others, 
 who soiled and ruined everything about them, and gorged 
 themselves on fat, savoury, and sweet food, and broke 
 dishes, and spilled and threw to the dogs such food as to 
 this boy appeared as dainties. If I took him out of the 
 den and brought him to a good place, he could not help but 
 acquire those views which exist in respect to life in that 
 good place ; and from these views he saw that in a good 
 place it was necessary to live in such a way as to do no 
 work, and to eat and drink sweet things, and to live merrily. 
 
 It is true, he did not know that my children were 
 working very hard to study the declensions out of the 
 Latin and the Greek grammars, and he would not have been 
 able to comprehend the aims of these labours. But it is im- 
 possible to overlook the fact that, if he had comprehended 
 this, the effect of my children's example would have been 
 more powerful still. He would have comprehended that 
 my children were being educated in such a way that they 
 might have nothing to do at present and should in the 
 future, by making use of their diploma, be able to work 
 as little as possible and enjoy the benefits of hfe as much 
 as possible. He understood this, and so did not go with 
 the peasant to look after his cattle and eat potatoes and
 
 50 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 driuk kvas with him, but, instead, went to the Zoological 
 Garden, to lead an elephant for thirty kopeks, while clad 
 as a wild man. 
 
 I might have comprehended how foolish it was of me, 
 who was educating my children in complete idleness and 
 luxury, to correct other people aud their children, who 
 were perishing from idleness in Rzhanov House, which I 
 have called a den, but in which, however, three-fourths of 
 the people worked for themselves and for others. But I 
 did not understand anything about it. 
 
 There were very many children in Rzhanov House, 
 who were in a most miserable state : there were children 
 of prostitutes, and orphans, and children carried by beg- 
 gars on the streets. They were all very wretched ; but 
 my experience with Ser^zha showed me that, living the 
 life I did, I was not able to help them. While Ser^zha 
 had been living at our house, I noticed in myself a desire 
 to conceal from him our life, especially the life of our 
 children. I felt that all my endeavours to lead him to a 
 good life of labour were destroyed by the examples of our 
 life and of that of our children. It is easy enough to 
 take a child away from a prostitute, or from beggars. It 
 is very easy, having money, to wash and clean him up, 
 and dress him in clean clothes, feed him, and even teach 
 him all kinds of sciences ; but it is very difficult, and even 
 impossible, for us, who do not earn our bread, but do the 
 very opposite, to teach him to earn his own bread, because 
 with our examples and with the material improvements of 
 his life, which do not cost us anything, we teach him the 
 very opposite. You can take a puppy and feed him, and 
 teach him to carry something, and enjoy the sight of him ; 
 but it is not enough to rear and bring up a man, and 
 teach him Greek : he has to be taught to live, that is, to 
 take less from others, and give more ; and we are unable 
 to teach him to do the opposite, whether we take him to 
 our house, or send him to a special home.
 
 X. 
 
 I NO longer experienced that sentiment of compassion 
 for people and of disgust with myself wliich I had expe- 
 rienced in Lyapinski House : I was all absorbed in the 
 desire to fulfil the work which I had uudertaken, — to do 
 good to the people whom I should meet here. Strange to 
 say, one would think that doing good, giving money 
 to others, is a very good thing, and ought to dispose one 
 to the love of men, but the very opposite took place : it 
 provoked my ill-will and condemnation of people. In the 
 evening of the first day's round there happened a scene 
 exactly like the one in Lyapinski House ; but this scene 
 did not produce on me the same impression as in Lya- 
 pinski House, but evoked an entirely different feeling. 
 It began with this, that in one of the quarters I found 
 an unfortunate who demanded immediate aid : it w^as a 
 hungry woman, who had not eaten for two days. 
 
 It was like this : in one very large, almost empty lodg- 
 ing apartment I asked an old woman whether there were 
 there any very poor people, such as did not have anything 
 to eat. The old woman thought for awhile and men- 
 tioned two persons ; then she seemed to recall something, 
 
 " Ohj yes, there is one lying here," she said, peering 
 into one of the occupied bunks. " This woman, I think, 
 has not had anything to eat." 
 
 " Is it possible ? Who is she ? " 
 
 " She was a lewd woman, but now nobody wants her, 
 so she has no money to buy anything with. The land- 
 lady has been pitying her, but she wants to drive her out 
 now. Agafya, oh, Agafya ! " shouted the old woman.
 
 52 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 We walked up to the bunk, on which something raised 
 itself. It was a half-gray, dishevelled woman, as lean as 
 a skeleton, in nothing but a dirty, torn shirt, with a pecul- 
 iarly beaming and arrested glance. She looked with an 
 arrested glance past us, with her lean hand caught her 
 sack in order to cover her bony breast, which could be 
 seen back of her dirty and torn shirt, and almost barked 
 out, " What is it ? What is it ? " 
 
 I asked her how she was getting along. For a long 
 time she could not understand me ; finally she said : 
 
 " I do not know myself, — they are driving me out." 
 
 I asked her, — I blush to write it down, — I asked her 
 whether it was true that she had not eaten. She answered 
 in the same feverish and rapid tone, without looking at 
 me : 
 
 " I have not had anything to eat yesterday, or to-day." 
 
 The sight of this woman touched me, but not as I had 
 been touched in Lyapinski House : there my pity for the 
 people made me feel ashamed of myself, while here I was 
 glad to have at last found wliat I had been looking for, — 
 a hungry person. 
 
 I gave her a rouble, and I remember that I was very 
 glad that others saw it. When the old woman noticed it, 
 she, too, asked me for some money. It gave me such 
 pleasure to offer money that I gave the old woman some, 
 without considering whether it was right to give her any, 
 or not. The old woman saw me out at the door, and the 
 people who were standing in the corridor heard her thank- 
 ing me. Apparently the questions which I had put in 
 respect to poverty had roused some expectations, and 
 several persons followed us. In the corridor they began 
 to ask me for some money. There were among the sup- 
 plicants some who were evidently confirmed drunkards, 
 who roused a disagreeable feeling in me ; but, having 
 given some to the old woman, I had no right to refuse 
 these either, and I began to distribute my money. While
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 53 
 
 I was giving, others came up, and in every quarter there 
 was excitement. People appeared on the staircases and 
 in the galleries, and they followed me. 
 
 As I came out into the yard, a boy, pushing his way 
 through the crowd, came flying down the staircase. He 
 did not see me, and he shouted, hurriedly, '•' He gave 
 Agafya a rouble." Having run down-stairs, the boy 
 joined the crowd that was following me. I went out into 
 the street; all kinds of people followed me, begging for 
 money. I distributed all the change 1 had, and went into 
 an open shop to ask the dealer to change a ten-rouble 
 bill. Here the same happened as in Lyapinski House, 
 namely, there was a terrible crush. Old women, people 
 of the gentry, peasants, children, crowded at the shop, 
 extending their hands ; I gave them money, asking a few 
 about their lives, and making note of them in my memo- 
 randum-book. The dealer turned in the fur corners of 
 the collar of his fur coat and sat like an idol, now and 
 then casting a glance at the crowd and again directing his 
 eyes past me. Apparently he felt, like the rest, that it 
 was foohsh, but he could not say so. 
 
 In Lyapinski House I had been horrified by the wretch- 
 edness and the humiliation of the people, and I felt 
 myself guilty : I felt a desire and a possibility of being 
 better. But now, a similar scene produced an entirely 
 different effect upon me : in the first place, I experienced 
 a malevolent feeling toward many of those who were 
 besieging me, and, in the second, unrest at what the shop- 
 keepers and janitors were thinking of me. 
 
 When I returned home on that day, I did not feel at my 
 ease. I felt that what I had done was foolish and immoral ; 
 but, as always happens in consequence of an inner confu- 
 sion, I talked a great deal about my undertaking, as 
 though I did not in the least doubt its success. 
 
 On the following day I went by myself to those persons 
 noted down by. me, who seemed to me more miserable
 
 54 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 
 
 than the rest, and whom, I thought, it was easier to help. 
 As I said, I did not help even one of those persons. It 
 turned out that it was much harder to help them than I 
 had thought. Either because I did not know how, or 
 because it was impossible to do otherwise, I only irritated 
 the people, without helping them. Before the end of the 
 census-taking I visited Ezhauov House several times, and 
 each time the same thing happened : I was surrounded 
 by a crowd of begging people, in the mass of whom I was 
 completely lost. I felt the impossibihty of doing any- 
 thing, because there were too many of them, and so I felt 
 an ill-will toward them, because there were so many of 
 them ; besides, each of them individually did not gain my 
 favour. 
 
 I felt that each of them was telling me an untruth or 
 not the whole truth, and saw in me only a purse from 
 which one could draw money. Very frequently it seemed 
 to me that the very money which one of them extorted 
 from me would not improve his situation, but would make 
 it worse. The more frequently I went to these houses, 
 the more I had intercourse with those people, the more 
 manifest did it become to me that it was impossible to do 
 anything ; but I did not recede from my set purpose till 
 the last nightly round of the census. 
 
 I feel particularly ashamed to recall this last day's 
 round. Before that I used to go alone, while now we 
 went twenty of vis together. At seven o'clock there 
 gathered at my house all those who wanted to go with 
 me on this last night's round. They were mostly stran- 
 gers, — students, an ofhcer, and two of my society acquaint- 
 ances, who, saying the customary " C'est tre^s interessant ! " 
 begged me to receive them among the number of census- 
 takers. 
 
 My society acquaintances dressed themselves in pe- 
 culiar hunting-jackets and high travelling-boots, — a cos- 
 tume which they put on when they went out hunting,
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 55 
 
 and which, iu their opinion, was proper for a visit to the 
 lodging-houses. They took with them pecuHar books and 
 outlandish pencils. They were in that peculiar state of 
 excitement iu which people are who are getting ready for 
 the chase, for a duel, or for the war. From them could 
 most clearly be seen the insipidity and falseness of our 
 situation, but the rest of us were in the same false con- 
 dition. 
 
 Before our start we had a consultation, something like 
 a military council, as to how we should begin, how dis- 
 tribute ourselves, etc. The consultation was precisely 
 like what takes place in councils, assemblies, and com- 
 mittees, that is, everybody spoke, not because they had 
 anything to say, but because they invented something to 
 say, in order not to fall behind the rest. In the course 
 of these discussions nobody mentioned anything about 
 philanthropy, of which I had spoken so frequently. 
 Though I was ashamed to do so, I felt that it was neces- 
 sary to make mention of the philanthropic work, that 
 is, of the taking note, during our round, of all those who 
 were in wretched circumstances. I always felt ill at ease 
 whenever I spoke of this, but here, amidst our excited 
 preparation for the expedition, I had the greatest difficulty 
 in speaking about it. They listened to me, as I thought, 
 wdth melancholy, and all agreed with me verbally ; but it 
 was evident that all knew that it was foolish, and that 
 nothing would come of it, and they all began at once to 
 speak of something else. This lasted till the time when 
 we had to go, and we started. 
 
 We arrived at the dark restaurant, where we roused 
 the waiters and began to unpack our note-books. When 
 we were told that the people had heard of our visit and 
 were leaving the quarters, we asked the landlord to shut the 
 gates, and we went ourselves into the yard to talk to 
 the people who were trying to get away and to assure 
 them that no one would ask for their police cards. I
 
 56 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 remember the strange and oppressive feeling produced on 
 me by those excited lodgers : half -undressed and ragged, 
 they appeared to me tall in the lamplight of the dark 
 yard ; frightened and terrible in their fright, they stood 
 in a crowd about the malodorous privy, listening to our 
 assurances, but not believing them ; they were evidently 
 prepared for anything, like baited beasts, if only they 
 could get away from us. 
 
 Gentlemen of every description — as policemen and as 
 gendarmes, and as examining magistrates, and as judges 
 — had been harassing them all their lives, in the cities 
 and in the villages, on the roads and in the streets, in the 
 restaurants and in the doss-houses, — and now these gen- 
 tlemen suddenly came and shut the gates on. them, merely 
 to count them ; that was as hard for them to believe as 
 it would be for hares to believe that the dogs came to 
 count them, and not to hunt them. But the gates were 
 locked and the excited lodgers went to their quarters, and 
 we, dividing into groups, started on our round. 
 
 I had the two society gentlemen and two students with 
 me. In front of us, in the" darkness, walked Vanya, in an 
 overcoat and his white trousers, and with a lantern in his 
 hand, and we followed him. We went to the quarters 
 with which I was acquainted. The rooms were familiar 
 to me and so were some of the people, but the majority 
 of the people were new to me, and the spectacle was new 
 and terrible, much more terrible than what I had seen 
 near Lyapinski House. All the quarters were full, all the 
 cots were occupied, generally by two people. The specta- 
 cle was terrible on account of the crowded condition and 
 of the intermingling of men and women. All women who 
 were not beastly drunk were sleeping with men. Many 
 women with children on narrow cots were sleeping with 
 strange men. Terrible was the spectacle of the wretched- 
 ness, dirt, raggedness, and fright of these people ; and, 
 above all, terrible on account of the enormous number of
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 57 
 
 people who were in this condition. There was one apart- 
 ment, and another, and a third, and a tenth, and a twen- 
 tieth, and there was no end to them. Everywhere the 
 same stench, the same stifling atmosphere, the same 
 crowding, the same mingling of the sexes, the same dehri- 
 ously drunken men and women, and the same fright, hu- 
 mility, and guilt on all the faces, — and I again felt ill at 
 ease and pained, as in Lyapinski House, and I understood 
 that what I had undertaken was nasty, stupid, and, there- 
 fore, impossible. I stopped taking down notes and ques- 
 tioning people, for I knew that nothing would come of it. 
 I was dreadfully oppressed. In Lyapinski House I had 
 been like a man who suddenly sees a sore on another man's 
 body. He is sorry for the man, sorry because he did not 
 pity him before, and he still may hope to be able to help 
 the ailing man. But now I was like a physician who 
 comes with his medicaments to the patient, lays open his 
 sore, probes it, and must confess to himself that he has 
 done all that in vain, that his medicaments are no good.
 
 XI. 
 
 This visit inflicted the last blow to my self-deception. 
 It became patent to me that my undertaking was not 
 only stupid, but also abominable. But, although I knew 
 this, it seemed to me that I could not all at once throw 
 up the whole matter : it seemed to me that I had to con- 
 tinue this occupation, in the first place, because with my 
 article, my visits, and my promises I had roused the ex- 
 pectations of the poor, in the second place, because with 
 the same article and with my conversations I had roused 
 the sympathy of the benefactors, many of whom had 
 promised to me their cooperation, both by personal serv- 
 ice and by money contributions. I waited for both sides 
 to turn to me with their requests, which I should have to 
 answer the best way I knew how. 
 
 As to the applications of the needy, this is what took 
 place : I received more than one hundred letters and appli- 
 cations ; these applications were all from the rich poor, if I 
 may express myself in this fashion. On some of these I 
 called, some I left without a reply. Nowhere did I suc- 
 ceed in doing anything. All the apphcations to me were 
 from persons who had once been in a privileged condition 
 (I call thus the condition in which people receive more 
 from others than they give), who had lost it, and now 
 wanted to go back to it. One needed two hundred roubles 
 in order to bolster up his declining trade and finish the 
 education of his children ; another needed a photograph- 
 gallery; a third wanted to pay debts and redeem his 
 decent clothes ; a fourth needed a piano, in order to 
 
 perfect himself in playing and support his family by 
 
 58
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 59 
 
 giving music lessons. The majority did riot determine 
 the exact sum and simply asked for assistance ; but, 
 whenever I investigated their demands, it turned out that 
 these demands grew in proportion with the assistance, and 
 they were not satisfied, and could not be. I repeat, it is 
 very likely that all that was due to the fact that I did not 
 know how ; in any case, I did not help any one, although 
 I sometimes tried to do so. 
 
 As to the cooperation on the part of the benefactors, 
 something very strange and unexpected took place. Of 
 all the persons who had promised me monetary contribu- 
 tions and had even determined the sums, not one handed 
 me as much as a rouble to distribute to the poor. To 
 judge by the promises which they had made me, I could 
 count on something like three thousand roubles, and of 
 all these men not one recalled the former conversations 
 or gave me a single kopek. The only persons who gave 
 me anything were the students who turned over to me 
 the money which they received for their w^ork in taking 
 the census, which was, I believe, twelve roubles. Thus 
 my whole undertaking, which was to have been expressed 
 in tens of thousands of roubles contributed by the rich, 
 and in hundreds and thousands of people who were to be 
 saved from wretchedness and debauch, reduced itself to 
 this, that I distributed at haphazard a few tens of roubles 
 to those men who extorted it from me, and that I had on 
 my hands twelve roubles contributed by the students, and 
 twenty-five roubles sent to me by the City Council for my 
 work as superintendent, which sums I was at a loss to 
 dispose of. 
 
 The whole affair came to an end. And so, before my 
 departure to the country, I went one Sunday morning, 
 about Butter- week, to Rzhanov House, in order to get rid 
 of the thirty-seven roubles before my departure, and to 
 distribute them to the poor. I made the round of the 
 familiar quarters, and there found one sick man to whom,
 
 60 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 I gave five roubles, I think. There was no one else to 
 give any money to. But, as I had not known them in 
 the beginning, so I did not know them then, and so I 
 decided to take counsel with Ivan Feddtych, the pro- 
 prietor of the restaurant, to know to whom I should give 
 the remaining thirty-two roubles. 
 
 It was the first day of Butter-week. All were dressed 
 up and had plenty to eat, and many were already drunk. 
 In the yard, near the corner of the house, stood an old, 
 but still hale, ragpicker, in a torn gabardine and bast 
 shoes ; picking over his booty in a basket, he threw out 
 into heaps scraps of leather and of iron and of something 
 else, and sang a merry song in a beautiful and powerful 
 voice. I got into a conversation with him. He was 
 seventy years old and all alone ; he made a living by his 
 occupation as a ragpicker, and not only did not complain, 
 but even said that he had enough to eat and to get drunk 
 on. I asked him about those who were most in need. 
 He grew angry and said outright that there were no 
 needy persons, except drunkards and lazybones ; but when 
 he heard of my purpose, he asked me for a nickel with 
 which to get him a drink, and ran into the restaurant. I 
 went myself into the restaurant to Ivan Fedotych, in 
 order to give him what money I had left for distribution. 
 
 The restaurant was full ; dressed up girls swarmed from 
 door to door ; all the tables were occupied ; there was 
 already a large number of drunken persons, and in a 
 small room some one was playing the accordion, and two 
 were dancing. Out of respect for me Ivan Fedotych 
 ordered the dance stopped, and sat down with me at an 
 unoccupied table. I told him that, since he knew his 
 lodgers, he might be able to point out to me those who 
 were most in need, as I had been ordered to distribute 
 a small sum of money. Good-natured Ivan Fedotych 
 (he died a year later), though busy attending to his trade, 
 stayed away from it for awhile, in order to aid me. He
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 61 
 
 fell to inusiug, and was apparently perplexed. An elderly 
 waiter had heard us speak, and took part in the consulta- 
 tion. 
 
 They began to pass in review a number of persons, 
 some of whom I knew myself, and we could not come to 
 an understanding. 
 
 " Paramonovna," the waiter proposed. 
 
 " Yes, that is so. Goes often without food. Well, she 
 does have sprees." 
 
 " What of it ? Still." 
 
 " Well, Spiriddn Ivanovich, — has children. That's it." 
 
 But Ivan Fedotych had some objection to Spiriddn 
 Ivanovich. 
 
 " Akulina ? She receives money. Well, how about 
 the blind man?" 
 
 To this one I myself objected. I had just seen him. 
 He was an old man of eighty years of age and blind, 
 without kith or kin. One would imagine that there could 
 not be a harder lot than his ; but I had seen him just 
 awhile ago : he was lying on a high feather bed, drunk, 
 and, as he did not see me, discharged the vilest of 
 words in a terrible bass against his comparatively young 
 mate. 
 
 Then they mentioned an armless boy and his mother. 
 I saw that Ivan Fedotych was embarrassed, on account of 
 his honesty, for he knew that, no matter what should 
 be given, it would all come to him in his restaurant. But 
 I had to get rid of the thirty-two roubles, and so I in- 
 sisted, and, by making compromises, we managed to dis- 
 tribute the money. Those who received it were generally 
 well dressed, and it was not necessary to go far for them, 
 for they were all there, in the restaurant. The armless 
 boy came in extensible boots, a red shirt, and a vest. 
 
 Thus ended my whole philanthropic activity, and I went 
 back to the village, irritated at others, as is nearly always 
 the case when I have committed some foolish and bad
 
 62 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 act. My pliilanthropy was reduced to zero and came to 
 a complete stop, but the train of thought aud of feehogs 
 which it had evoked in me did not come to a stop : my 
 inner work proceeded with redoubled force.
 
 XII. 
 
 What, then, had happened ? 
 
 I had lived in the country, and there had had relations 
 with the village poor. Not out of humility, which is 
 worse than pride, but in order to tell the truth, which 
 is necessary for the comprehension of the whole train of 
 my thought and feelings, I will say that in the country 
 I had done very little for the poor; but the demands 
 made on me were so modest, that even this little was 
 useful to men and created around me an atmosphere of 
 love and union with the people, in which it was possible 
 for me to calm the gnawing feeling of the consciousness 
 of the illegahty of my hfe. When I moved to the city I 
 expected to hve in the same manner. But here I came 
 across want of an entirely different description. 
 
 The city want was less genuine, and more exacting, 
 and more cruel than the village want. Above all, there 
 was so much of it in one place that it produced a terrible 
 impression on me. The impression which I received in 
 Lyapinski House in the first moment made me feel the 
 monstrousness of my life. This sentiment was sincere 
 and very strong. But, in spite of its sincerity and 
 strength, I was at first so weak as to get frightened at 
 the transformation of my life, to which this sentiment 
 called me, and was so ready for compromises, I believed 
 that which everybody was telKng me, and which every- 
 body has been saying since the creation of the world, 
 namely, that there was nothing bad in wealth and luxury ; 
 that it was given by God ; that it was possible to aid the 
 
 63
 
 64 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 ueedy and yet continue to live in wealth. I believed it 
 and wanted to act accordingly. 
 
 I wrote an article in which I appealed to all the rich 
 people to offer their assistance. All the rich people 
 acknowledged themselves morally obliged to agree with 
 me, but evidently either did not wish, or were unable to 
 do or give anything for the poor. I began to visit the 
 poor, and I beheld there what I had never expected to see. 
 On the one hand, I saw in these dens, as I called them, 
 people whom it was impossible tor me to assist, because 
 they were labouring people, who were used to work and to 
 privations, and so stood incomparably higher than I in life ; 
 on the other hand, I saw unfortunates whom I could not 
 assist, because they were the same kind of men that I 
 myself am. The majority of the unfortunates whom 
 I saw were unfortunate only because they had lost the 
 ability, the desire, and the habit of earning their bread, 
 that is, their misfortune consisted in being precisely such 
 as I am. 
 
 Of unfortunates who could be aided at once, — sick, 
 freezing, hungry people, — I did not find a single person 
 but starving Agafya. I convinced myself that, with my 
 aloofness from the lives of the people whom I wished to 
 aid, it wae almost impossible for me to find such unfortunate 
 people, because every true need was always met by those 
 very people among whom these unfortunates lived ; and, 
 above all else, I was convinced that I was not able with 
 money to change that unfortunate life which these people 
 led. I was convinced of all that, but from a false shame 
 I did not throw up my undertaking and, deceiving my- 
 self with my own virtue, I continued the matter for quite 
 awhile, until it reduced itself to zero, until I with great 
 difficulty, and with the aid of Ivan Fedotych, in the 
 restaurant of Rzhanov House, got rid of the thirty-seven 
 roubles which I did not consider my own. 
 
 Of course I might have continued this business and
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 65 
 
 made of it a semblance of philanthropy ; I might have 
 pushed the people who had promised me the money to 
 give it to me ; might have collected more ; might have 
 distributed the money and consoled myself with my 
 virtue ; but I saw, on the one hand, that we rich people 
 did not wish and were unable to apportion to the poor a 
 part of our abundance (we have so many needs of our 
 own), and that there was no one to give the money to, 
 if we indeed wished to do good to people, and not merely 
 to distribute money at haphazard, as I had done in the 
 Rzhanov restaurant. So I abandoned the whole business, 
 and with despair in my heart returned to the country. 
 
 In the country I wanted to write an article about 
 everything I had experienced, and to tell why my under- 
 taking had been a failure. I wanted also to justify 
 myself in regard to the rebukes which were heaped upon 
 me on account of my article on the census ; I wanted to 
 arraign society for its indifference and to point out the 
 causes which bred this urban poverty, and the necessity 
 of counteracting it and the means which I saw must be 
 adopted to do so. 
 
 I immediately began writing my article, and it seemed 
 to me that I should say some important things in it. 
 But, no matter how much I struggled with it, no matter 
 how abundant the material was, the excitement, under 
 the influeuce of which I wrote, and because I had not yet 
 sufficiently emerged from the impression produced by it 
 to be able to treat it in a direct manner, and, above all, 
 because I did not yet simply and clearly recognize the 
 cause of it all, a very simple cause, w^hich had its root 
 in me, — I was unable to make headway with the article 
 and so did not finish it until the present year. 
 
 In the moral sphere there takes place a very remark- 
 able, but little observed phenomenon. 
 
 If I tell a man, who does not know it, anything I know 
 from geology, astronomy, history, physics, mathematics.
 
 66 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 he will acquire some new information and will never say, 
 " What is there about it that is new ? Everybody knows 
 that, and I have known it for quite awhile ; " but impart 
 to a man the highest moral truth, which is expressed in 
 the clearest, most compact manner, as it has never been 
 expressed before, and the average man, especially if he is 
 not interested in these moral questions, or, more espe- 
 cially, if the moral truth which you utter strokes his fur 
 the wrong way, will be certain to say, " Who does not 
 know this ? This is an old story and has been said long 
 ago." It actually seems to him that it was said long ago 
 and in precisely this form. Only those who value and 
 esteem the moral truths know how precious and valuable 
 they are and by what long labour one obtains the simpli- 
 fication and elucidation of a moral truth, — its transition 
 from a hazy, indefinitely conceived supposition and wish, 
 from indefinite, incoherent expressions, to a firm and defi- 
 nite expression, which inevitably demands corresponding 
 actions. We are all of us accustomed to think that moral 
 teaching is a very base and tiresome thing, in which there 
 can be nothing new or interesting, whereas the whole of 
 human life, with all its complex and varied activities, 
 which seem to be independent of morahty, in the fields 
 of politics, science, art, has no other purpose than a 
 greater and ever greater elucidation, confirmation, simpli- 
 fication, and accessibility of moral truths. 
 
 I remember one day I walked down a street in Mos- 
 cow, and saw a man coming out of a shop and carefully 
 scanning the stones of the sidewalk ; then he selected 
 one of them, sat down on it, and began (as I thought) 
 to chip it off or rub it with the greatest tension and 
 effort. 
 
 " What is he doing to the sidewalk ? " I thought. 
 When I walked up close to him, I saw what the man 
 was doing ; he was a fellow from a butcher shop ; he was 
 whetting his knife against the stones of the sidewalk.
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 67 
 
 He had not been thinking of the stones at all when he 
 looked at them, and still less was he thinking of them 
 while doing his work, — he was simply whetting his 
 knife. He had to sharpen his knife to cut meat with it ; 
 and there I thought that he was busy doing something to 
 the stones. 
 
 Even so it only seems that humanity is busy with 
 commerce, treaties, wars, sciences, arts ; but there is only 
 one work which is of importance to humanity, and which 
 it does : it is explaining to itself the moral laws by 
 which it lives. The moral laws have existed before, and 
 humanity only elucidates them to itself, and this elucida- 
 tion seems unimportant and insignificant to him who does 
 not need the moral law, who does not want to live by it. 
 But this elucidation of the moral law is not only the 
 chief, but also the only work of the whole of humanity. 
 This elucidation is as unnoticeable as the distinction 
 between a dull and a sharp knife. The knife is a knife, 
 and for him who does not have to cut with this knife the 
 distinction between a dull and a sharp knife is not notice- 
 able. But for him who has comprehended that his whole 
 life depends on a more or less dull or sharp knife, every 
 whetting of it is of importance, and he knows that there 
 is no end to this sharpening, and that a knife is a knife 
 only when it is sharp, when it cuts what it is necessary 
 to cut. 
 
 This happened with me when I began to write the 
 article. It seemed to me that I knew everything, com- 
 prehended everything in respect to those questions which 
 the impression of Lyapinski House and of the census had 
 evoked in me ; but when I attempted to make them clear 
 to myself and to expound them, it turned out that the 
 knife would not cut, that it was necessary to sharpen it. 
 Only now, after three years, did I feel that my knife was 
 sufficiently sharpened to let me cut what I wanted. I 
 had learned little that was new. All my thoughts are
 
 68 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 the same, but they were duller, dispersed easily, and did 
 not harmonize ; there was no sting in them ; they did not 
 reduce themselves to the simplest and clearest resolve, as 
 they do now.
 
 XIII. 
 
 I REMEMBER how during the whole time of my unsuc- 
 cessful experiment in aiding the unfortunate city dwellers 
 I felt like a man who wants to pull another out of 
 the mire, while he himself is standing on boggy ground. 
 Every effort of mine made me feel the insecurity of the 
 soil on which I was standing. I felt that I was myself 
 in the bog ; but that consciousness did not cause me then 
 to look more closely underneath me, in order that 1 
 might find out what I was standing on ; I kept all the 
 time lookiug for an external means for succouring the 
 evil which was outside of me. 
 
 I then felt that my life was bad and that it was im- 
 possible to live so. But from the fact that my hfe was 
 bad and that it w^as impossible to live so, I did not de- 
 duce the very simple and clear conclusion that it was 
 necessary to improve my own life and live better, but, on 
 the contrary, drew the strange conclusion that it was 
 necessary to correct the lives of others in order that I 
 might be able to live better, — and so I began to correct 
 the lives of others. I lived in the city and wanted to 
 improve the lives of those who lived in the city, but I 
 soon convinced myself that I could not do it at all, and 
 began to think about the peculiarities of city life and city 
 poverty. 
 
 " What is this city life and this city poverty ? Why 
 could I not, while living in the city, help the city poor ? " 
 I asked myself. And I answered myself that I was un- 
 able to do anything for them, in the first place, because 
 there were too many of them in one spot ; in the second 
 
 69
 
 70 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 
 
 place, because all these poor were quite different from the 
 village poor. Why were there so many of them here, and 
 in what did they differ from the village poor ? There 
 was one answer to both these questions. There were 
 many of them here, because all those who have nothing 
 to live on in the country gather here around the rich, and 
 their peculiarity consists in this, that they are all people 
 who have left the country in order to find a living in the 
 city (if there are city poor who are born here, and whose 
 fathers and grandfathers were born here, these fathers and 
 grandfathers had come to the city to make a living). 
 
 What is meant by the expression " to make a living in the 
 city " ? In the words " to make a hving in the city " there 
 is something strange, something resembling a jest, when 
 you come to think of it. What ? Away from the coun- 
 try, that is, away from the places where there are forests, 
 and fields, and grain, and cattle, — where the whole 
 wealth of the land is, — do these people go to make a liv- 
 ing in a place where there are no trees, nor grass, nor even 
 soil, but only stones and dust ? What, then, is meant by 
 the words " to make a living in the city," which are so 
 constantly employed by those who make a living and 
 by those who feed them, as something quite clear and 
 comprehensible ? 
 
 I remember all the hundreds and thousands of city 
 people, — both those who live well and those who are in 
 need, — with whom I spoke about their coming thither, 
 and all without exception told me that they came here 
 from the country to make a Hving ; that Moscow neither 
 sows nor reaps, but has wealth in heaps ; that there was 
 plenty of everything in Moscow and that, therefore, they 
 could only in Moscow gain the money which they needed 
 in the country for bread, for their home, for a horse, for 
 objects of prime importance. But the source of all wealth 
 is in the country, — only there is the true wealth to be 
 found, — bread, and the forest, and horses, and everything
 
 Visiting their son
 
 WHAT SUALL WE DO THEN ? 71 
 
 else. Why, then, go to the city in order to obtain what 
 there is in the country ? And why, above all else, carry 
 from the country to the city what the villagers need, — 
 flour, oats, horses, cattle ? 
 
 I have spoken hundreds of times about it with peasants 
 living in the city, and it became clear to me, from my 
 conversations with them and from my observations, that 
 the crowding of the country population in the cities was 
 partly necessary, because they cannot otherwise earn a 
 livehhood, and partly voluntary, and that the temptations 
 of the city attract them thither. It is true that the con- 
 dition of the peasant is such that, in order to satisfy the 
 demands which are made on him in the village, he cannot 
 get along in any other way than by selling the grain and 
 the cattle which, he knows, he will need, and so he is 
 compelled against his will to go to the city in order 
 to redeem his grain. But it is also true that the compara- 
 tively easier earnings and the luxury of life in the city 
 attract him thither, and that, under the guise of making 
 a living in the city, he goes there, in order to work less 
 laboriously and eat better, to drink tea three times a day, 
 to play the dandy, and even to get drunk and live a 
 riotous life. 
 
 The cause of both is one and the same : the passing of 
 the wealth of the producers into the hands of the non- 
 producers and the accumulation of the wealth in the cities. 
 Indeed, the autumn comes, and all the wealth is hoarded 
 in the village ; immediately there present themselves the 
 demands of taxation, of military service, of rentals ; 
 immediately there are put forth the temptations of vodka, 
 weddings, holidays, petty traders, who travel from village 
 to village, and of many other things ; and in one way or 
 another all this wealth in the most varied forms — sheep, 
 calves, cows, horses, pigs, chickens, eggs, butter, hemp, 
 flax, rye, oats, buckwheat, peas, hemp and flax seeds — 
 passes into the hands of strangers and is transferred to the
 
 72 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEi>[ ? 
 
 cities, and from the cities to the capitals. The villager 
 is compelled to give it all up in order to satisfy the demands 
 made on him and the temptations that entice him, and, 
 having given up all his wealth, he is left in arrears ; he 
 is compelled to go to where his wealth has been taken, 
 and there he partly tries to recoup the money which he 
 needs for his first wants iu the country, and partly, bein^ 
 carried away by the temptations of the city, enjoys, with 
 others, the accumulated wealth. 
 
 Everywhere, in the whole of Russia, and, I think, not 
 only in Russia, but in the whole world as well, the same 
 thing takes place. The wealth of the country population 
 passes into the hands of traders, landowners, officials, 
 manufacturers, and the men who have acquired this wealth 
 want to enjoy it ; but it is only in the cities that they can 
 fully enjoy it. In the country it is, in the first place, 
 impossible, on account of the thinness of the population, 
 to find a gratification for all the wants of rich people : 
 they miss all kinds of shops, banks, restaurants, the- 
 atres, and all kinds of social amusements. In the second 
 place, one of the chief enjoyments furnished by wealth — 
 vanity, the desire to startle and outdo others — can again, 
 on account of the thinness of the population, be with 
 difficulty gratified in the country. In the country there 
 are no connoisseurs of luxury, and there is nobody to 
 startle. No matter what adornments of the house, 
 what pictures, bronzes, carriages, and toilets the country 
 dweller may provide himself with, there is no one to look 
 at them and envy him, for the peasants have no under- 
 standing about this whole matter. In the third place, 
 luxury is even disagreeable and dangerous in the country 
 for a man who has a conscience and fear. It is awkward 
 and troublesome to take milk baths in the country and to 
 feed puppies on milk, when the children near by have none ; 
 it is awkward and troublesome to build pavilions and set 
 out gardens among people who live in cabins which are
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 73 
 
 surrounded by manure, and cannot be heated for want of 
 wood. In the village there is no one to keep in restraint 
 the stupid peasants who in their ignorance may destroy 
 all this. 
 
 And so the rich gather in one place and settle near 
 other rich people with similar wants in the cities, where 
 the gratification of all kinds of luxurious tastes is cau- 
 tiously guarded by a numerous police force. The funda- 
 mental city dwellers are the officials of the country ; about 
 them are grouped all kinds of professionals and indus- 
 trialists, and these are joiued by the rich. Here a rich 
 man need ouly have a wish, and it is immediately ful- 
 filled. Here it is pleasanter for a rich man to hve, for 
 this reason also, that here he is able to satisfy his vanity, 
 for he can vie in his luxury with others, and can startle 
 and overshadow people. Above all else, a rich man feels 
 happier in the city for this reason also, that before he had 
 fears on account of his luxury in the country, but now, on 
 the contrary, he feels out of place if he does not live 
 as luxuriously as all his friends around him. What 
 in the country seemed terrible and awkward to him, here 
 seems to be in place. 
 
 The rich congregate in the city, and here, under the 
 protection of the authorities, use up everything which is 
 brought hither from the country. The villager is partly 
 obhged to go where the unceasing holiday of the rich 
 is celebrated, and where that which is taken from him is 
 used up, in order that he may feed on the crumbs which 
 fall from the tables of the rich ; and partly, as he looks 
 at the free and easy, elegant, well-guarded life of the rich, 
 which is approved of by everybody, he himself wants to 
 arrange his life in such a way as to work least and enjoy 
 most the labours of others. 
 
 And so he, too, is drawn to the city, where he hangs on 
 to the rich, trying in every manner possible to get away 
 from them what he needs, and submitting to all those
 
 74 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 conditions in which the rich have placed him. He con- 
 tributes to the gratification of all their lusts ; he or she 
 serves the rich man in the bath-house, and in the restau- 
 rant, and as a driver, and as a prostitute, and makes car- 
 riages for him, and toys, and fashion articles, and by- 
 degrees learns of the rich man to live like him, not 
 by labour, but by all kinds of tricks, cheating others 
 of their hoarded wealth, — and he becomes corrupted and 
 perishes. It is this population, which is corrupted by 
 the city wealth, that forms the city poverty, which I in- 
 tended to assist, but could not. 
 
 Indeed, it is enough for one to stop and think of the 
 condition of these country dwellers, who, for the purpose 
 of earning money for bread and for the taxes, come to the 
 city where they see all about them thousands slung 
 thoughtlessly away and hundreds earned in a very easy 
 manner, while they themselves earn kopeks by the hard- 
 est labour possible, — in order that one may marvel why 
 there are still left working people, and why they do not 
 all of them take to a much easier way of making money, 
 by means of commerce, peddling, begging, debauch, ras- 
 cality, and even robbery. 
 
 We, indeed, the participants in thfe unceasing orgy 
 which takes place in the cities, we are able to get used to 
 our life, so that it seems quite natural for us to live alone 
 in five enormous rooms, which- are heated with a quantity 
 of wood sufficient to cook the food of twenty families, and 
 to warm them, to travel half a verst with two trotters 
 and two servants, to cover the parquetry floor with rugs, 
 and to spend five and ten thousand for a ball, and 
 twenty-five for a Christmas tree, and so forth. But a 
 man who needs ten roubles for bread for his family, 
 or from whom they take the last sheep for the seven 
 roubles of his taxes, and who cannot earn these seven 
 roubles by hard labour even, cannot get used to it. 
 
 We imagine that all this appears natural to poor
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 75 
 
 people ; there even are naive people who say seriously 
 that the poor are very thankful to us for supporting them 
 through our luxury. But the poor are not deprived 
 of human intelligence because they are poor, and they 
 judge precisely as we do. Even as we, on hearing that 
 such and such a person has lost in cards, or wasted ten 
 or twenty thousand, think at first thought what a foolish 
 and worthless man he is to have uselessly squandered 
 such a sum, and how we might have made excellent use 
 of it for our building, which we have been needing for 
 quite awhile, or for the improvement of the estate, and 
 so forth, — so the poor judge, when they see the wealth 
 recklessly thrown about ; and they are the more per- 
 sistent in their reflections since they do not need the 
 money for any fancies, but for the gratification of their 
 daily needs, of which they are deprived. We are very 
 much in error if we think that the poor can judge thus 
 and yet look with indifference on the luxury which sur- 
 rounds them. 
 
 They have never acknowledged the fact that it is right 
 for one set of people to be celebrating all the time, while 
 others are all the time fasting and working ; at first they 
 are surprised at it and feel offended, but later they ex- 
 amine it more closely and, seeing that this order of things 
 is considered legitimate, they try to free themselves from 
 labour, and to take part in the holiday. Some succeed in 
 it, and they become just such eternal celebrators ; others 
 slowly make their way toward this state ; others give way 
 before reaching their goal and, having lost the habit of 
 working, fill the resorts of prostitution and the doss- 
 houses. 
 
 Two years ago we took a peasant lad from the country 
 to work in the buffet-room. He had a disagreement with 
 the lackey, and was discharged ; he entered the service of 
 a merchant, where he managed to please his master, and 
 now he sports a vest and a chain and foppish boots. In his
 
 76 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 
 
 place we engaged another peasant, a married man ; he went 
 on a spree and lost his money. We took a third man : 
 he, too, took to drinking and, having spent every kopek, 
 for a long time suffered misery in a doss-house. Our old 
 cook got drunk in the city, and fell sick. Last year our 
 lackey, who used to drink without let-up, but who for 
 live years had kept himself straight in the country, with- 
 out as much as touching liquor, went on a spree, and 
 ruined his whole life. A young lad from our village is a 
 servant of my brother's buffet-room. His grandfather, 
 a l)lind old man, came to me, during my stay in the 
 country, and asked me to influence his grandchild to send 
 him ten roubles for the taxes, for otherwise he would 
 have to sell his cow. 
 
 " He keeps saying that he has to dress decently ; well, 
 let him get a pair of boots, and let there be an end of it. 
 Or is he going to provide himself with a watch, too?" 
 said the old man, meaning to express as senseless a propo- 
 sition as possible by it. The proposition was, indeed, 
 senseless, if we know that the old man had prepared his 
 food without butter during the whole of Lent, and that 
 the wood which he had cut was being ruined, because he 
 lacked one rouble and twenty kopeks to pay for it 
 in full ; but it turned out that the senseless jest of the 
 old man was a reality. The lad came to me in an over- 
 coat of fine black cloth and in boots for which he had 
 paid eight roubles. The other day he took ten roubles 
 from my brother and spent them all on boots. My chil- 
 dren, who had known the lad since childhood, informed 
 me that he regarded it indeed as necessary to provide 
 himself with a watch. He is a very good lad, but he 
 thinks that they will laugh at him so long as he does not 
 procure a watch. And he must have the watch. 
 
 This year our chambermaid, a girl of eighteen years of 
 age, entered into a liaison with the coachman. She was 
 discharged. An old nurse, with whom I spoke of this
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 77 
 
 unfortunate girl, reminded me of another girl, whom I 
 had forgotten. She, too, had ten years before entered 
 into a liaison with a coachman of ours ; slie, too, had been 
 discharged, and ended up in a house of prostitution, dying, 
 before she had reached the age of twenty, in a hospital 
 from the effect of syphilis. We need but look around us 
 in order to get frightened at the infection which, to say 
 nothing of the factories and manufacturing plants that 
 also serve our luxury, we by our luxurious life directly 
 disseminate among those people whom we wish to help. 
 
 And so, as I grasped the peculiarity of the city poverty, 
 to which I was unable to offer any assistance, I saw that 
 its first cause was this, that I took everything necessary 
 away from the village dwellers and transferred it all to 
 the city. The second cause was this, that here, in the city, 
 where I made use of what I had collected in the country, 
 I with my reckless luxury tempted and corrupted those 
 country dwellers who came here in my track, in order 
 somehow to get back what was taken from them in the 
 village.
 
 XIV. 
 
 I CAME to the same conclusion from an entirely differ- 
 ent side. As I recalled all my relations with the city 
 paupers at this time, I saw that one of the causes which 
 kept me from aiding the city poor was this, that the poor 
 were insincere and untruthful to me. They all looked 
 upon me, not as a man, but as a means. I was not able 
 to get in closer touch with them and, perhaps, I did not 
 know how to ; but without truthfulness aid was impos- 
 sible. How could a man be aided if he did not tell every- 
 thing about his situation ? At first I reproached them 
 for it (it is so natural to reproach others), but one word 
 of a remarkable man, namely, of Syutaev, who was stay- 
 ing at my house at that time, made the whole matter 
 clear to me and showed wherein lay the cause of my 
 failure. 
 
 I remember that even then the word uttered by Syutaev 
 struck me forcibly ; but only much later did I grasp its 
 whole meaning. It was during the full heat of my self- 
 deception. I was sitting at my sister's, where Syutaev 
 was also. My sister asked me about my undertaking. 
 I told her about it and, as is always the case when a man 
 does not believe in his own undertaking, I told her with 
 much fervour, enthusiasm, and eloquence about what I 
 was doing, and what might come of it ; I told her how 
 we were going to look after orphans and old people ; 
 how we would send out of town such of the country 
 dwellers as had fallen into straits in Moscow ; how we 
 would make it easy for the corrupt to mend their ways ; 
 
 78
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 79 
 
 how, if the matter would go at all, there would not be a 
 man in Moscow who would be unable to get assistance. 
 
 My sister sympathized with me, and we went on talk- 
 ing. During the conversation I cast glances at Syutaev. 
 As I knew his Christian life and the significance which 
 is ascribed to charity, I expected him to sympathize with 
 me, and I spoke in such a way that he might understand 
 me ; I talked to my sister, but my words were directed at 
 him. He sat motionless in his black-tanned sheepskin 
 coat, which, like all peasants, he wore outside and in the 
 house, and did not seem to be hstening to us, but only 
 thinking. His httle eyes were not glistening, but seemed 
 to be turned inward. Having talked quite awhile, I 
 turned to him with the question what he thought 
 about it. 
 
 " It's all nonsense," he said. 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " Your whole society is foolish, and no good will come 
 from it," he repeated, with conviction. 
 
 "Why not? Why is it foolish to help thousands, or 
 say hundreds, of unfortunates ? Is it bad according to 
 the Gospel to clothe the naked and feed the hungry ? " 
 
 "I know, I know, but you are not doing the right thing. 
 Do you suppose you can do anything this way ? You are 
 walking, and a man asks you for twenty kopeks. You 
 give them to him. Is that an alms ? Give him a spirit- 
 ual alms, instruct him ; but what did you give him ? Oh, 
 iust something to get rid of him." 
 
 "No, you do not understand me right. We want to 
 find out w^here there is want, and then help with money 
 and with deeds, — and to find work for them." 
 
 " You will do nothing for the people in this manner." 
 
 " Well, shall they starve and freeze to death ? " 
 
 " Why should they ? Are there many of them here ? " 
 
 " Are there many ? " I said, thinking that he was look- 
 ing so hghtly at the matter because he did not know what
 
 so WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 an immense number there was of these people. " Do you 
 know," I said, " that there are some twenty thousand of 
 these starving and freezing people in Moscow ? And 
 then, in St. Petersburg and other cities." 
 
 He smiled. 
 
 " Twenty thousand ! and how many farms are there in 
 Russia ? Will there be a million of them ? " 
 
 " What of it ? " 
 
 " What of it ? " and his eyes sparkled, and he became 
 enlivened. " Well, let us consider the matter. I am not 
 a rich man, but I will take two of them. You took a 
 lad to the kitchen ; I invited him to go with me, but he 
 would not. Even if there were ten times as many, we 
 could manage them. You and I will take them. We will 
 go to work together : he will see me work and will learn 
 how to live, and we shall sit down to eat at the same 
 table, and he will hear a good word from me or you. 
 This I call charity, but that society of yours is all non- 
 sense." 
 
 These simple words startled me. I could not help but 
 acknowledge the justice of his words, but it then seemed 
 to me that, in spite of this justice, my undertaking might 
 still be useful. But the farther I carried on this matter, 
 the more I came in contact with the poor, the more fre- 
 quently did I recall these words and the greater was the 
 meaning which they began to have for me. 
 
 Indeed, I arrive in an expensive fur coat or am brought 
 there in my own carriage, or he sees my two-thousand- 
 rouble apartments, while he needs a pair of boots ; or he 
 will see me give somebody live roubles without giving 
 any thought to it, merely because I wanted to do so ; he 
 knows that, if I give roubles in such a fashion, I do 
 so because I have collected such a lot of them that I have 
 many more, which I not only do not give to anybody, but 
 have with ease taken away from others. What else can 
 he see in me but one of those men who have taken pos-
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 81 
 
 session of what ought to belong to him ? What other 
 feeling can he have for me but the desire to get out of me 
 as many as possible of these roubles, which I have taken 
 away from him and from others ? I want to become 
 more closely acquainted with him, and I complain that 
 he is not sincere ; but I, to tell the truth, am afraid to sit 
 down on his bed for fear of becoming infested with lice 
 or catching a disease, and am afraid to admit him to my 
 room, when he comes to my house half-naked and wait^, 
 not even in the antechamber, but in the vestibule. And 
 I say that it is his fault that I cannot come closer to him, 
 and that he is not sincere. 
 
 Let the most cruel of men try to eat a good meal 
 of five courses in the company of men who have eaten 
 httle or who eat nothing but black bread. Not one of 
 them will have enough courage to eat, and to look at 
 the hungry persons with their mouths watering. Conse- 
 quently to be able to eat with pleasure amidst those who 
 do not get enough to eat, the first duty is to hide from 
 them and to eat in such a way that they may not see it. 
 This is precisely what, before anything else, we actually 
 do. 
 
 And so I looked more simply at our life, and I saw 
 that a closer communion with the poor was not acci- 
 dentally more difficult for us, but that we intentionally 
 arranged our life in such a way as to make this com- 
 munion difficult. 
 
 More than this : looking from one side at our life, at 
 the Hfe of the rich, I noticed that everything which 
 is regarded as a good in this life consists in this, or is at 
 least inseparably connected with this, that we should 
 as much as possible segregate ourselves from the poor. 
 Indeed, all the striving of our life of wealth, beginning 
 with our food, our attire, our housing, our purity, and 
 ending with our education, — everything has for its main 
 purpose a segregation from the poor. And on this segre-
 
 82 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 gatiou and separation by impassable walls from the poor at 
 least nine-tenths of all our wealth is wasted. The first 
 thing a man grown rich does is to stop eating out of the 
 same bowl, — he gets all kinds of appliances and sepa- 
 rates himself from the kitchen and from the servauts. 
 
 He feeds his servants well, so that their mouths shall 
 not water over his savoury food, but he eats by himself ; 
 but, as it is tiresome to eat alone, he invents things that 
 may improve the food and beautify the table, aud the 
 mere nutrition (the dinners) become for him a matter of 
 vanity and of pride ; and the reception of food becomes 
 for him a means for segregating himself from the rest of 
 the people. It is unthinkable for a rich man to invite 
 a poor man to his table. A man has to know how to 
 take a lady to the table, how to bow, sit, eat, wash the 
 mouth, and it is only the rich who know all this. 
 
 The same takes place with the wearing apparel. If a 
 rich man wore simple garments, which only protected the 
 body against the cold, — short or long fur coats, felt or 
 leather boots, a peasant coat, pantaloons, shirts,- — he 
 would need very little, and he could not help, if he had 
 two fur coats, but give one to him who had none ; but 
 the rich man begins by having made for himself wearing 
 apparel that consists of several parts and is good only for 
 certain occasions, and so is of no use to the poor man. 
 He has dress coats, vests, sack coats, patent leather boots, 
 capes, shoes with French heels, garments that for the 
 sake of fashion are cut up into small pieces, hunting 
 coats and travelling ulsters, and so forth, which can be 
 put to use only in a condition removed from poverty. 
 Thus the wearing apparel also becomes a means for segre- 
 gating oneself from the poor. Fashion makes its appear- 
 ance, that is, that which separates the rich from the 
 poor. 
 
 The same, but still more clearly, is to be seen in the 
 matter of the domicile. In order to live alone in ten
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEX ? 83 
 
 rooms, it is necessary that this be not seen by those who 
 live ten at a time in one room. The richer a man is, 
 the more difficult it is to get access to him, the more 
 porters there are between him and the needy, and the less 
 possible it is to take a poor man over his carpets and seat 
 him in velvet chairs. The same is true in the matter 
 of locomotion. A peasant who is travelling in a car or 
 sledge must be very cruel not to give a passer-by a ride, 
 — he has both the room and the possibility for it. But 
 the more elegant the carriage is, the farther it is removed 
 from the possibility of giving anybody a ride. There 
 is even a saying about very foppish carriages being 
 egotists. 
 
 The same is true of the whole manner of life, which is 
 expressed by the word cleanliness. 
 
 Cleanliness ! Who does not know people, especially 
 women, who regard this cleanliness as a high virtue ? 
 And who does not know the extravagancies of this clean- 
 liness, which has no hmits, when it is attained by 
 other people's work ? What man who has grown rich 
 has not experienced in his own person with what diffi- 
 culty he has acquired this cleanhness, which only 
 confirms the proverb, " White hands love other people's 
 work ? " 
 
 To-day cleanliness consists in changing your shirt 
 every day; to-morrow it will have to be changed twice 
 a day. To-day it is the neck and the hands that are to 
 be washed every day ; to-morrow it will be the feet, and 
 another day the whole body, and at that with a particular 
 kind of rubbing down. To-day it is a table-cloth for two 
 days, to-morrow it will be one a day, and another time 
 two a day. To-day the lackey's hands should be clean ; 
 to-morrow he is to wear gloves and to hand a letter on 
 a clean tray, wearing clean gloves. There is no limit 
 to this useless cleanliness, except to segregate one from 
 the rest and to make communion with them impossible so
 
 84 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 
 
 long as this cleanliness is attained through the labour 
 of other people. 
 
 Moreover, when I grasped it all, I became convinced 
 that what in general is called education is also the same. 
 • Language does not deceive : it calls by the right name 
 what people understand by this name. The masses under- 
 stand by education a fashionable dress, a pohte conversa- 
 tion, clean hands, — cleanliness of a certain character. 
 Of such a man they say, in contradistinction from the 
 rest, that he is an educated man. In the circle a little 
 more cultured than the masses the same is understood by 
 education, but to its conditions they add playing on the 
 piano, the knowledge of French, the writing of a Russian 
 letter without orthographical mistakes, and a still greater 
 external cleanliness. In the next higher circle they mean 
 by it the same with the addition of the English language 
 and of a diploma from a higher institution of learning, and 
 a still higher degree of cleanliness. But in all three cases 
 the education is essentially the same. Education is those 
 forms and that knowledge which are to segregate a man 
 from the rest. Its aim is the same as that of cleanliness, 
 — to separate a person from the mass of the poor, in 
 order that they, the starving and the freezing, may not 
 see us celebrate. But it is impossible for us to conceal 
 ourselves, and they see. 
 
 And so I became convinced that the cause which made 
 it impossible for us rich men to help the city paupers also 
 lay in the impossibility of our communion with them, 
 and that we ourselves made it impossible to commune 
 with them by the whole life which we lead, by the use to 
 which we put our wealth. I became convinced that 
 between us, the rich, and the poor there had been raised 
 by us a wall of cleanliness and of education, which our 
 wealth has reared, and that, to be able to aid the poor, we 
 must first of all destroy the wall and make possible the 
 application of Syutaev's method, — distributing the poor.
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 85 
 
 And thus I came from another side to the same inference 
 to which I had been brought by the train of my thought 
 concerning the causes of the city poverty : the cause lay 
 in our wealth.
 
 XV. 
 
 I BEGAN to analyze the matter from a third, a purely 
 personal, side. Among the number of the phenomena 
 which struck me particularly during this time of my 
 philanthropic activity, there was a very strange one for 
 which I could not for a long time find any explanation. 
 It was this : every time I had a chance in the street or 
 at home to give to a pauper, without talking with him, some 
 small coin, I saw, or I thought I saw, joy and gratitude 
 expressed on the poor man's face, and I myself experienced 
 a pleasant sensation in connection with this form of philan- 
 thropy. I saw that I did what the man wanted and 
 expected of me. But if I stopped to talk with the poor 
 man, sympathetically asking him about his former and 
 his present life, and more or less entered into the details 
 of his life, I felt that I could no longer give him three or 
 twenty kopeks, and began to rummage in my purse, doubt- 
 ing how much to give. I always gave more and always 
 saw that the poor man went away from me dissatisfied. 
 But if I entered into still closer communion with the poor 
 man, I was in still greater perplexity as to how much to 
 give, and, no matter how much I gave, the poor man 
 grew more gloomy and more dissatisfied. 
 
 As a general rule it always turned out that if, after a 
 closer contact with a poor man, I gave him three roubles 
 or more, I nearly always saw gloom, dissatisfaction, and 
 even resentment on the face of the man, and it sometimes 
 happened that he took ten roubles and went away, with- 
 out as much as thanking me for it, as though I had 
 offended him. On such occasions I always felt ill at 
 
 86
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 87 
 
 ease, and ashamed, and guilty. But if I watched a poor 
 man for weeks, months, and years, aiding him and express- 
 ing my views to him, and keeping in close contact with 
 him, my relations with him nearly always became a 
 torment, and I saw that the poor man hated me. And I 
 felt that he was right. 
 
 If I walk down the street, and he, standing in the 
 street, asks me, among the number of other passers-by, 
 for three kopeks, and I give them to him, I am for him 
 a passer-by, and a good passer-by at that, one of those 
 who give a thread out of which the naked man's shirt is 
 formed ; he is not expecting anything more than a thread, 
 and if I give it to him, he is sincerely grateful to me. 
 But if I stop to talk with him, as with a man, and show 
 him that I want to be more than a passer-by to him ; if, 
 as has frequently happened, he weeps, as he tells me his 
 woe, he no longer sees in me a passer-by, but what I want 
 him to see in me, — a good man. And if I am a good 
 man, my goodness cannot stop at two dimes, nor at ten 
 roubles, nor at ten thousand. It is impossible to be a 
 good man just a httle. 
 
 Let us suppose that I have given him a great deal, that 
 I have fixed him up, clothed him, put him on his feet, so 
 that he is able to live without another person's aid ; but 
 for some reason or other, whether from misfortune, or 
 from weakness, or from viciousness, he again lacks an 
 overcoat, and underwear, and the money which I gave 
 him, and he is again freezing and starving, and he again 
 comes to me, — why shall I refuse him ? If the cause of 
 my activity consisted in obtaining a certain material aim, 
 — in giving him so many roubles or such and such an 
 overcoat, I could give that to him, and feel satisfied ; but 
 the cause of my activity is not this : the cause is that I 
 want to be a good man, that is, I want to see myself in 
 every other man. Every man understands kindness in 
 this manner, and not otherwise. And so, if he has twenty
 
 88 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 times squandered what you have giveu him, and he is 
 again freezing and starving, and you are a good man, you 
 cannot help but give him some again, and you cannot 
 stop giving him, if you have more than he has. But if 
 you back out, you show by this that everything you did, 
 you did not because you are a good man, but because you 
 wanted to appear as a good man before all men and before 
 him. 
 
 And it was with such people, when I had to back out 
 and stop giving, and thus renounce the good, that I 
 experienced agonizing shame. 
 
 What was this shame ? This shame I had experienced 
 in Lyapinski House, and before and after that in the 
 country, whenever I had occasion to give money or some- 
 thing else to the poor, and during my visits to the city 
 poor. 
 
 A case of shame which lately happened with me 
 reminded me and elucidated to me the causes of the 
 shame which I used to experience when giving money to 
 the poor. 
 
 This happened in the country. I needed twenty kopeks 
 to give them to a pilgrim ; I sent my son to borrow them 
 from some one ; he took two dimes to the pilgrim, and 
 told me that he had borrowed them from the cook. A 
 few days later other pilgrims came, and I again needed 
 twenty kopeks ; I had a rouble ; I recalled my owing 
 the cook twenty kopeks, and went to the kitchen, in the 
 hope that the cook would have some more change. I 
 said to him : 
 
 " I borrowed two dimes from you, so here is a rouble." 
 
 Before I had finished speaking, the cook called his wife 
 from the adjoining room. 
 
 " Parasha, take it," he said. 
 
 Assuming that she understood what I needed, I gave 
 her the rouble. I must say that the cook had lived about 
 a week in our house, and I had seen his wife, though I
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 89 
 
 had never spoken to her. I was on the point of saying 
 to her that I wanted change for it, when she made a rapid 
 motion toward my hand, intending to kiss it, no doubt on 
 the supposition that I was giving her the rouble. I mut- 
 tered something and left the kitchen. I felt ashamed, 
 painfully ashamed, as I had not felt for a long time. I 
 had a griping pain, and I felt that I was making faces, 
 and I groaned from shame, as I ran out of the kitchen. 
 This, as I thought, undeserved and unexpected shame 
 startled me, more especially since I had not felt any 
 shame for a long time and because I, as an old man, was 
 living, as I thought, in such a way as not to deserve 
 such shame. I was very much startled by it. I told 
 this to my family, and to my friends, and all agreed that 
 they would have experienced the same. I began to wonder 
 why I had felt ashamed. An incident which had happened 
 to me in Moscow gave an answer to it. 
 
 I reflected on this incident, and I found an explanation 
 for the shame which I had experienced with the cook's 
 wife, and all those sensations which I had experienced 
 during my Moscow philanthropic activity, and which I 
 now experience every time when I have to give to people 
 something beyond that small pittance to mendicants and 
 pilgrims which I am in the habit of giving and consider 
 the work not of charity, but of decency and pohteness. 
 If a man asks you for fire, you must hght a match for 
 him, if you have one. If a man asks you for three or 
 for twenty kopeks, or even for several roubles, you must 
 give him that sum, if you have it. This is a matter of 
 politeness, and not of charity. 
 
 Here is a case : I have already spoken of the two peas- 
 ants with whom I used to saw wood two years ago. One 
 Saturday evening, as it was getting dark, I went with 
 them into the city. They were going to their master to 
 receive their wages. As we approached Dragomilov Bridge 
 we met an old man. He asked for an alms, and I gave
 
 90 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 him twenty kopeks. As I gave them to him, I reflected 
 on how well this must affect Sem^n, with whom I had 
 spoken of divine things. Semen, that Vladimir peasant, 
 who had a wife and two children in Moscow, himself 
 stopped, turned aside the skirt of his caftan, took out his 
 purse, rummaged in it awhile, and fetched out three 
 kopeks, which he gave to the old man, asking him to give 
 him back two kopeks. 
 
 The old man showed him two three-kopek coins and 
 one one-kopek coin. Sem^n looked at these, and was on 
 the point of taking the kopek, hut changed his mind, took 
 off his cap, made the sign of the cross, and went on, leav- 
 ing the three kopeks with the old man. I knew all about 
 Semen's financial condition : he had neither a house, nor 
 any property. Up to the day on which he gave those 
 three kopeks he had earned six roubles and fifty kopeks. 
 Consequently six roubles and fifty kopeks represented all 
 his savings. My savings were approximately equal to six 
 hundred thousand roubles. I had a wife and children, 
 so had Sem^n. He was younger than I, and had fewer 
 children ; but his children were little, while I had two 
 of working age, so that our situations, outside of our sav- 
 ings, were the same, — I may say mine was a little more 
 favourable. He gave three kopeks, I gave twenty. What 
 did he give, and what did I give ? What ought I to have 
 done in order to equal Sem^n ? He had six hundred 
 kopeks ; he gave away one of them, and then two more. 
 I had six hundred thousand roubles. In order to give 
 the same as Sem^n gave, I ought to have given three 
 thousand roubles, and have asked back two thousand 
 roubles, and, if I could get no change, to have left also 
 these two thousand roubles with the old man, made the 
 sign of the cross, and walked on, talking peacefully about 
 how factory hands live, and how much liver is worth in 
 Smolensk Market. I thought about the matter then and 
 there, but it was only much later that I drew from this
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 91 
 
 incident the conclusion which inevitably follows from it. 
 This deduction seems so unusual and strange that, in spite 
 of its mathematical accuracy, it takes time to get used to 
 it. One cannot help thinking that there must be some 
 mistake about it, but there is no mistake. There is only 
 a terrible darkness of errors, in which we live. 
 
 This conclusion, the moment I arrived at it, and recog- 
 nized its accuracy, explained to me my feeling of shame 
 in the presence of the cook's wife and of all the poor to 
 whom I gave money. 
 
 Indeed, what is all that money which I give to the 
 poor, and which the cook's wife thought that I was giving 
 to her ? In the majority of cases it is such a small frac- 
 tion that it is not even possible to express it intelligibly 
 for Sem^n and the cook's wife, — it is generally a mil- 
 lionth, or something like it. I give so little that my 
 giving of money is not, and cannot ^ ., a deprivation for 
 me ; it is only a pastime which amuses me whenever and 
 however I please. Even so did the cook's wife understand 
 me. If I give a man from the street a rouble or twenty 
 kopeks, why should I not give her a rouble ? For the 
 cook's wife this giving of a rouble is the same as the 
 throwing of ginger snaps among the people, in which 
 gentlemen indulge : it is the amusement of people who 
 have a lot of fool's money. I felt ashamed because the 
 mistake of the cook's wife immediately showed me the 
 view which she and all who are not well-to-do must have 
 of me : " He is throwing about fool's money," that is, 
 money which he has not worked for. 
 
 Indeed, what is this money of mine, and how did I get 
 possession of it ? Part of it I collected from the land 
 which was left me by my father. The peasants sold their 
 last sheep, or cow, in order to give me the money. Another 
 part of my money is what I have received for my works, 
 for writing books. If my books are harmful, they are 
 being bought as a result of the offence which I have com-
 
 92 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 mitted, and the inouey which I receive for it is ill-gotten ; 
 but if my books are useful to people, the result is even 
 worse. I do not give them to people, but say : " Give me 
 seventeen roubles, and I will let you have them." And 
 as in the other case, a peasant will sell his last sheep, 
 so here a poor student, a teacher, a poor man will deprive 
 himself of what he needs, in order to give me this money. 
 Thus I have collected a lot of money, and what do I do 
 with it ? I take this money to the city and give it to the 
 poor only when they comply with my whims and come to 
 the city to clean for me the sidewalks, the lamps, my boots, 
 and to work for me in factories. 
 
 For this money I haggle with them for everything I 
 .want, that is, I try to give them as little as possible aud 
 to get as much as possible from them. Suddenly I begin 
 without any premeditation, just for the fun of it, to give 
 this same money to the poor, — not to all the poor, but 
 only to those I take a fancy to. How can auy poor man 
 help but hope that, perhaps, it will be his luck to be one 
 of those to whom I will take delight in giving away my 
 fool's money ? Thus all look upon me, and thus did the 
 cook's wife look at me. 
 
 I have been so dreadfully deluded that this tailing of 
 thousands with one hand from the poor, and slinging 
 kopeks back to those to whom I take a fancy, I call doing 
 good. What wonder, then, that I felt ashamed ? 
 
 Yes, before doing good, I must myself stand outside 
 of evil, and be in such a condition that I can stop doing 
 evil. But my whole life is nothing but evil. If I give 
 away one hundred thousand roubles I shall still fail to 
 be in a situation where it is possible to do good, because 
 I shall have five hundred thousand roubles left. Only 
 when I shall have nothing left shall I be able to do a 
 little good, if it be no more than what the prostitute did 
 who for three days attended on the sick woman and her 
 babe. And this had seemed so httle to me ! And I dared
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 93 
 
 to think of the good ! The first iukliug I had at the sight 
 of the starving and the freezing at Lyapinski House, as to 
 my being guilty in the matter, and as to its being im- 
 possible, impossible, absolutely impossible, to live the way 
 I lived, — this alone was the truth. 
 
 So what is to be done ? To this question, if any one 
 needs an answer to it, I shall, God willing, give a detailed 
 answer.
 
 XVI. 
 
 It was hard for me to come to the recognition of this, 
 but when I came to it, I was horrified at the delusion in 
 which I had hved. I was standing up to my ears in the 
 mire and pretending to pull others out of it. 
 
 Indeed, what did I mean to do ? I want to do good 
 to others, I want to see to it that men shall not suffer 
 from hunger and from cold, — that they shall live as is 
 proper for men. 
 
 This I want, and I see that in consequence of violence, 
 extortions, and all kinds of tricks, in which I take part, 
 the necessary things are taken away from the working 
 classes, and that the leisure classes, to whom I belong, 
 make superabundant use of the labours of other men. 
 
 I see that this enjoyment of other people's work is 
 distributed in such a manner that, the more cunning and 
 the more complicated the device which a man practises, 
 or which he practised from whom he gets his inheritance, 
 the more fully does he enjoy the labours of others and 
 the less labour does he himself apply. 
 
 First come a Stieglitz, Derviz, Morozov, Demidov, 
 Yusupov, then the richer bankers, merchants, landed pro- 
 prietors, officials ; then the less wealthy bankers, mer- 
 chants, officials, landed proprietors, to whom I belong ; 
 then the lower order of petty traders, innkeepers, usurers, 
 officers of rural police, teachers, sextons, clerks ; then 
 janitors, lackeys, coachmen, water-carriers, drivers, ped- 
 dlers ; and finally the working people, factory hands and 
 peasants, who stand in relation to the first as ten is to 
 one. 
 
 H
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 95 
 
 I see that the life of nine-tenths of the working classes 
 by its essence demands tension and work, like any nat- 
 ural life, but that in consequence of the devices which 
 take the necessities away from these people and put 
 them under oppressive conditions, this life is getting 
 harder and fuller of privations from year to year ; but 
 our life, the life of the men of leisure, thanks to the co- 
 operation of the arts and of the sciences, which are 
 directed to this aim, is getting from year to year more 
 abundant, more attractive, and more secure. I see that 
 in our day the hfe of the working men, especially of the 
 old men, women, and children of the working population, 
 is simply being ruined by the intensified work, which 
 bears no relation to the nourishment received ; and that 
 this life is not made secure even in its most elementary 
 necessities ; and that, side by side with it, the hfe of the 
 leisure class, of wliich I am a member, is from year to 
 year more and more filled with superabundance and 
 luxury, and becomes more and more secure, and has, 
 finally, in its favourites, to whom I belong, reached such 
 a degree of security as anciently they dreamed about only 
 in fairy tales, — the condition of the owner of the purse 
 of the never-faihng rouble, that is, a condition in which 
 a man is not only completely freed from the law of labour 
 for the support of life, but also acquires the ability with- 
 out labour to enjoy all the benefits of hfe and to transmit 
 to his children or to whom it may please him that purse 
 with the never-failing rouble. 
 
 I see that the products of men's labour pass more and 
 more away from the mass of the labouring people to those 
 who do not labour, and that the pyramid of the social 
 structure seems to be built in such a way that the stones 
 of the foundation are passing to the apex, the rapidity of 
 this passage increasing in a certain geometric progres- 
 sion. I see that what is taking place is similar to what 
 would take place in an ant-hill, if the society of the ants
 
 96 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 lost the feeling of the common law, if some of the ants 
 should begin to transfer the products of labour to the top 
 of the hill, narrowing down the base and widening the 
 top, and thus compelHng all the other ants to transfer 
 themselves from the base to the top. I see that instead 
 of the ideal of a Hfe of labour there has risen before men 
 the ideal of the purse with the never-failing rouble. 
 
 The rich, I among them, employ every device to confirm 
 this state of the never-failing rouble, and to enjoy it, 
 move to the city, where nothing is produced, but every- 
 thing is swallowed up. The poor labouring man, who is 
 fleeced in order that the rich man may have this magic, 
 never-faihng rouble, pushes to the city after him and 
 there also takes up the devices, and either arranges for 
 himself a condition in which he is able to make use of 
 many things, with as little work as possible, thus only 
 making harder the state of the labouring classes ; or, 
 without having reached this condition, he perishes or finds 
 his way among the number of the starving and freezing 
 inmates of the doss-houses, which is increasing with un- 
 usual rapidity. 
 
 I belong to the class of those people who by means of 
 all kinds of devices take from the labouring classes the ne- 
 cessities, and who with these devices have created for them- 
 selves the magic never-faihng rouble, which tempts these 
 unfortunates. I want to aid the people, and so it is clear 
 that, above all else, I must not fleece them, as I am 
 doing now, and, on the other hand, I must not tempt 
 them. But I, by aid of the most complex, cunning, evil 
 devices, accumulated through the ages, have arranged for 
 myself the condition of the proprietor of the never-failing 
 rouble, that is, a condition in which I can, without doing 
 any work myself, compel hundreds and thousands to work 
 for me, as indeed I am doing ; and I imagine that I pity 
 people and want to help them. I am sitting on a man's 
 neck, choking him, and demanding that he carry me, and.
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 97 
 
 without getting off him, I assure myself and others that I 
 am very sorry for him and want to alleviate his condition 
 by all possible means except by getting off his neck. 
 
 And this is so simple. If I want to aid the poor, that 
 is, to cause the poor not to be poor, I must not be pro- 
 ductive of them. But as it is, 1 by my own choice give 
 roubles, tens and hundreds of roubles, to the poor who 
 have departed from the path of life ; and in place of these 
 roubles I take away thousands from people who have not 
 yet departed from this path, and thus make them poor 
 and corrupt them even more. 
 
 That is very simple ; but it was terribly difficult for 
 me to understand all this without any compromises and 
 excuses, which might justify my condition. All I had to 
 do was to recognize my guilt, and everything which before 
 had appeared strange, complicated, obscure, insoluble, 
 now became quite intelligible and simple. Above all 
 else, the path of my life which resulted from this ex- 
 planation, instead of being tangled, and insoluble and 
 agonizing, as it had been before, became simple, clear, 
 and agreeable. 
 
 Who am I, the one who wants to help people ? I want 
 to help people, and I get up at noon, after a game of vint, 
 with four candles on the table, all worn out and pampered, 
 demanding the aid and service of hundreds of men, and I 
 go to bring aid, — to whom ? To people who get up at 
 five, sleep on boards, live on cabbage and bread, know 
 how to plough, mow, fasten a helve, dress timber, hitch a 
 horse, sew, — people who in strength, endurance, art, and 
 abstemiousness are a hundred times stronger than I, 
 and I come to aid them ! What else but shame could 1 
 have experienced when I entered into communion with 
 these people ? The weakest of them, a drunkard, an 
 inmate of Rzhanov House, whom they call a loafer, is a 
 hundred times more industrious than I ; his balance, so to 
 speak, that is, the relation of what he takes from people
 
 98 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 and of what he gives to them, is a thousand times more 
 favourable for him, if I consider what I take from people 
 and what I give them. 
 
 And it is these people that I go out to help. I go to help 
 the poor. Who is poor ? There is no one who is poorer than 
 I am. I am a feeble, worthless parasite, who can exist 
 only under the most exclusive of conditions, who can exist 
 only if thousands will labour to support this worthless 
 life. And I, the louse that devours the leaf of a tree, want 
 to be instrumental in the growth and health of this tree 
 and want to cure it. 
 
 This is the way I pass my whole life : I eat, talk, and 
 listen ; I eat, write, or read, that is, again talk and listen ; 
 I eat, I play ; I eat, talk again, and Hsten ; I eat and go to 
 bed ; and thus it is every day, and I can do nothing else. 
 And, in order that I may be able to do so, it is necessary 
 for the janitor, the peasant, the sculhon, the cook, the 
 lackey, the coachman, the laundress to work from morning 
 until evening, to say nothing of those labours of people 
 which are necessary to furnish the coachmen, the cooks, 
 the lackeys, and the rest with those tools and objects with 
 which and over which they work for me, — the axes, 
 barrels, brushes, dishes, furniture, glasses, blacking, coal- 
 oil, hay, wood, meat. And all these people work hard 
 the whole day long and every day, in order that I may 
 be able to talk, eat, and sleep. And I, this wretched man, 
 imagine that I am able to help others and those very 
 men who are supporting me. 
 
 What is surprising is not that I did not help any one 
 and that I felt ashamed, but that such an insipid idea 
 could have occurred to me. The woman who tended the 
 sick old man helped him; the peasant woman who cut 
 off a slice from the bread which was got from the soil 
 through labour helped the mendicant ; Sem^n who gave 
 three kopeks frooi his earnings to the beggar helped the 
 beggar, because these three kopeks actually represented
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 99 
 
 his labour : but I had not served any one, had not worked 
 for any one, and knew well that my money did not rep- 
 resent my labour. 
 
 And so I felt that in the money itself, in the possession 
 of it, there was something base and immoral, and that 
 the money itself and the fact that I had it was one of the 
 chief causes of all the evils which I saw before me, 
 and I asked myself : " What is money ? "
 
 XVII. 
 
 Money ! "What is money ? 
 
 Money represents labour. I have met educated people 
 who asserted that money represents also the labour of 
 him who possesses it. I must confess that formerly I in 
 some obscure manner shared this opinion. But I had 
 to go to the bottom of what money was, and so, to find 
 this out, I turned to science. 
 
 Science says that there is nothing unjust and prejudicial 
 about money, that money is a natural condition of social 
 life, — necessary : (1) for convenience of exchaDge, (2) for 
 the establishment of measures of value, (3) for saving, 
 and (4) for payments. The obvious phenomenon that, if 
 I have in my pocket three superfluous roubles which are 
 of no use to me, I need only to whistle in order to col- 
 lect in every civilized city hundreds of men who are 
 prepared for these three roubles to do at my will the hard- 
 est, most detested, and most humiliating work, is not due 
 to money, but to very complex conditions of the economic 
 life of the nations. The control exercised by one set of 
 men over another is not due to money, but to this, that 
 the labourer does not receive the full value of his labour ; 
 and he does not get the full value of his labour on 
 account of the properties of capital, interest, wages, and 
 of the complex relations between them and between the 
 production, distribution, and employment of wealth them- 
 selves. 
 
 To express myself in Eussian fashion, it turns out that 
 
 people who have money have the right to twist those who 
 
 have no money into ropes. But science says that this is 
 
 100
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 101 
 
 a different matter. Science says that in all kinds of pro- 
 ductions three factors take part : laud, stored-up labour 
 (capital), and labour. From the difi'erent relations of 
 these factors of production among themselves, — from the 
 fact that the tirst two factors — land and capital — are not 
 in the hands of the working men, but in those of other 
 people, — from this and from the very complex combina- 
 tions which arise from it there follows the enslavement 
 of one set of men by another. 
 
 What is the cause of that monetary kingdom which 
 startles us all by its injustice and cruelty ? Why does 
 one set of people rule others by means of money ? Sci- 
 ence says : this is due to the division of the factors of 
 production and the consequent combinations, which 
 oppress the labourer. This answer has always seemed 
 strange to me, not only in that it leaves out one part of 
 the question, namely, as regards the significance of money 
 in the matter, — but also by that division of the factors 
 of production, which to an unbiassed man always appears 
 artificial and as not corresponding to reality. 
 
 It is asserted that in every production three factors 
 take part, — land, capital, and labour, — and in this divi- 
 sion it is understood that wealth (or its valuation, — 
 money) is naturally subdivided among those who own 
 this or that factor : the rent — the value of the land — 
 belongs' to the landowner, the interest to the capi- 
 talist, and the wages for the labour to the working 
 man. 
 
 Is this true ? In the first place, is it true that three 
 factors take part in every production ? Here, right about 
 me, the production of hay is taking place, while I am 
 writing this. Of what does this production consist ? I 
 am told : of the land which made the grass grow ; of the 
 capital, — the scythes, rakes, forks, wagons, necessary for 
 the making of the hay ; and of the labour. But I see 
 that this is not true. In addition to the land, other
 
 102 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 factors take part in the production of the hay : the sun, 
 the water, the social order, which kept this grass from 
 being trespassed upon, the knowledge of the working men, 
 their ability to speak and understand words, and many 
 other factors of production, which for some reason are not 
 recognized by poHtical economy. 
 
 The power of the sun is just as much a factor of every 
 production as the land, and even more necessary than the 
 land. I can imagine the condition of people in which 
 (say, in the city) one set of men assume the right to shut 
 off the sun from others by means of walls or trees ; why 
 is it not included among the factors of production ? 
 Water is another factor, which is just as important as 
 the land. The same is true of the air. I can again 
 imagine people deprived of water and of fresh air, because 
 other people arrogate to themselves the right to the exclu- 
 sive possession of the water and the air which others 
 need. Social security is another such factor ; food and 
 wearing apparel are for the working men just such factors 
 of production, and this is acknowledged by certain econo- 
 mists. Education, the ability to speak, which gives the 
 possibility of applying a different kind of work, is just 
 such a factor. 
 
 I could fill a whole volume with such omitted factors 
 of production. Why, then, have they chosen just those 
 three factors and put them at the basis of science ? The 
 sunlight and the water may, just like the land, be taken 
 as separate factors of production ; the labourer's food and 
 wearing apparel, knowledge and its transmission may be 
 taken as separate factors of production. Why are the 
 sunbeams, the water, food, knowledge, not taken as sepa- 
 rate factors of production, instead of only the land, the 
 tools of labour, and the labour itself ? There can be no 
 other reason than that only in rare cases do men lay 
 claim to the right of using the sunbeams, water, air, food, 
 and the right to speak and listen, whereas in our society
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 103 
 
 people constantly lay claim to the use of the land and the 
 tools of labour. 
 
 There is no other basis, and so I see, in the first place, 
 that the division of the factors of production into three 
 factors only is quite arbitrary and does not lie in the 
 essence of things itself. But, perhaps, this division is so 
 characteristic of men that where economic relations form 
 themselves, these three, and only these three, factors of 
 production are immediately pushed to the front. Let us 
 see whether that is so. 
 
 I look at those nearest to me, the Russian colonists, 
 of whom there are a million. The colonists come to some 
 new land, settle down upon it, and begin to work, and it 
 does not occur to any one that a man who does not make 
 use of the land could claim any right to it, and the land 
 does not claim any special rights ; on the contrary, the 
 colonists consciously recognize the land as a common pos- 
 session, and they consider it right for every man to mow 
 and plough wherever he pleases and as much ground as 
 he can take. The colonists procure the tools of labour 
 for the working of the land, for the gardens, for the build- 
 ing of their houses, and it does not even occur to any one 
 that the tools of labour can in themselves bring an 
 income, nor does the capital lay claim to any privileges ; 
 on the contrary, the colonists consciously recognize that 
 all interest for the tools of labour, for grain loaned, for 
 capital is unjust. The colonists work on free land with 
 their own tools or with such as have been loaned to them 
 without interest, each of them working for himself, or 
 all together for the common good, and in such a com- 
 mune it is impossible to find rents, or interest on capital 
 or wages. 
 
 Speaking of such a commune I am not indulging in 
 reveries, but am describing what has always taken place, 
 not only in the case of the Russian colonists, but also 
 everywhere so long as man's natural quality has not been
 
 104 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 
 
 violated by anything. I am describing what to every 
 man appears natural and sensible. People settle on the 
 land, and each person takes hold of the work which is 
 proper for him, and, having elaborated what he needs for 
 his work, he does his own work. But if it is more con- 
 venient for people to work together, they form associa- 
 tions ; but neither in the farming in severalty, nor in the 
 associations will the factors of production be separate, but 
 there will be labour and the necessary conditions of 
 labour : the sun which warms all ; the air which people 
 breathe, the water which they drink, the land on which 
 they work ; raiment on their bodies, food in their bellies ; 
 the crowbar, the spade, the plough, the machine, with 
 which they work, — and it is evident that neither the sun- 
 beams, nor the air, nor the water, nor the earth, nor the 
 raiment on their bodies, nor the crowbar, with which they 
 work, nor the spade, nor the plough, nor the machine, with 
 which they work in associations, can belong to any one 
 but those who make use of the sunbeams, breathe the air, 
 drink the water, eat the bread, cover their bodies, and 
 work with their spades or machines, because all this is 
 needed by those only who make use of it. 
 
 When people act in this manner, we all see that they 
 act as is proper for men, that is, sensibly. And thus, as 
 I observe the economic relations of men in the moment 
 of their formation, I do not see that the division into 
 three factors of production is proper to men, I see, on 
 the contrary, that it is improper and senseless. But 
 perhaps the division into three factors fails only in primi- 
 tive human societies ; perhaps it is inevitable with the 
 increase of the population and the evolution of civiliza- 
 tion, and this division has taken place in European society, 
 and we cannot help but acknowledge the accomplished 
 fact. 
 
 Let us see whether this is so. We are told that in 
 European society the division of the factors of production
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 105 
 
 has taken place ; that is, that some people own the land, 
 others the tools of labour, and others again are deprived 
 both of the land and the tools of labour. The labourer is 
 deprived of the land and of the tools of labour. We are 
 so accustomed to this assertion that we are no longer 
 startled by its strangeness. In this expression there is 
 an inner contradiction. The concept of a labourer in- 
 cludes the concept of the land on which he lives, and of 
 the tools with which he works. If he did not live on the 
 land, and did not have any tools of labour, he would not 
 be a labourer. There has never been, and there never can 
 be, a labourer who is deprived of the land and of the tools 
 of labour. 
 
 There cannot be a farmer without the land on which 
 he works, nor without a scythe, a cart, a horse ; nor can 
 there be a shoemaker without a house on the land, without 
 the water, the air, and the tools of labour, with which he 
 works. If a peasant has no land, no horse, and no scythe, 
 and a shoemaker has no water and no awl, this means 
 that some one has driven him off the land and has taken 
 away from him or cheated him out of his scythe, his cart, 
 his horse, his awl ; but it can nowise mean that there can 
 be farmers without ploughs and shoemakers without tools. 
 As a fisherman is unthinkable on the land and without 
 his tackle unless some one has driven him off the water 
 and has taken the tackle from him ; even so, it is impos- 
 sible to think of a peasant, a shoemaker, without the land 
 on which he lives, and without instruments of labour, 
 unless, indeed, some one has driven him off the land and 
 has taken the tools away from him. 
 
 There may be people who are driven from one plot of 
 earth to another, and who have been deprived of their 
 tools of labour, and who are forcibly compelled with other 
 people's tools of labour to produce objects which they do 
 not need, but this does not mean that such is the property 
 of the production, but only that there are cases when the
 
 106 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 natural property of production is violated. But if we 
 accept as factors of production everything of which the 
 labourer may be deprived by another through force, why 
 should we not regard the claims to the slave's person as a 
 factor of production ? Why should we not regard the 
 claims to the sun's rays, to the air, to the water, as just 
 such factors ? 
 
 There may appear a man who, building up a wall, will 
 screen a man from the sun, or who will lead the river 
 water into a pond and thus poison the water ; there may 
 appear a man who will claim the whole man as his chat- 
 tel ; but neither pretension, even if it be put into execu- 
 tion through force, can be recognized as a basis for the 
 division of the factors of production, and so it is just as 
 incorrect to accept the imaginary right to the land and to 
 the tools of labour as special factors of production, as to 
 regard the imaginary right to the use of the sun's rays, 
 the air, the water, and the person of another man as 
 special factors of production. There may be men who 
 will lay claim to the land and to the tools of a man's 
 labour, just as there have been men who lay claim to the 
 labour;^r's person, and as there may be men who lay claim 
 to the exclusive use of the sun, the water, the air ; there 
 may be men who drive a labourer from place to place, and 
 who by force take away from him the products of his 
 labour as they are manufactured, and even the tools of 
 his labour, and compel him to work for the master and 
 not for himself, as is the case in the factories, — all that 
 is possible : but there can still be no labourer without 
 land and without tools, even as one man cannot be 
 another man's chattel, although people have asserted for 
 a long time that he can be. 
 
 Just as the assertion of the right o another man's 
 property could not deprive a slave of his inborn property 
 of seeking his own good, and not that of the master, even 
 so now the assertion of the right to the possession of the
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 107 
 
 land and to the tools of other people's labour cannot 
 deprive the labourer of each man's iunate right to live on 
 the land and work with his own tools or with those of the 
 commune, in order to produce what he considers useful 
 for himself. 
 
 All that science, observing the present economic con- 
 dition, can say is this, that there exist claims, which 
 certain people lay to the land and the tools of working 
 men's labour, and in consequence of which, for a part of 
 these working men (by no means all), the conditions of 
 production Characteristic of man are violated to such an 
 extent that the labourers are deprived of the land and of 
 the tools of labour and are driven to the use of other 
 people's tools of labour ; but nowise this, that this acci- 
 dental violation of the law of production is itself the law 
 of production. 
 
 In affirming that the division of the factors of pro- 
 duction is the basic law of production, the economist does 
 precisely what a zoologist would do, who, seeing a large 
 number of siskins with clipped wings in little houses, 
 should conclude from this that the little house and the 
 small water-pail, which is lifted on rails, are the most 
 essential condition of the life of the birds, and that the 
 life of the birds is composed of these three factors. No 
 matter how many siskins with clipped wings there may 
 be in little card houses, the zoologist cannot recognize the 
 card houses as a natural quality of the birds. No matter 
 how many labourers may be driven from their place and, 
 deprived of the productions and the tools of their labour, 
 the labourer's natural property of living on the land and 
 producing with his tools what he pleases will always be 
 the same. 
 
 There are pretensions which some people have to the 
 labourer's land and tools of labour, even as in ancient 
 times there existed the pretensions of some people to the 
 persons of others ; but under no condition can there be a
 
 108 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 division of men into masters and slaves, such as they 
 wished to establish in the ancient world, and there can 
 under no conditions be a division of the factors of produc- 
 tion into land and capital, such as the economists want to 
 establish in modern society. 
 
 It is these illegal pretensions which some people have 
 to the liberty of others that science calls natural proper- 
 ties of production. Instead of taking its bases in the 
 natural properties of human societies, science took them 
 in a specific case and, wishing to justify this specific case, 
 recognized one man's right to the land, which feeds 
 another, and to the tools of labour, with which another 
 works, that is, it recognized a right which never existed 
 and never can exist, and which bears a contradiction in 
 its very expression, because the right to the land claimed 
 by a man who does not work on the land is in reality 
 nothing but the right to make use of the land which I do 
 not use ; and the right to the tools of labour is nothing, 
 but the right to work with tools with which I do not 
 work. 
 
 By its division of the factors of production, science 
 affirms that the natural condition of the labourer is that 
 unnatural condition in which he is ; just as in the ancient 
 world they affirmed, in dividing people into citizens and 
 slaves, that the unnatural condition of the slaves is a 
 natural property of man. This division, which is accepted 
 by science only in order to justify the existing evil, which 
 is placed by it at the basis of all its investigations, has 
 had this effect, that science tries in vain to give explana- 
 tions of existing phenomena, and, denying the clearest 
 and simplest answers to questions that present themselves 
 to it, gives answers which are devoid of contents. 
 
 The question of economic science is as follows : What 
 is the cause of this, that some men, who have land and 
 capital, are able to enslave those who have no land 
 and no capital ? The answer which presents itself to
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 109 
 
 common sense is this, that it is due to the money, which 
 has the power of enslaving people. But science denies 
 this and says : This is not due to the property of money, 
 but because some have land and capital, and others have 
 not. We ask why people who have land and capital 
 enslave those who have none, and we are told : Because 
 they have land and capital. But that is precisely what 
 we want to know. The privation of the land and of the 
 tools of labour is that very enslavement. The answer is 
 like this: Facit dorviire q^iia hahet virhUem dormitivam. 
 
 But life does not cease putting its essential question, 
 and even science itself sees it and tries to answer it, but 
 is absolutely unable to do so as long as it rests on its fun- 
 damental principles, and keeps moving about in its magic 
 circle. In order to be able to do so, it must first of all 
 renounce its false division of the factors of production, 
 that is, the recognition of the consequences of phenomena 
 as their causes, and must seek, at first the nearer, and 
 then the more remote, cause of those phenomena w^hich 
 form the subject of its investigations. Science must 
 answer the question as to what the cause is^ of the fact 
 that some people are deprived of the land and of the tools 
 of labour, while others own them, or, what cause produces 
 the alienation of the land and of the tools of labour from 
 those who work the land and employ the tools. 
 
 The moment science will put to itself this question, 
 there will appear entirely new considerations, which will 
 turn upside down all the propositions of the former quasi- 
 science, which moves in a hopeless circle of assertions that 
 the wretched condition of the labourer is due to its being 
 wretched. To simple people it seems indubitable that 
 the nearest cause of the enslavement of one class of men 
 by another is money. But science, denying this, says 
 money is only an instrument of exchange wliich has 
 nothing in common with the enslavement of people. Let 
 us see whether this is so.
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Whence does money come ? Under what condition 
 does a nation always have money, and under what con- 
 ditions do we know nations who do not use money ? 
 
 A tribe hves in Africa, or in Austraha, as anciently the 
 Scythians or Dr^vlyans lived. The tribe lives, ploughing, 
 raising cattle, planting gardens. We hear of it only when 
 history begins ; but history begins with the incursion of 
 conquerors. The conquerors always do one and the same 
 thing : they take from the tribe everything they can, — 
 its cattle, its grain, its stuffs, and even captives, and carry 
 it all off. A few years later the conquerors return, but 
 the tribe has not ye recovered from its desolation, and 
 there is nothing to take away, so the conquerors invent 
 another, a better met lod for exploiting the forces of this 
 tribe. 
 
 These methods are very simple and occur naturally to 
 all people. The first method is personal slavery. This 
 method has the inconvenience of demanding the manage- 
 ment of all the wcrking forces of the tribe, and the 
 feeding of all, and so there naturally presents itself a 
 second method, — of leaving the tribe on its land, but 
 recognizing it as belonging to the conquerors and distrib- 
 uting it to the retainers, in order to exploit the tribe's 
 labour through the retainers. But this method has also 
 its inconveniences. The retainers have to look after all 
 the productions of the tribe, and a third method, just as 
 primitive as the first two, is introduced : it is the peremp- 
 tory demand of a term tribute which the conquered have 
 to pay. 
 
 110
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? Ill 
 
 The aim of the conquerors consists in taking from the 
 conquered as many productions of their labour as possible. 
 It is evident that, in order to be able to take as much as 
 possible, the conqueror must take such objer ts as are of 
 the highest value among the people of thi£ tribe, and 
 which, at the same time, are not bulky and inconvenient 
 to store, — pelts, gold. And so the conquerors generally 
 impose a term tribute in pelts or in gold on each family 
 or gens, and by means of this tribute in the most con- 
 venient way exploit the tools of labour of this tribe. The 
 pelts and the gold are nearly all taken from the tribe, and 
 so the conquered have to sell to one another and to the 
 conqueror and his retainers everything they have for 
 gold. 
 
 Precisely this took place in antiquity and in the Middle 
 Ages, and is taking place now. In the ancient world, 
 where one nation was frequently conquered by another, 
 and where the consciousness of the human equality of 
 men was absent, personal slavery was the most popular 
 means of enslavement practised by one set of men against 
 another, and in the personal slavery lay the centre of 
 gravity of this enslavement. In the Middle Ages the 
 feudal system, that is, the territorial possession which is 
 connected with it, and the vassalage partially take the 
 place of slavery, and the centre of gravity of enslavement 
 is transferred from the person to the land. In modern 
 times, since the discovery of America and the develop- 
 ment of trade and the influx of gold, which is accepted 
 as the universal money standard, the monetary tribute 
 becomes, with the enforcement of the political power, the 
 chief instrument for the enslavement of men, and upon it 
 all the economic relations of men are based. In a volume 
 of literary productions there is an article by Professor 
 Yanzhiil, which describes the latest history of the Fiji 
 Islands. If I tried to invent a most telling illustration 
 of how in our time the peremptory demand of money has
 
 112 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 become the chief instrument for the enslavement of one 
 class of people by another, I could not discover one which 
 would be more glaring and more convincing than this true 
 story, which is based on documentary evidence and took 
 place recently. 
 
 On certain islands of the South Sea, in Polynesia, there 
 lives the Fiji nation. The whole group of the islands, 
 says Professor Yanzhiil, consists of tiny islands which 
 approximately cover a territory of forty thousand square 
 miles. Only half of the islands are inhabited, by a popu- 
 lation of 150,000 natives and fifteen hundred whites. The 
 natives have long since come out of their savage state, 
 excel in ability all the other natives of Polynesia, and 
 represent a nation capable of work and of development, 
 which they have proved by having lately become good 
 farmers and stock-raisers. 
 
 The inhabitants were prosperous, but in 1859 the new 
 kingdom found itself in a desperate state. The people 
 of the Fiji Islands and their representative, Cacabo, needed 
 money. The sum of '$45,000 was wanted by the Fiji 
 kingdom, in order to pay a contribution or damages, which 
 the United States of North America demanded for certain 
 violence which, it was claimed, the Fijians had shown to 
 some citizens of the American republic. For this purpose 
 the Americans sent a squadron, which suddenly seized a 
 few of the better islands as a pledge, and even threatened 
 to bombard and destroy the colonies, if the contribution 
 should not be handed to the representatives of America 
 at a certain time. 
 
 The Americans were among the first colonists to appear, 
 with the missionaries, in Fiji. Selecting or seizing, under 
 one pretext or another, the best plots of ground on the 
 islands, and there laying out cotton and coffee plantations, 
 the Americans hired whole crowds of natives, binding 
 them by contracts, which were not familiar to the savages, 
 or acting upon them through especial contractors or pur-
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 113 
 
 veyors of live chattel. Conflicts between such planters 
 and the natives, upon whom they looked as slaves, were 
 inevitable, and it was some of these that served as a cause 
 for the demand of a contribution by America. 
 
 In spite of its prosperity, Fiji has almost down to our 
 time preserved the so-called system of payment in kind, 
 which in Europe was current only in the Middle Ages. 
 No money was in circulation among the natives, and the 
 whole commerce had exclusively the character of barter ; 
 commodity was exchanged for commodity, and the few 
 public and governmental levies were made in country 
 produce. What were the Fijians and their king Cacabo 
 to do, when the Americans categorically demanded $45,- 
 000, under threat of the most summary consequences in 
 case of their non-compliance ? For the Fijians the figure 
 itself was something inaccessible, to say nothing of the 
 money, which they had never seen in such a large sum. 
 
 Cacabo took counsel with the other chiefs, and decided 
 to turn to the Queen of England. At first he asked 
 her to take the islands under her protection, and later 
 simply to annex them. But the English were cautious 
 in reply to this request, and were in no hurry to rescue 
 the semi-savage monarch from his difficulty. Instead of 
 a direct answer, they fitted out a special expedition in 
 1860, for the purpose of investigating the Fiji islands, 
 so as to decide whether it was worth while to annex 
 them to the British possessions, and to spend money in 
 order to satisfy the American creditors. 
 
 In the meantime the American government con- 
 tinued to insist on payment, and retained as a pledge 
 several of the best points in its actual possession, and, 
 having gained an insight into the national wealth, in- 
 creased the former $45,000 to 890,000 and threatened to 
 increase even this sum, if Cacabo did not pay it at once. 
 Hard pressed on all sides, poor Cacabo, who was un- 
 acquainted with the European methods of credit trans-
 
 114 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 actions, began, with the advice of European colonists, to 
 look for money in Melbourne, asking it of the merchants, 
 under any and all conditions, even if he had to yield the 
 whole kingdom to private individuals. 
 
 Here, in Melbourne, a commercial company was formed 
 in reply to Cacabo's appeal. This stock company, which 
 took the name of the Polynesian Company, made a pact 
 with the rulers of the Fiji Islands, upon conditions which 
 were exceedingly favourable to itself. Taking upon itself 
 the debt to the American government and binding itself to 
 pay it off in instalments, the company received for it, 
 according to the first agreement, one hundred thousand, 
 and later two hundred thousand, acres of the best land of 
 its own choice, the freedom for all times from all taxes 
 and revenues for all its factories, plants, and colonies, and 
 the exclusive right for a considerable time to estabhsh 
 banks of issue, with the privilege of an unlimited issue of 
 notes. 
 
 From the time of this pact, which was conclusively 
 settled in 1868, the Fijians were confronted, side by side 
 with their local government, with Cacabo at its head, by 
 a powerful commercial organization, with extensive terri- 
 torial possessions on all the islands, and with a decisive 
 influence in the government. Heretofore Cacabo's govern- 
 ment had been satisfied, for its necessities, with those 
 material means which consisted in all kinds of levies in 
 kind, and an insignificant revenue from customs for im- 
 ported goods. After the conclusion of the pact and the 
 foundation of the powerful Polynesian Company, its finan- 
 cial condition was changed. A considerable part of the 
 best land in the possessions passed over to the company, 
 and so the taxes were diminished ; on the other hand, as 
 we know, the company had obtained a grant of a free 
 import and export of all commodities, by which the reve- 
 nue from customs was also reduced. The natives, that is 
 ninety-nine hundredths of the population, had always been
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 115 
 
 poor contributors to the customs revenue, as they hardly 
 used any European commodities, except a few stuffs and 
 metal objects ; but now, since by the grant to the Poly- 
 nesian Company the wealthier Europeans were freed from 
 the customs revenue, the income of King Cacabo became 
 completely insignificant, and he had to bethink himself 
 of its increase. 
 
 And so Cacabo began to take counsel with his white 
 friends as to how he might avert the calamity, and these 
 advised him to introduce the first direct levy in the 
 country, and, no doubt in order to make it as little cum- 
 bersome for himself as possible, it was to be in the shape 
 of a monetary contribution. The levy was established in 
 the form of a universal or head tax, to the amount of one 
 pound for each man and four shillings for each woman on 
 all the islands. 
 
 As we have said, payment in kind and barter even now 
 persist in the Eiji Islands. Very few natives possess any 
 money. Their wealth consists exclusively in all kinds 
 of raw products and flocks, and not in money. But the 
 new tax demanded that, at certain stated periods of time, 
 money be paid, which, when added up, amounted to a 
 considerable sum for a head of a native family. Here- 
 tofore the native had been accustomed to no individual 
 imposts in favour of the government, except personal 
 obligations ; all the levies that were made were paid by 
 tba Commune or the village to which he belonged from 
 the common fields, from which he received his main 
 income. There was but one way left for him, — to seek 
 money from the white colonists, that is, to turn either to 
 the trader, or the planter, who had what he needed, — 
 money. 
 
 To the first he was compelled to sell his products at 
 any price, since the collector of taxes demanded the 
 money by a given time ; or he had to borrow money 
 against some future product, a circumstance which, of
 
 116 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? .. 
 
 course, the trader made use of in order to demand un- 
 scrupulous interest ; or he had to turn to the planter and 
 sell him his labour, that is, turn labourer. But the wages, 
 no doubt on account of the great simultaneous supply, 
 turned out to be very low in the Fiji Islands, according 
 to the statements of the present administration, at about 
 one shilling a week, or two pounds twelve shillings a 
 year ; consequently, in order merely to pay the tax for 
 himself, to say nothing of his family, a Fijian was com- 
 pelled to abandon his home, his family, his own land, and 
 his farm, and, often setthng far away, on some other 
 island, to sell himself to a planter for at least six months 
 in order to gain the one pound necessary for the payment 
 of the new tax ; but for the payment of the taxes for his 
 whole family he was compelled to look to other means. 
 
 The result of this order can be easily imagined. From 
 the 150,000 subjects Cacabo collected only £6,000; and 
 so there begins an intensified extortion of taxes, which 
 was unknown before, and a series of compulsory measures. 
 The local administration, incorruptible before, very soon 
 made common cause with the planters, who began to 
 manage the country. For arrears the Fijians were taken 
 to court, and were sentenced, in addition to the payment 
 of the costs, to incarceration for periods of not less than 
 six months. The role of these prisons were played by 
 the plantations of the first white man who was willing to 
 pay the tax and the legal cost for the defendant. In this 
 manner the whites had an abundant supply of cheap labour 
 in any quantity desired. At first this compulsory farming 
 out was permitted for the period of six months, but later 
 on the venal judges found it possible to send a man to 
 work for eighteen months, and then to renew their 
 decree. 
 
 Very soon, in the period of a few years, the picture of 
 the economic condition of Fiji was completely changed. 
 Whole prosperous districts were half depleted of their
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 117 
 
 population and extremely impoverished. The whole male 
 population, except the old men and the feeble, were work- 
 ing away from their homes, on the plantations of the 
 whites, in order to provide themselves with the money 
 necessary for the payment of the tax or to satisfy the 
 decree of the court. The women in Fiji do hardly any 
 agricultural labour, and so, in the absence of their hus- 
 bands, the farms were neglected or entirely abandoned. 
 In a few years half the population of Fiji were turned 
 into slaves of the white colonists. 
 
 To alleviate their condition, the Fijians once more 
 turned to England. A new petition, covered with a large 
 number of signatures of the most prominent persons and 
 chiefs, and asking to be annexed to England, made its 
 appearance and was handed to the British consul. By 
 this time England, thanks to its learned expeditions, had 
 had time, not only to study, but also to measure the 
 islands, and in due manner to appreciate the natural 
 wealth of this beautiful corner of the globe. On account 
 of all this the negotiations were this time crowned with 
 full success, and in 1874 England, to the great dissatis- 
 faction of the American planters, entered into possession 
 of the Fiji Islands, by annexing them to its colonies. 
 
 Cacabo died, and a small pension was decreed to his 
 successors. The government of the islands was entrusted 
 to Sir Robinson, the governor of New South Wales. In 
 the first year of its annexation to England, Fiji did not 
 have its administration, but was under the influence of 
 Sir Robinson, who appointed an administrator for it. On 
 taking the islands into its hands, the English government 
 had to solve a difficult problem, — to satisfy the various 
 expectations from it. The natives naturally expected 
 first of all the abolition of the hateful head tax ; but the 
 white colonists (the Americans) looked upon the British 
 rule partly with suspicion, and partly (those of British 
 origin) expected all kinds of benefits, for example, the
 
 118 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 recognition of their rule over the natives, the approval of 
 their land-grabbing, etc. 
 
 The English government, however, proved itself to be 
 equal to the task, and its first action was the abolition 
 for ever of the head tax, which had created the slavery 
 of the natives to the advantage of a few colonists. But 
 here Sir Eobiuson was confronted with a difficult dilemma. 
 It became necessary to do away with the head tax, to 
 save themselves from which the Fijians had turned to the 
 Enghsh government ; at the same time, according to the 
 rule of the English colonial policy, the colonies were to 
 support themselves, that is, it was necessary to find local 
 means to meet the expenditures of the administration. 
 But, with the abolition of the head tax, all the income of 
 Fiji (from the customs dues) did not exceed .£6,000, 
 whereas the expenditures of the administration demanded 
 at the least £70,000 a year. And so Robinson, after 
 having abolished the money tax, invented the labour tax,- 
 which the Fijians had to pay in work, but this did not 
 net the X 70,000 necessary for the support of Robinson 
 and his assistants. 
 
 The thing did not go until the appointment of a new 
 governor, Gordon, who, to get out of the inhabitants the 
 money necessary for his support and for that of his assist- 
 ants, took it into his head that he would not demand any 
 money until a sufficient amount of it should be in circula- 
 tion in the islands, but that he would take the products 
 from the natives and would sell them himself. 
 
 This tragic episode from the life of the Fijians is the 
 clearest and best indication of what money is and in what 
 its significance lies. Here everything was expressed : the 
 first fundamental condition of the enslavement — the can- 
 non, menaces, murder, and seizure of land, and the chief 
 means — money, which has taken the place of all the 
 other means. What in the historical sketch of the 
 economic development of the nations has to be followed
 
 WHAT SHALL WL DO THEN? 119 
 
 out in the course of centuries, is here, where the forms of 
 the monetary violence are worked out completely, concen- 
 trated in one decade. The drama begins by this, that the 
 American government sends its ships with loaded cannon 
 to the shores of the islands, whose inhabitants it wants to 
 enslave. 'The pretext of this threat is money, but the 
 beginning of the drama is with the cannon which are 
 directed upon all the inhabitants, — women, children, old 
 men, — people who are not guilty of anything, and this 
 phenomenon is now repeated in America, in China, 
 in Central Asia. The beginning of the drama is this, 
 " Your money or your life," which is repeated in the 
 history of all the conquests of all the nations ; i^45,000 
 and then -190,000, or slaughter. But there are no 
 $90,000. The Americans have them. And so the second 
 act of the drama begins : it is necessary to put off, to 
 exchange the bloody, terrible, concentrated slaughter 
 for less noticeable, though more prolonged, sufferings. 
 And the httle nation by its representative seeks a means 
 for exchanging slaughter for enslavement to money. It 
 borrows money, and the forms of the enslavement of men 
 by means of money are worked out. 
 
 This method begins at once to act like a disciplined 
 army, and in five years the work is done : the people have 
 lost not only the right to use their land, but also their 
 property and their freedom ; the men are slaves. 
 
 The third act begins. The situation is exceedingly 
 hard, and the unfortunate people hear the rumour that it 
 is possible to change masters and go into another slavery. 
 (Of liberation from the slavery which the money imposes 
 there is no longer a thought.) And the little nation in- 
 vites another master, to whom it abandons itself with the 
 request that it improve its condition. The English come 
 and see that the possession of these islands makes it pos- 
 sible for them to feed some drones who have been breed- 
 ing in too great a quantity, and the English government
 
 120 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 takes these islands with their inhabitants, but not in the 
 form of personal slaves : it does not even take the land 
 and does not distribute it to its assistants. Those old 
 methods are not needed now. All that is necessary is 
 that they should pay a tribute, one that will, on the one 
 hand, be sufficiently large to keep the labourers* in perpet- 
 ual slavery, and, on the other, will feed well the multitude 
 of drones. 
 
 The inhabitants have to pay .£70,000. This is the 
 fundamental condition under which England agrees to 
 ransom the Fijians from American slavery, and this is 
 at the same time the one necessary thing for the complete 
 enslavement of the inhabitants. But it turns out that 
 the Fijians are not able under their present condition to 
 pay the .£70,000. The demand is excessive. The Eng- 
 lish for a time modify the demand and take a part in 
 kind, in order, in proper time, when the money shall be 
 in circulation, to increase the demand to its full norm. 
 
 England does not act like the former company, whose 
 procedure may be compared with the first arrival of 
 savage conquerors in the country of savage inhabitants, 
 when they have but the one thought of carrying off as 
 much as possible and going away again ; England acts 
 like a more far-sighted enslaver : it does not all at once 
 kill the hen with the golden eggs, but does not mind feed- 
 ing her, since it knows that she is a good layer. At first 
 it slackens the reins for its own benefit, in order later to 
 pull them tight for all time and to bring the Fijians 
 to that condition of monetary slavery in which all the 
 European and civilized nations are, and from which no 
 liberation is in sight. 
 
 Money is a harmless medium of exchange, but certainly 
 not when the shores of the country are lined with loaded 
 cannon, which are directed upon the inhabitants. The 
 moment money is levied by force, under the protection 
 of guns, there is inevitably repeated what took place on
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 121 
 
 the Fiji Islands, and what has taken place everywhere 
 and at all times, — in the case of the princes and the 
 Dr^vlyans, and of all the governments and their nations. 
 People who have the power to employ force against others 
 will do so by means of the extortion of a sum of money, 
 which compels the people on whom the extortion is prac- 
 tised to become the slaves of the extortioners. 
 
 Besides, there will take place what took place in the 
 case of the English and the Fijians, namely, that the ex- 
 tortioners will, in their demand for money, be more likely 
 to transcend the limit at which the sum of money de- 
 manded has been set, in order to hasten the enslavement, 
 than not to come up to it. They will reach the limit 
 without crossing it only in case of a moral sentiment, and 
 they will always reach it, even though the sentiment may 
 exist, if they are in want. But the governments will 
 always cross this limit, in the first place, because, as we 
 know, the governments themselves are in extreme need, 
 due to the wars and to the necessity of offering stipends 
 to their accomplices. 
 
 All the governments are always in in solvable debt, and, 
 even if they wished to do otherwise, cannot help but carry 
 out the rule promulgated by a Russian statesman of the 
 eighteenth century, that it is necessary to shear the peas- 
 ant aod not give him a chance to grow his hair. All the 
 governments are in insolvable debt, and this debt in its 
 totality (not counting its accidental decrease -in England 
 and in America) grows from year to year in a terrifying 
 progression. Even so grow the budgets, that is, the ne- 
 cessity of fighting other extortioners and giving stipends 
 in money and laud to the assistants in the extortion, 
 and in a similar way does the land value grow. 
 
 The wages do not grow according to the law of rents, 
 but because there exists a state and land tribute, the pur- 
 pose of which is to take from the people all their surplus, 
 so that for the fulfilment of this demand they may sell
 
 122 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 their labour, because the exploitation of this labour is the 
 aim of the imposition of a tribute. Now the exploitation 
 of this labour is possible only when a greater aggregate 
 amount of money is demanded than the labourers can 
 give without depriving themselves of their means of sup- 
 port. The raising of the scale of wages would destroy 
 the possibility of slavery, and so it can never be raised so 
 long as there is any violence. It is this simple and intel- 
 ligible action of one set of men upon another that the 
 economists call an iron law ; but the instrument with 
 which this action is produced they call a medium of 
 exchange. 
 
 Money, this harmless medium of exchange, is needed 
 by men in their relations among themselves. Where 
 there does not exist a violent demand for a monetary 
 tribute, there has never been any money in its modern 
 significance, and there could have been none, but it has 
 always been, and it always wiU be, as it is with the 
 Fijians, the Kirgizes, the Africans, the Phoenicians, and 
 in general with people who do not pay any taxes : there 
 we have the direct exchange of objects for objects, and 
 there the accidental standards of values are sheep, furs, 
 hides, shells. A certain kind of money becomes current 
 among people only when it is forcibly demanded of all. 
 Only then does it become a necessity for each person in 
 order that he may ransom himself from violence, and 
 only then does it receive a constant exchange value. 
 What, then, receives a value is not what is more con- 
 venient for exchange, but what is demanded by the 
 government. If gold is demanded, gold will have a value ; 
 if knuckle-bones are demanded, knuckle-bones will have 
 a value. If this were not so, why has the issue of this 
 medium of exchange always formed the prerogative of 
 the government ? 
 
 People — let us say the Fijians — have established 
 their medium of exchange ; very well, let them exchange
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 123 
 
 things in any way they please, and you people who have 
 power, that is the means for violence, do not meddle with 
 this exchange. But what you do is to coin this money, 
 prohibiting others from coining the like : then, as is the 
 case with us, you print a lot of bills, representing on them 
 the portraits of kings ; you sign them with special signa- 
 tures ; determine penalties for the counterfeiting of this 
 money ; distribute them among your assistants, and de- 
 mand, in the form of state and land taxes, just such coins 
 and scraps of paper, with precisely the same signatures, 
 and so many of them that the labourer has to give up his 
 whole labour in order to obtain these scraps of paper and 
 these coins, and you assure us that this money is neces- 
 sary as a medium of exchange. 
 
 All men are free, and one set of men does not oppress 
 another, does not keep men in slavery ; all there is, is 
 money in society and an iron law, according to which 
 rents rise and wages decrease to a minimum ! The fact 
 that half (more than half) the Eussian peasants sell them- 
 selves to work for lauded proprietors and manufacturers, 
 for the sake of their direct and indirect and land taxes, 
 does not at all mean what it obviously means, namely, 
 that the levying of head taxes and of indirect and land 
 taxes, which are paid to the government and to its assist- 
 ants, the proprietors, in money, compels the labourer to be 
 in the slavery of him who levies the money, but it means 
 that there is money — the medium of exchange — and 
 an iron law ! 
 
 When the serfs were not free, I was able to compel 
 Vauka to do all kinds of work, and if Vanka refused, 
 I sent him to the rural officer, and the officer flogged him 
 until he submitted. However, if I made Vanka work 
 above his strength, without giving him land or food, 
 the matter reached the ears of the authorities, and I had 
 to be responsible for it. Now men are free, but I can 
 compel Vanka, Siddrka, or Petriishka to do any kind of
 
 124 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 
 
 work, and if he refuses I will not give him any money 
 for his taxes, and they will flog him until he submits ; 
 besides, I can compel a German, and a Frenchman, and a 
 Chinaman, and a Hindoo to work for me, by not giving 
 him money, in case of his insubmission, with which to 
 rent laud or buy bread, because he has neither land nor 
 bread. And if I make him work without food, above his 
 streugtb, if I kill him with work, no oue will say a word 
 to me ; but if, in addition, I have read books on political 
 economy, I can be firmly convinced that all men are free, 
 and that money does not create any slavery. 
 
 The peasants have known for a long time that it is 
 possible to cause more pain with a rouble than with a 
 club ; it is only political economy that does not want 
 to know it. To say that money does not cause any en- 
 slavement, is the same as if half a century ago we should 
 have said that the serf law does not produce any enslave- 
 ment. Political economists say that, although in conse- 
 quence of the possession of money one man may enslave 
 another, money is a harmless medium of exchange. Why, 
 then, could it not have been said half a century ago that, 
 although it is possible by means of the serf law to enslave 
 a man, the serf law is not a means for enslavement, but a 
 harmless medium of mutual services ? Some give their 
 rude work, others attend to the physical and mental wel- 
 fare of the slaves and to the distribution of the work. It 
 seems to me they used to talk that way.
 
 XIX. 
 
 If this imaginary science — political economy — did 
 not busy itself with what all the juridical sciences busy 
 themselves with, — with an apology for violence, it could 
 not help but see that strange phenomenon that the distri- 
 bution of wealth and the despoliation of land and capital 
 by some, and the enslavement of one set of men by an- 
 other, are all dependent on money, and that only by means 
 of money one set of men now exploits the labour of 
 others, that is, enslaves others. 
 
 I repeat : a man who has money can buy up all the 
 bread and starve another and for the bread enslave him 
 completely. Indeed, so it is done on a large scale in our 
 own sight. One would think that it would be necessary to 
 look for a connection between these phenomena of enslave- 
 ment and money, but science assures us with absolute 
 confidence that money has no relation whatever to the 
 enslavement of men. 
 
 Science says : Money is a commodity like any other 
 which has the value of its production, with this difference, 
 that this commodity is chosen as the most convenient 
 medium of exchange for the establishment of prices, for 
 storing, and for making payments : one man makes boots, 
 another grows grain, a third raises sheep, and, to be able 
 more conveniently to exchange their products, they intro- 
 duce money, which represents a corresponding share of 
 labour, and by means of it exchange soles for a brisket 
 of mutton and ten pounds of flour. 
 
 The men of this imaginary science are very fond of 
 
 representing to themselves such a state of affairs ; but 
 
 125
 
 126 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 such a state of affairs has never existed in this world. 
 Such a representation of society is the same as the rep- 
 resentation of the primeval, uncorrupted, perfect human 
 society, which former philosophers used to make for 
 themselves. There has never existed such a state. In 
 all human societies, where there has been any money as 
 such, there has always existed violence, which is exerted 
 by the strong and the armed over the weak and the 
 unarmed ; but where there has been violence, the stand- 
 ards of values — money, no matter what it may have 
 been, — cattle, furs, hides, metals, — had inevitably to 
 lose their significance and to acquire the meaning of 
 ransom from violence. 
 
 Money has unquestionably the harmless properties 
 which science mentions, but it would in reahty have 
 these properties in a society where the violence of one 
 man over another has not made its appearance, — in an 
 ideal society ; but in such a society there would be no 
 money as such, as a common standard of values, as it has 
 not existed, and cannot exist, in any society which has not 
 been subjected to the general political violence. Its chief 
 significance is not to serve as a medium of exchange, but 
 to serve for the purpose of violence. Where there is 
 violence, money cannot serve as a regular medium of 
 exchange, because it cannot be a standard of values. It 
 cannot be a standard of values, because, as soon as one 
 man in society can take away from another the products 
 of his labour, this standard is at once impaired. 
 
 If horses and cows, raised by farmers and others, are 
 taken by force away from farmers and brought together 
 to the market, it is evident that the value of the horses 
 and cows at tliis market will no longer correspond to the 
 labour of raising the stock, and the values of all other 
 articles will change in conformity with this change, and 
 money will not determine the values of these articles. 
 Besides, if it is possible by force to acquire a cow, a horse,
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 127 
 
 or a house, it is possible by means of this same violence 
 to acquire the money itself, and with this money to ac- 
 quire all the other products. But if the money itself is 
 acquired through violence and is used for the purchase of 
 articles, the money loses every semblance of a medium 
 of exchange. The oppressor, who has taken away the 
 money and gives it for the products of labour, does not 
 exchange, but by means of the money takes all he needs. 
 
 But even if there existed such an imaginary, impossible 
 society, in which, without the general political violence 
 being exerted over men, money — silver or gold — had 
 the significance of a standard of values, it would, at the 
 appearance of violence, immediately lose its significance 
 even in such a society. The oppressor makes his appear- 
 ance in such a society in the form of a conqueror. This 
 oppressor, let us assume, seizes the cows, and the horses, 
 and the houses of the inhabitants ; but it is not conve- 
 nient for liim to possess all this, and so it naturally occurs 
 to him to seize that from these people which among them 
 forms all kinds of values and is exchanged for all kinds 
 of articles, namely, money. Immediately the money, as 
 a standard of values, ceases to have any place in such a 
 society, because the standard of the value of all articles 
 will always depend on the arbitrary will of the oppressor. 
 The article which the oppressor will need most and for 
 which he will give most money, will receive a greater 
 value, and vice versa. Thus in a society which is sub- 
 jected to violence, the money at once receives the one 
 predominant meaning of a medium of oppression for the 
 oppressor, and will retain its significance as a medium of 
 exchange for the oppressed only to such an extent and in 
 such a relation as is convenient for the oppressor. 
 
 Let us imagine the matter in a small circle. The serfs 
 furnish the proprietor with cloth, chickens, sheep, and day 
 labour. The farmer substitutes money for the dues in 
 kind, and determines the price of the various articles of
 
 128 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 
 
 the dues. He who has no cloth, bread, cattle, or work 
 hands, can offer a certain sum of money. It is evident 
 that in the society of the peasants belonging to this pro- 
 prietor, the valuation of the articles will always depend 
 on the arbitrary will of the proprietor. The proprietor 
 makes use of the articles collected, and some he needs 
 more, others less, and in accordance with this he deter- 
 mines a higher or lower price for this or that article. It 
 is evident that nothiug but the proprietor's will or his 
 needs decides the prices of these articles among the 
 payers. 
 
 If the proprietor needs grain, he puts a high price on 
 the right of not furnishing a given amount of grain, and a 
 low price on the right of not furnishing cloth, cattle, or 
 day labour ; and so those who have no grain will sell to 
 others their labour, their cloth, and their cattle, in order 
 to buy the grain which they have to furnish to the 
 proprietor. 
 
 If the proprietor takes it into his head to demand all 
 the obligations in money payments, the price of the arti- 
 cles will again not depend on the value of the labour, 
 but, in the first place, on tlie amount of money which the 
 proprietor will demand, and, in the second, on the articles 
 produced by the peasants, which the proprietor needs 
 most, and so on this, for what articles he pays more and 
 and for what less. The levy of money, which the pro- 
 prietor makes on the peasants, would not have an influ- 
 ence on the value of articles among the peasants, unless, 
 in the first place, the peasants of this proprietor lived 
 separately from other people and had no other relations 
 except those between themselves and the proprietor, and, 
 in the second, the proprietor did not use the money for 
 the purchase of articles from his own village, but else- 
 where. Only under these two conditions would the value 
 of the articles, though nominally changed, remain rela- 
 tively true, and the money would have the significance
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 129 
 
 of a standard of values and of exchange ; but if the peas- 
 ants have economic relations with the surrounding inhab- 
 itants, the greater or lesser demand for money made by the 
 proprietor will, in the first place, affect the greater or lesser 
 value of their articles in relation to their neighbours. (If 
 less money is demanded of their neighbours than of them, 
 their products will be sold more cheaply than the products 
 of their neiglibours, and vice versa.) And, in the second 
 place, the levy of mouey made by the proprietor on the 
 peasants could have no influence on the value of the prod- 
 ucts unless the proprietor did not use the money collected 
 for the purchase of products from his peasants. But if he 
 uses his money for the purchase of his peasants' products, 
 it is evident that even the relation of prices of various 
 articles among the peasants themselves will constantly 
 change in proportion as the proprietor purchases this or 
 that article. 
 
 Let us suppose that one proprietor has set the peasant 
 dues very high, and his neighbour has put them low : it 
 is evident that in the sphere of the first proprietor all the 
 articles will be cheaper than in the sphere of the second, 
 and that the prices in either sphere will depend only on 
 the raising or the lowering of the dues. Such is one of 
 the influences of violence on prices. 
 
 Another influence, which results from the first, will 
 consist in the relative values of all articles. Let us sup- 
 pose that one proprietor likes horses and pays well for 
 them ; another is fond of towels and pays well for them. 
 It is evident that in the possessions of the two proprietors 
 horses and towels will be high, and the price for these 
 articles will not be in proportion to the prices of cows 
 and of grain. To-morrow the one who is fond of towels 
 dies, and his successor is fond of chickens : it is evident 
 that the price of the towels will go down, and that of the 
 chickens will rise. 
 
 Where in society there exists the oppression of one
 
 130 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 man by another, the significance of money as a standard 
 of values is immediately subjected to the arbitrary will of 
 the oppressor, and its significance as a medium of ex- 
 change of products of labour gives way to its significance 
 as a most convenient medium for exploiting the labour of 
 others. The oppressor needs the money not for exchange, 
 nor for the establishment of standards of values, — he 
 establishes them himself, — but only as a convenience of 
 oppression, which consists in this, that the money is put 
 away for safe-keeping, and that with money it is much 
 easier to keep in subjection the greatest number of men. It 
 is inconvenient to take away all the cattle, in order that 
 one may all the time have horses, and cows, and sheep, 
 as many as one may need of them, because one has to 
 feed them ; the same is true of the grain, — it may get 
 spoiled. The same is true of the labour, the corvee : at 
 one time a thousand labourers are wanted, and at another 
 not even one. The money, which is demanded of him 
 who does not have it, makes it possible to get rid of all 
 these inconveniences and always to have everything 
 which is needed, and it is for this alone that the oppressor 
 needs it. Besides, the oppressor needs the money for 
 this, that his right to exploit the labour of others may 
 not be limited to certain persons, but may extend over all 
 men who are in need of money. When there was no 
 money, the proprietor could exploit the labour of his 
 serfs alone ; but when two of them agreed to take from 
 their serfs money, which they did not have, they both 
 began indiscriminately to exploit all the forces in the 
 two estates. 
 
 And so the oppressor finds it more convenient to make 
 his demands for other people's labour in the shape of 
 money, and for this alone does the oppressor need the 
 money. But for the oppressed man, for him who is 
 deprived of his labour, the money is not necessary for 
 exchange, — he exchanges without money, as all the
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 131 
 
 nations without governments have exchanged ; nor for 
 determining the standards of values, because this determi- 
 nation takes place in spite of him ; nor for safe-keeping, 
 because he who is deprived of the products of his labour 
 cannot save ; nor for payments, because the one who is 
 oppressed will have to pay more than he receives, or, 
 if he has to receive, the payments will not be made 
 to him in money, but in commodities, — if the labourer 
 receives the payment for his work directly from his 
 master's shop, — and the same is true if for his whole 
 earnings he purchases articles of prime necessity in free 
 shops. Money is demanded of him, and he is told that, 
 if he does not pay it, he will get no land, no grain, or his 
 cow, his house, will be taken from him, and he will be 
 made to work out or will be put in prison. From this 
 he can free himself only by selling the products of his 
 labour and his labour itself at prices which are not estab- 
 lished by a regular exchange, but by the power which 
 demands the money of him. 
 
 With these conditions that result from the influence of 
 tributes or taxes on the values, which are repeated at all 
 times and everywhere, with the proprietor on a small 
 scale, and in the government on a large scale ; with these 
 conditions, where the causes of the changes of values are 
 as evident, as it is evident to him who looks back of the 
 curtain why and how the marionette raises or lets down 
 a foot ; with these conditions, to speak of money as repre- 
 senting a medium of exchange and a standard of values 
 is, to say the least, astonishing.
 
 XX. 
 
 Every enslavement of one man by another is based on 
 nothing but this, that one man may deprive another 
 of life and, without abandoning this menacing state, may 
 compel another to do his will. 
 
 It may unmistakably be said that, if there is an 
 enslavement of a man, that is, the fulfilment by one man 
 against his will, at the will of another, of certain acts 
 which are undesirable to him, the cause of it is only the 
 violence which has for its foundation the menace of 
 depriving him of life. If a man gives all his labour 
 to others, gets insufficient nourishment, allows his little 
 children to do hard work, leaves his land, and devotes 
 his whole life to hateful and to him useless labour, as 
 actually takes place in our sight, in our society (which 
 we call cultured only because we live in it), it is safe to 
 say that he does so only in consequence of the fact 
 that for the non-fulfilment of all this he is threatened 
 with the loss of his life. And so, in our cultured society, 
 where the majority of people under terrible privations 
 perform hateful and to them useless labour, the majority 
 of men are in a state of enslavement, which is based on 
 the menace of depriving them of their lives. Wherein 
 does this enslavement consist ? And in what does the 
 menace of depriving them of their lives lie ? 
 
 In ancient times the manner of enslavement and the 
 
 threat of depriving men of their lives were manifest : 
 
 they employed a primitive method for enslaving people, 
 
 which consisted in the direct threat of killing by means 
 
 132
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 133 
 
 of the sword. The man in arms said to him who was 
 unarmed : " I can kill you, as you saw me kiU your 
 brother; but I do not want to do so, — I spare you, most 
 of all, because it is more advantageous for me and for you 
 if you work for me, than if you are killed. And so, do 
 everything which I command you, for if you refuse I will 
 kill you." And the unarmed man submitted to him who 
 was armed, and did everything commanded by him. The 
 uuarmed man worked, the one in arms threatened. That 
 was that personal slavery which is the first to appear 
 among all the natious, and even now may be met with 
 among primitive nations. 
 
 This method of enslavement is the first to make its 
 appearance, but witli the greater complexity of life this 
 method is modified. In proportion as life becomes more 
 complicated, this method presents great inconveniences to 
 the oppressor. To exploit the labour of the feeble, the 
 oppressor is obhged to feed and clothe them, that is, to 
 maintain them in such a way that they may be able to 
 do work, and thus the number of the enslaved is lim- 
 ited ; besides, this method compels the oppressor all the 
 time to stand over the enslaved with the threat of kill- 
 ing them. And so a second method of enslavement 
 is worked out. 
 
 Five thousand years ago, as is noted down in the 
 Bible, this new, more convenient, and broader method 
 was worked out by Joseph the Fair. This method is 
 the same which in modern times is used for the taming 
 of unruly horses and wild beasts in menageries. This 
 method is starvation. 
 
 This is the way it is described in the Bible, in the 
 Book of Genesis, Chapter XLI. : 
 
 48. And he gathered up all the food of the seven years 
 which were in the land of Egypt, and laid up the food in 
 the cities : the food of the field which was round about 
 every city, laid he up in the same.
 
 134 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 49. And Joseph gathered corn as the sand of the sea, 
 very much, until he left numbering ; for it was without 
 number. 
 
 53. And the seven years of plenteousness that was in 
 the land of Egypt, were ended. 
 
 54. And the seven years of dearth began to come, 
 according as Joseph had said : and the dearth was in 
 all lands ; but in all the land of Egypt there was 
 bread. 
 
 55. And when all the land of Egypt was famished, 
 the people cried to Pharaoh for bread : and Pharaoh said 
 unto all the Egyptians, Go unto Joseph ; what he saith 
 to you, do. 
 
 56. And the famine was over all the face of the earth : 
 and Joseph opened all the store-houses, and sold unto 
 the Egyptians , and the famine waxed sore in the land 
 of Egypt. 
 
 57. And all countries came into Egypt to Joseph for 
 to buy corn ; because that the famine was so sore in all 
 lands. 
 
 Making use of the right of the primitive method of 
 enslaving people with the threat of the sword, Joseph 
 collected the corn in the good years, in expectation of 
 the bad years, which generally follow after the good, a 
 fact which all people know without Pharaoh's dreams, 
 and by this means — by hunger — he enslaved the 
 Egyptians and all the other inhabitants of the surround- 
 ing countries more powerfully and more conveniently for 
 Pharaoh. But when the people began to suffer from 
 hunger, he so arranged it that the people would for ever 
 be in his power, — through hunger. This is described in 
 Chapter XLVII. : 
 
 13. And there was no bread in all the land ; for the 
 famine was very sore, so that the land of Egypt, and all 
 the land of Canaan, fainted by reason of the famine. 
 
 14. And Joseph gathered up all the money that was
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 135 
 
 found in the land of Egypt, and in the land of Canaan, 
 for the corn which they bought : and Joseph brought the 
 money into Pharaoh's house. 
 
 15. And, when money failed in the land of Egypt, and 
 in the land of Canaan, all the Egyptians came unto 
 Joseph, and said. Give us bread : for why should we die 
 in thy presence ? for the money faileth. 
 
 16. And Joseph said. Give your cattle ; and I will give 
 you for your cattle, if money fail. 
 
 17. And they brought their cattle unto Joseph : and 
 Joseph gave them bread in exchange for horses, and for 
 the flocks, and for the cattle of the herds, and for the 
 asses ; and he fed them with bread, for all their cattle, 
 for that year. 
 
 18. When that year was ended, they came unto him the 
 second year, and said unto him, We will not hide it from 
 my lord, how that our money is spent ; my lord also liath 
 our herds of cattle : there is not aught left in the sight of 
 my lord, but our bodies and our lands : 
 
 19. Wherefore shall we die before thine eyes, both wc 
 and our land ? buy us and our land for bread, and we and 
 our land will be servants unto Pharaoh: and give us 
 seed, that we may live, and not die that the land be not 
 desolate. 
 
 20. And Joseph bought ail the land of Egypt for 
 Pharaoh ; for the Egyptians sold every man his field, 
 because the famine pre vail eo over them : so the land 
 became Pharaoh's. 
 
 21. And as for the people, he removed them to cities 
 from one end of the borders of Egypt even to the other 
 end thereof. 
 
 22. Only the land of the priests bought he not ; for the 
 priests had a portion assigned them of Pharaoh, and did 
 eat their portion which Pharaoh gave them ; wherefore 
 they sold not their lands. 
 
 23. Then Joseph said unto the people. Behold, I have
 
 136 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 bought you this day and your land for Pharaoh : lo, here 
 is seed for you, and ye shall sow the land. 
 
 24. And it shall come to pass in the increase, that ye 
 shall give the fifth part unto Pharaoh, and four parts sliall 
 be your own, for seed of the field, and for your food, and 
 for them of your households, and for food for your little 
 ones. 
 
 25. And they said. Thou hast saved our lives: let us 
 find grace in the sight of my lord, and we will be Pha- 
 raoh's servants. 
 
 26. And Joseph made it a law over the land of Egypt 
 unto this day, that Pharaoh should have the fifth part ; 
 except the land of the priests only, which became not 
 Pharaoh's. 
 
 Before this, Pharaoh, to exploit the labours of the 
 people, had to compel them by force to work for him ; 
 but now, since the provisions and the land are all in the 
 hands of Pharaoh, he needs only to watch them by force, 
 and may compel them by hunger to work for him. 
 
 The whole land is Pharaoh's, and the provisions (what 
 can be taken away) are always in his hands, and so, 
 instead of driving each one individually with the sword 
 to work, he needs only guard the provisions by force, and 
 the people are enslaved, not by the sword, but by hunger. 
 
 In a year of famine, all may by Pharaoh's will be 
 starved to death, and in a year of plenty those may be 
 starved who, from some accidental mishaps, have no 
 supply of corn. 
 
 And there establishes itself a second method of enslave- 
 ment, not directly by the sword, that is, by this, that the 
 one who is strong, threatening with death, drives the one 
 who is weak to work, but by this, that the strong man, 
 taking the provisions away and guarding them with the 
 sword, compels the weak man to surrender himself to 
 work for his food. 
 
 Joseph says to the hungry : " I can starve you to death,
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 137 
 
 because I have the corn ; but I spare you, if, for the bread 
 which I give you, you will do what I command." 
 
 For the first method of enslavement the one in power 
 needs only have warriors, who make their rounds among 
 the inhabitants and under the threat of death carry out the 
 demand of the powerful man. With the first method 
 the oppressor need divide only with his warriors. But 
 with the second method, the oppressor needs, in addition 
 to the warriors necessary to guard the stores of corn and 
 the land against the starving, another class of assistants, 
 — big and little Josephs, — managers and distributers 
 of corn. • And the oppressor has to divide up with them 
 and to give Joseph a vesture of fine linen, a gold ring, 
 and servants, and corn, and silver for his brothers and 
 relatives. Besides, in the very nature of things, the 
 accomplices in the violence of this second method are not 
 only the managers and their relatives, but also all those 
 who have supplies of corn. As in the first method, which 
 is based on rude force, every one who had arms became 
 a participant in the violence, so in this method, which 
 is based on hunger, every one who has supplies takes 
 part in the oppression and rules over those who have 
 none. 
 
 The advantage of this method over the first consists for 
 the oppressor in this: (1) above all else, that he is no 
 longer obliged to exert an effort in compelling the labour- 
 ers to do his will, but that the labourers come themselves 
 and sell themselves to him ; (2) that a smaller number of 
 men slip away from his oppression. The disadvantage 
 for the oppressor is only this, that in this method he has 
 to divide up with a larger number of men. The advan- 
 tage in this method for the oppressed is this, that they 
 are no longer subjected to rude violence, but are left to 
 themselves and may always hope to pass over from the 
 oppressed to the oppressor, which in reality they some- 
 times are able to do under favourable conditions ; but
 
 138 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 their disadvantage is this, that they can never slip away 
 from a certain amount of violence. 
 
 This new method of enslavement generally enters into 
 use with the old, and the powerful man reduces the one 
 and expands the other, as the need for it may arise. But 
 even this method of enslavement does not fully satisfy 
 the wishes of the powerful man, — to take away the great- 
 est possible amount of products of labour from the greatest 
 possible number of labourers, and to enslave the great- 
 est possible number of men, — and does not correspond to 
 the more complex conditions of life, and a new method of 
 enslavement is worked out. 
 
 The new, and third, method is the method of tribute. 
 This method, like the second, is based on hunger, but to 
 the means of enslaving men by depriving them of bread 
 is added also that of depriving them of the other necessi- 
 ties. The powerful man exacts from his slaves such an 
 amount of monetary tokens, which he himself possesses, 
 that, in order to obtain them, the slaves are obliged not 
 only to sell supplies of corn on a larger scale than that 
 fifth which Joseph determined, but also articles of prime 
 necessity, — meat, hides, wool, garments, fuel, buildings 
 even, and so the oppressor always keeps his slaves in sub- 
 jection, not only through hunger, but also through thirst, 
 and want, and cold, and all other kinds of privations. 
 
 And there establishes itself a third form of slavery, 
 that of money, which consists in this, that the powerful 
 man says to the weak : " I can do with each of you sepa- 
 rately what I please ; I can simply kill you with a gun, 
 or I can kill you by taking away your land which feeds 
 you, or I can, for the monetary tokens, which you must 
 furnish me, buy up all the corn on which you feed, and 
 sell it to strangers, and any moment starve you out ; I 
 can take away everything which you have, — your cattle, 
 your dwellings, your garments, — but that is not conve- 
 nient and agreeable for me, and so I leave it to you to
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 139 
 
 dispose of your labour and the products of your labour 
 as you please ; only give me so many monetary tokens, 
 which demand I distribute either by heads, or according 
 to the land on which you are settled, or according to 
 your food and drink, or your garments, or buildings. Let 
 me have these tokens, and arrange matters amoDg your- 
 selves as you please ; but know this much, that I will 
 not defend and protect the widows, nor the orphans, nor 
 the sick, nor the old, nor those v»ho have suffered from 
 tires ; I will defend only the regulaiity of the circulation 
 of these monetary tokens. Only he who gives me reg- 
 ularly, in accordance with my demand, the estabhshed 
 amount of monetary tokens, will be right in my eyes and 
 will receive my protection. It is a matter of indifference 
 to me how these monetary tokens are obtained." 
 
 And the powerful man issues these tokens, as receipts 
 for the fulfilment of his demands. 
 
 The second method of enslavement consists in this, 
 that, taking away the fifth part of the crops and laying 
 by stores of corn, Pharaoh, in addition to the personal 
 enslavement by means of the sword, receives, with his 
 assistants, the possibility of ruling all the workingmen in 
 time of famine and some of them in time of calamities 
 which befall them. The third method consists in this, 
 that Pharaoh demands of the labourers more than the 
 part of corn costs which he took from them, and re- 
 ceives, with his assistants, a new means for ruling the 
 labourers, not only in time of famine and accidental mis- 
 haps, but also at all times. 
 
 With the second method the people keep supplies of 
 corn, which help them, without surrendering themselves 
 to slavery, to bear small failures of crops and accidental 
 mishaps ; with the third method, when the exactions are 
 greater, the supplies of corn are all taken away, and so 
 are all the other supplies of articles of prime necessity, 
 and with the slightest mishap the labourer, who has no
 
 140 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 
 
 supplies of corn, nor any other supplies, which he might 
 be able to exchange for corn, is subjected to slavery by 
 those who have money. With the tirst method the op- 
 pressor needs only have warriors and divide with them ; 
 with the second method he has to have, in addition to 
 the guardians of the land and of the supplies of corn, col- 
 lectors and clerks for the distribution of the corn ; with 
 the third method he can no longer himself rule the land, 
 but in addition to the warriors to guard the land and the 
 wealth, he must also have owners of land and collectors 
 of tribute, distributers according to heads or to articles of 
 use, superintendents, customs servants, managers of money, 
 and operators with money. 
 
 The organization of the third method is much more 
 complicated than the second ; with the second method, 
 the collecting of the corn may be farmed out, as was done 
 in ancient times and is even now done in Turkey ; but in 
 burdening the slaves with taxes, a complicated adminis- 
 tration of men is needed, to watch after this, that the 
 men, or their acts which are taxable, shall not escape the 
 tribute. And so, with the third method, the oppressor 
 has to share with a still greater number of men than with 
 the second method ; besides, in the very nature of things, 
 all the men, either of the same or of a foreign country, 
 who have money, become the participants in this third 
 method. The advantages of this method for the op- 
 pressor over the first and the second methods are the 
 following : 
 
 In the first place, that by means of this method a 
 greater amount of work may be got out in a more con- 
 venient manner, for a money tax is like a screw, — it 
 may be easily and conveniently screwed in to its highest 
 limit, care being taken that the golden hen is not killad, 
 so that it is not even necessary to wait for a year of fam- 
 ine, as in the case of Joseph, because the year of famine 
 is made perpetual,
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN"? 141 
 
 In the second place, that with this method the violence 
 is now extended over all the people without land, who 
 formerly escaped and gave only part of their labour away, 
 but now are obhged, in addition to the part of their labour 
 which they u:sed to give for the corn, to give also part of 
 this labour as taxes to the oppressor. 
 
 The disadvantage for the oppressor consists in this, 
 that with this method he has to share with a greater 
 number of men, not only of his immediate assistants, but 
 also, in the first place, with all those private landowners 
 who generally make their appearance with this third 
 method ; in the second place, with all those men of his 
 owTi, and even of a foreign, nation, who have the monetary 
 tokens which are demanded of the slaves. 
 
 The advantage for the oppressed man, in comparison 
 with the second method, is this : he receives a still greater 
 personal independence from the oppressor ; he can live 
 where he pleases, do what he pleases, and sow grain, or 
 not ; he is not obliged to give an account of his work and, 
 having money, may consider himself quite free, and con- 
 stantly hope to obtain, and actually obtain, for a time at 
 least, if he has surplus money or land bought for it, not 
 only an independent condition, but also that of an op- 
 pressor. 
 
 The disadvantage to him is this, that in its totality the 
 condition of the oppressed, under this third method, be- 
 comes much harder, and they are deprived of the greater 
 part of the products of their labour, since with this third 
 method the number of men who exploit the labour of 
 others is still greater, and so the burden of supporting 
 them falls on a smaller number. 
 
 This third method of enslavement is also very old, and 
 enters into use with the other two, without completely 
 excluding them. All three methods of enslavement have 
 never ceased to exist. All three methods may be com- 
 pared with screws which hold down the plank that is
 
 142 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 laid over the labourers and is choking them. The chief, 
 fundamental, middle screw, without which the other 
 screws will not hold, which is the first to be screwed in 
 and is never relaxed, is the screw of personal slavery, of 
 the enslavement of one set of men by another by means 
 of the threat of execution by the sword ; the second screw, 
 which is screwed in after the first, is the enslavement of 
 people by means of depriving them of the land and of the 
 provisions of food, a seizure which is supported by the per- 
 sonal threat of execution ; and the third screw is the en- 
 slavement of people by means of a demand for monetary 
 tokens, which they do not have, again supported by the 
 threat of murder. All three screws are screwed in, and 
 only when one is tightened do the others weaken. For 
 the complete enslavement of the labourer all three screws 
 — all three kinds of enslavement — are needed, and in 
 our society all three methods of enslavement are con- 
 stantly in use, — all three screws are always screwed in. 
 
 The first method of the enslavement of men by means 
 of personal violence and the threat of execution by the 
 sword has never been abolished, and will not be abolished 
 so long as there exists any kind of an enslavement of one 
 set of men by another, because upon it every enslavement 
 is based. We are all very naively convinced that personal 
 slavery has been abolished in our civilized world, that 
 its last remnants have been destroyed in America and 
 in Russia, and that now barbarians alone have slavery, 
 while we do not have it. We all forget about a small 
 circumstance, about those hundreds of millions of a stand- 
 ing army, without which there does not exist a single 
 government, and with the abolition of which the whole 
 economic structure of any government will inevitably go 
 to pieces. What are these millions of soldiers, if not the 
 personal jlaves of those who rule over them ? Are not 
 these men compelled to do the whole will of their owners 
 under threat of torments and of death, — a threat which
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 143 
 
 is frequently carried out? The only difference is this, 
 that the subjection of these slaves is not called slavery, 
 but discipline, and that the others were slaves from their 
 birth to their death, while these are so only for the longer 
 or shorter time of their so-called service. 
 
 Personal slavery has not only not been abohshed in our 
 civilized societies, but with the universal military service 
 it has of late been strengthened, and it remains at present 
 such as it has always been, only a little changed. It 
 cannot help but be, for, so long as there is any enslave- 
 ment of one set of men by another, there will be this 
 personal slavery, which with the threat of the sword 
 supports the territorial and tax enslavement of men. It 
 may be that this slavery, that is the army, is very neces- 
 sary, as they say, for the defence and the glory of the 
 country, but this usefulness is more than doubtful, for we 
 see that in unsuccessful wars it frequently serves for 
 the enslavement and degradation of the country ; but what 
 is quite indubitable is the usefulness of this slavery for 
 the purpose of maintaining the territorial and tax enslave- 
 ment. Let the Irish or the Russian peasants get posses- 
 sion of the proprietors' lands, the armies will come and 
 take them back again. Let one build a distillery or 
 brewery and refuse to pay the revenue, and the soldiers 
 will come and stop the plant. Refuse to pay taxes, and 
 the same will happen. 
 
 The second screw is the method of enslaving people 
 by depriving them of their land, and so, of their food 
 supphes. This method of enslavement has also existed 
 and will always exist, wherever men are enslaved, and, 
 no matter how much it may be modilied, it exists every- 
 where. At times the whole land belongs to the king, as 
 is the case in Turkey, and one-tenth of the crop is collected 
 for the treasury ; at others only part of the laud, and a 
 tax is collected from it ; again, the whole land belongs to 
 a small number of men, and a share of the labour is
 
 144 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 exacted, as is the case in England ; or a greater or smaller 
 part belongs to large proprietors, as in Russia, Germany, 
 and France. But, wherever there is any enslavement, 
 there is also the appropriation of the land by means of 
 enslavement. 
 
 The screw of this enslavement of people is loosened oi 
 tightened in proportion as the other screws are screwed 
 down ; thus, in Eussia, w^hen the personal enslavement 
 was distributed over the majority of the labourers, the 
 territorial enslavement was superfluous ; but the screw of 
 the personal enslavement in Russia was loosened only 
 when the screws of the territorial and tax enslavement 
 were tightened. All were attached to communes, all 
 migration and transposition were discouraged, the land 
 was appropriated or given away to private persons, and 
 then the peasants were set free. In England, for example, 
 the territorial enslavement is most active, and the question 
 of the nationalization of the land consists merely in tighten- 
 ing the tax screw, in order to loosen the screw of the 
 territorial enslavement. 
 
 The third method of enslavement — by means of 
 tribute, of taxes — has similarly existed, and, in our 
 time, with the dissemination of uniform monetary tokens 
 in the different countries and the strengthening of the 
 governmental power, has only acquired a special force. 
 This method has been so worked out in our time that it 
 is striving to substitute itself for the second, the terri- 
 torial method of enslavement. It is the screw which, 
 when tightened down, weakens the territorial screw, as is 
 evident from the economic condition of the whole of 
 Europe. We have within our memory gone in Russia 
 through two passages of slavery from one form into 
 another : w^hen the serfs were emancipated and the pro- 
 prietors were left with the right to the greater part of 
 the land, the proprietors were afraid that their power over 
 their peasants was escaping from them; but experience
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 145 
 
 showed that they needed only to let out of their hands 
 the old scourge of the personal slavery and take up 
 another, the territorial scourge. The peasant had no corn 
 to feed on, and the proprietor had the land and the 
 supply of corn, and so the peasant was left the same 
 slave he had been. 
 
 The second passage was when the government with its 
 taxes screwed down very tightly the other screw, that of 
 the taxes, and the majority of the labourers were com- 
 pelled to sell themselves into slavery to the landed pro- 
 prietors and into the factories. And thus a new form of 
 slavery took possession of the people even more thor- 
 oughly, so that nine-tenths of the working classes work 
 for the proprietors and in the factories, only because they 
 are compelled to do so by the demand for state and land 
 taxes. This is so obvious that, let the government just 
 try not collecting any direct, indirect, and land taxes for 
 the period of one year, and all the works in other people's 
 fields and in the factories will come to a standstill. Nine- 
 tenths of the Russian people hire out during the time 
 that the taxes are levied, and for the purpose of paying 
 the taxes. 
 
 All three methods of the enslavement of people have 
 never ceased to exist, and exist now ; but people are 
 prone not to notice them, the moment new justifications 
 are found for these methods. And what is strange is 
 that this very method, on which at the present time 
 everything is based, — this screw which holds everything 
 together, — is not noticed. 
 
 When in the ancient world the whole economic struc- 
 ture was based on personal slavery, the greatest minds 
 could not see that it was it. It seemed to Xenophon, and 
 to Plato, and to Aristotle, and to the Romans that it 
 could not be otherwise, and that slavery was the inevi- 
 table outcome of wai-s, without which humanity was 
 unthinkable. Even so in the Middle Ages and down to
 
 146 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 our own time men did not see the significance of terri- 
 torial possession and the consequent slavery, on which 
 the whole economic structure of the Middle Ages was 
 based. Even so no one sees now, nor wants to see, that 
 in our time the enslavement of the majority of people is 
 based on the monetary state and land taxes, which are 
 collected by the governments from their subjects, — taxes 
 which are collected by means of the administration and 
 the army, which are maintained by the taxes.
 
 XXI. 
 
 It is not surprising that the slaves themselves, who 
 since antiquity have been subjected to slavery, are not 
 conscious of their condition and consider that condition 
 of slavery in which they have always lived as a natural 
 condition of human life, and see an alleviation in the 
 change of the form of slavery. Nor is it surprising that 
 the slave-owners sometimes sincerely mean to free the 
 slaves, — to loosen one screw, when the other is abeady 
 tightened. Both are accustomed to their condition, and 
 the first, the slaves, who do not know what liberty is, 
 seek only alleviation or at least a change of the form 
 of slavery ; the others, the slave-owners, who wish to con- 
 ceal their injustice, try to ascribe a special significance to 
 those new forms of slavery which they impose on the 
 people in the place of the old. 
 
 But what is remarkable is how science, the so-called 
 free science, can, in investigating the economic conditions 
 of the people's life, help seeing what forms the basis of 
 all the economic conditions of the people ? One would 
 think that it is the business of science to discover the 
 connection between phenomena, and the common cause 
 of a series of phenomena. Political economy does pre- 
 cisely the opposite : it carefully conceals the connection of 
 the phenomena and their significance, and carefully avoids 
 all answers to the simplest and most essential questions ; 
 it is like a lazy, restive horse, which goes well only down- 
 hill, when there is nothing to pull ; but the moment it is 
 necessary to pull, it prances toward one side, pretending 
 that it has to go somewhere to one side, to attend to its 
 
 M7
 
 148 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 own business. The moment a serious, essential question 
 presents itself to science, there at once begin scientific 
 discussions about subjects which have nothing to do with 
 the question and which have but one purpose, — to draw 
 the attention away from the question. 
 
 You ask what the cause is of that unnatural, monstrous, 
 irrational, and not only useless, but even harmful, phe- 
 nomenon that certain men can neither eat nor work 
 except by the will of other men. And science answers 
 with a most serious look : Because certain people attend 
 to the work and nourishment of others, — such being the 
 law of production. 
 
 You ask what the right of property is, on the basis of 
 which one set of men appropriate to themselves the land, 
 the food, and the tools of labour of others. Science 
 answers with a most serious look : This right is based on 
 the defence of one's labour, that is, that the defence of 
 labour by one set of men is expressed by the seizure 
 of the labour of other men. 
 
 You ask what that money is which is coined and 
 printed everywhere by the government, that is, by the 
 power, and which is in such enormous quantities exacted 
 from the labourers, and which in the form of state debts 
 is imposed on future generations of labourers. You ask 
 whether this money, carried to the farthest limits of pos- 
 sible exaction, in these proportions has not an effect on 
 the economic relations of the people who are paying to 
 the receivers. And science with a most serious look tells 
 you : Money is a commodity, like sugar and chintz, which 
 differs from these only in that it is more convenient for 
 exchange ; but the taxes have no effect at all upon the 
 economic conditions of the people : the laws of produc- 
 tion, of exchange, of the distribution of wealth are one 
 thing, and the taxes are another. 
 
 You ask whether the economic conditions are not 
 influenced by this, that the government of its own will
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 149 
 
 may raise or lower prices, and may, by raising the taxes, 
 enslave all those who have land. Science with a most 
 serious look answers : Not at all ! The laws of production, 
 exchange, distribution, are one science, and taxes and the 
 management of the state in general are another science, — 
 the law of finance. 
 
 You ask, finally, about the whole nation's being en- 
 slaved by the government, about the government being 
 able of its own will to ruin all men, to take away from 
 them all the products of their labour, and even to tear the 
 men away from labour, by putting them into mihtary 
 slavery ; you ask whether this circumstance has any effect 
 upon the economic conditions. To this, science does not 
 even trouble itself to reply : this is an entirely different 
 science, — that of civil government. 
 
 Science most seriously analyzes the laws of the eco- 
 nomic life of the nation, whose every function and activ- 
 ity depends on the will of the enslaver, and recognizes 
 this influence of the enslaver as a natural condition of the 
 nation's life ; science does the same tliat the investigator 
 of the economic condition of the life of personal serfs 
 belomjins; to various masters would do, if he did not take 
 into consideration the influence upon the lives of the slaves 
 which is exerted by the will of the master, who by his 
 arbitrary will compels them to do this or that work, 
 according to his will drives them from one spot to another, 
 and according to his will feeds them, or does not feed 
 them, kills them, or lets them live. 
 
 One is inclined to think that science does so out of 
 stupidity ; but it is enough to grasp and analyze the prop- 
 ositions of science in order to become convinced that it is 
 not due to stupidity, but to great ingenuity. 
 
 This science has a very definite aim, which it attains. 
 This aim is to keep people in superstition and deception, 
 and thus to prevent humanity from moving toward the 
 truth and the good. There has long existed a terriljle
 
 150 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 superstition which has done almost more harm to people 
 than the most terrible superstitions. And it is this super- 
 stition which the so-called science sustains with all its 
 might and main. 
 
 This superstition is very much like religious supersti- 
 tions : it consists in the assertion that, in addition to the 
 obhgations which man has to man, there exist still more 
 important obligations to an imaginary being. For theology 
 this imaginary being is God, and for political sciences it is 
 the state. The rehgious superstition consists in this, 
 that the sacrifices, sometimes of human lives, which are 
 brought to the imaginary being, are necessary, and men 
 can and must be Ijrought to them by all means, not even 
 excluding violence. The pohtical superstition consists in 
 this, that, in addition to the obhgations of man to man, 
 there exist more important obligations to the imaginary 
 being, and the sacrifices, very frequently of human lives, 
 which are brought to the imaginary being, the state, are 
 also necessary, and men can and must be brought to them 
 by all means, not excluding violence. This superstition, 
 which formerly was sustained by priests of various relig- 
 ions, is now sustained by the so-called science. Men are 
 thrust into a more terrible and a worse slavery than any 
 other ; but science tries to assure people that this is 
 necessary and cannot be otherwise. 
 
 The state must exist for the good of the people and 
 must do its business, — rule the people and defend them 
 from the enemy. For this the state needs money and an 
 army. The money is to be supplied by all the citizens of 
 the state, and so all the relations of men must be viewed 
 under the necessary conditions of political existence. 
 
 " I want to help my father in his farm work," says a 
 simple, untutored man, " I want to marry, and they take 
 me and send me for six years to Kazan to be a sol- 
 dier. I leave the army, want to plough the land and 
 support my family, but for a hundred versts about me 1
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 151 
 
 am not permitted to plough, unless I pay money, which 
 I do not have, to those people who do not know how to 
 plough and demand so much money for it that I am com- 
 pelled to give them all my labour. I manage to earn 
 something and want to give my surplus to my children ; 
 but the rural officer comes to me and takes away my 
 surplus in the shape of taxes ; again I earn some, and every- 
 thing is taken from me. My whole economic activity, 
 all of it, without any residue, is dependent on the demands 
 of the state, and it appears to me that the improvement 
 of my condition and of that of my brothers must come 
 from our liberation from the demands of the state." 
 
 But science says : Your judgments are due to your 
 ignorance. Learn tlie laws of production, exchange, and 
 distribution of wealth, and do not mix up economic ques- 
 tions with questions of state. The phenomena to which 
 you point are not restrictions of your freedom, but those 
 necessary sacrifices, which, together with others, you 
 bring for your freedom and your good. 
 
 " But they have taken my sou from me and promise to 
 take all my other sons as soon as I see them grow up," 
 again says the simple man. " They take them forcibly 
 from me and drive them under bullets into another coun- 
 try, of which we have never heard, and for purposes which 
 we cannot understand. But the land, which we are not 
 permitted to plough and the lack of which causes us to 
 starve, is owned by a man whom we have never seen and 
 whose usefulness we are not able even to comprehend. 
 But the taxes, to satisfy which the officer took the cow 
 away from my children, by force, for all I know will go 
 back to this officer who took the cow away from me, and 
 to various members of commissions and ministries, whom 
 I do not even know, and in whose usefulness I do not 
 believe. How, then, can all these violences secure my 
 liberty, and how can all this evil do me any good ? " 
 
 It is possible to make a man be a slave, and do what
 
 152 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 he considers to be evil, but it is impossible to make him 
 think that, while suffering violence, he is free, and that 
 the obvious evil which he is suffering is for his good. 
 That seems impossible; but that is precisely what has 
 been done in our day with the help of science. 
 
 The government, that is, armed people doing violence, 
 decides what it needs from those to whom it offers 
 violence ; Hke the English in respect to the Fijiaus, it 
 decides how many assistants it needs for the collecting of 
 this labour, organizes its assistants in the form of soldiers, 
 in the form of landed proprietors, and in the form of col- 
 lectors of taxes. And the slaves give up their labour 
 and at the same time believe that they give it up, not 
 because their masters want it, but because for their free- 
 dom and their good they must serve and bring bloody 
 sacrifices to the divinity called " the state," but that, out- 
 side of this divinity, they are free. They believe this, 
 because formerly religion and the priests talked that way, 
 and because science and the learned say so. But we need 
 only stop believing blindly in what other people, calhng 
 themselves priests and learned men, say, in order that 
 the insipidity of such an assertion may become evident. 
 People who do violence to others say that this violence is 
 necessary for the government, and that the government 
 is necessary for the freedom and for the good of the 
 people : it turns out that oppressors oppress the people 
 for the sake of their freedom, and do them evil for their 
 good. But people are rational beings that they may un- 
 derstand in what their good lies, and that they may be 
 free to do it. 
 
 But the deeds, the goodness of which is incomprehen- 
 sible to people, and to which they are urged on by force, 
 cannot be good for them, for a rational being can regard 
 as good only that which presents itself as such to his 
 mind. If people from passion or ignorance are drawn 
 toward the evil, all that people can do, who do not act
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 153 
 
 thus, is to persuade men to do what constitutes their real 
 good. It is possible to persuade people that their good 
 will be greater if they all become soldiers, be deprived of 
 land, give up all their labour for taxes ; but, so long as 
 people will not consider this as their good, and will not 
 do it voluntarily, this matter cannot be called the general 
 good of men. The only sign of the goodness of a deed is 
 that all people do it of their own free will, and of such 
 deeds the lives of men are full. 
 
 Ten labourers provide themselves with cooper's tools in 
 order to work together, and, in doing this work, they un- 
 questionably do a common good to themselves ; but it is 
 absolutely impossible to imagine that the labourers, com- 
 pelling an eleventh man by force to take part in their 
 association, could assert that their common good will also 
 be a good for the eleventh man. 
 
 The same is true of gentlemen who give a dinner to a 
 friend of theirs : it is just as little possible to assert that 
 the dinner will be a good thing for him from whom they 
 will take ten roubles by force. The same is true of 
 peasants who decide to dig a pond for their convenience. 
 For those who will regard the existence of this pond as a 
 greater good than the labour expended upon it, the dig- 
 ging of it will be a common good ; but for him who con- 
 siders the existence of this pond a lesser good than the 
 harvesting of the field, to which he has come too late, 
 the digging of this pond can be no good. The same is 
 true of roads which people lay out, and of churches, and 
 museums, and of the greatest variety of social and political 
 matters. All these matters can be a good only for those 
 who regard them as such and so do them freely and will- 
 ingly as in the case of the purchase of the tools for the 
 association, the dinner given by the gentlemen, the pond 
 which the peasants dig. But all works to which people 
 have to be driven by force are, in consequence of this 
 violence, no longer common, nor good.
 
 154 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 All this is so clear and so simple that, if people had not 
 been deceived for so long a time, it would not be neces- 
 sary to explain anything. Let us suppose that we are 
 living in the country and that we, all the villagers, have 
 decided to build a bridge across a swamp into which we 
 sink. We have agreed or promised to give from each 
 farm so much money, or timber, or so many days. We 
 have agreed to do so, only because the building of this 
 bridge is of greater importance to us than the expense 
 which we incur upon it. But among us there are some 
 people for whom it is more convenient not to have a 
 bridge than to spend money upon it, or who at least 
 think that this is more advantageous for them. Can the 
 compulsion of these men to build the bridge make it an 
 advantage for them ? Evidently not, because these men, 
 who regarded their free participation in the building of 
 the bridge as unprofitable, will regard it as even more 
 unprofitable, when it becomes compulsory. 
 
 Let us even suppose that we, all of us without excep- 
 tion, have agreed to build this bridge and have promised 
 so much money or labour from each farm ; but it so 
 happens that a few of those who promised a share have 
 not furnished it, because their circumstances have changed, 
 causing them to find it more advantageous to be without 
 the bridge than spend money on it ; or they have simply 
 changed their mind ; or they simply calculate that the 
 others will build the bridge without their contributions, 
 so that they also will be able to drive over it : can com- 
 pelling these people to take part in the building of the 
 bridge make these compulsory sacrifices a benefit to them ? 
 Evidently not, because, if these men have not carried out 
 what they promised, on account of circumstances which 
 have changed, so that the contributions for the bridge 
 have become harder for them than the absence of the 
 bridge, their compulsory contributions will only be a 
 greater evil to them. But if those who refuse have a
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 155 
 
 mind to make use of the labours of others, their compul- 
 sion to contribute will ouly be a punishment for their 
 iatention, and their intention, completely unexpressed, 
 will be punished before it is carried into effect ; in neither 
 case can their compulsion to take part in an undesirable 
 work be a good for them. 
 
 Thus it will be when the contributions are received for 
 a work that is compreheusible, obvious, and unquestion- 
 ably useful for them, like the bridge over the swamp, 
 through which all travel. How much more unjust and 
 senseless will be the compulsion exerted on millions of 
 people to make sacrifices, the aim of which is incom- 
 prehensible, intangible, and frequently unquestionably 
 harmful, as is the case with mihtary service and with 
 the taxes. But according to science it turns out that 
 what to all appears as an evil is a common good ; it turns 
 out that there are people, a tiny minority of men, who 
 alone know wherein the common good lies, and, although 
 all other men consider this common good to be evil, this 
 minority, compelling all other men to do this evil, is able 
 to consider this evil to be a common good. 
 
 In this consists the chief superstition and the chief 
 deception, which retards the motion of humanity toward 
 truth and the good. The maintenance of this superstition 
 and this deception forms the aim of the political sciences 
 in general and of the so-called political economy in par- 
 ticular. Its aim is to conceal from people that condition 
 of subjection and of slavery in which they are. The means 
 which it employs for this purpose consist in this, that, in 
 analyzing the violence which conditions the whole economic 
 life of the enslaved, it intentionally recognizes this violence 
 as natural and inevitable, and thus deceives people and 
 veils their eyes from the real cause of their wretchedness. 
 
 Slavery has long been abolished. It was abolished in 
 Rome, and in America, and in our country, but what has 
 been abolished is words, and not facts.
 
 156 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 Slavery is the liberation of self from labour (necessary 
 for the gi-atification of one's needs), which by means of 
 violence is transferred to others ; and where there is a 
 man who does not work, not because other people work 
 for him for love's sake, but because he is able not to 
 work himself, but to compel others to work for him, there 
 is slavery. But where there are people, as in all European 
 societies, who by means of violence exploit the labours of 
 thousands of men, and who regard this as their privilege, 
 and other people, who submit to the violence and recog- 
 nize it as their obligation, there slavery exists in terrible 
 proportions. 
 
 Slavery exists. In what does it consist ? In that in 
 which it has always consisted, and without which it can 
 never exist : in the violence of the strong and armed 
 exerted over the weak and the unarmed. 
 
 Slavery with its three fundamental methods of personal 
 violence, — of militarism, taxation of land, supported by 
 the militarism, and the tribute which is imposed on all 
 the inhabitants by means of direct and indirect taxes, and 
 which is supported by the same militarism, — exists to- 
 day as it has always existed. The only reason why we 
 do not see it is this, that each of the three forms of 
 slavery has received a new justification, which shields 
 from us its meaning. The personal violence of the armed 
 done to the unarmed has received the justification of a 
 defence of the country against its imaginary enemies ; in 
 reality it has the old meaning, namely, that of the subjec- 
 tion of the vanquished by the oppressor. The violence 
 exerted in taking the land from those who work upon 
 it has received the justification of a reward for deserts 
 respecting the imaginary common good and is confirmed 
 by the right of inheritance ; in reality it is the same 
 despoliation of the land and enslavement of the people 
 which was produced by the army (the power). The last, 
 the monetary violence, the violence of taxation, — the
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 157 
 
 most powerful and most important in modern times, — 
 has received the most remarkable justification, namely, 
 this : people are deprived of their property and freedom, 
 and of their whole good in the name of freedom, of the 
 common good. In reahty it is nothing but the same 
 slavery, except that it is impersonal. 
 
 Where violence is exalted into a law, there slavery also 
 will exist. Whether the violence is expressed in this 
 way, that the princes make incursions with their retinues, 
 killing women and children, and giving the villages to 
 fire ; or whether the slave-owners exact work or money 
 from the slaves for the land, and, in case of arrears, call 
 in the aid of armed men ; or whether certain people put 
 others under tribute, travelling armed from village to 
 village ; or whether the ministry of the interior collects 
 money through governors and rural officers, and, in case 
 of refusal to pay, sends out companies of soldiers, — in 
 short, so long as there is violence, supported by bayonets, 
 there will be no distribution of wealth among people, but 
 the whole wealth will go to the oppressors. 
 
 George's project of the nationalization of the land 
 serves as a striking illustration of the truth of this propo- 
 sition. George proposes that all the land be regarded as 
 the property of the state, and so all imposts, whether 
 direct or indirect, are to be replaced by a ground rent, 
 that is, that every man who makes use of the land shall 
 pay to the state the value of its rent. 
 
 What would happen ? Land slavery would be des- 
 troyed within the limits of the state, that is, the land 
 would belong to the state : England would have its land, 
 America its own, and so forth, — that is, there would be 
 a slavery which would be determined by the amount 
 of land under exploitation. 
 
 Maybe the condition of some of the labourers (on the 
 land) would improve; but so long as there was left a 
 violent levy of taxes for the rent, slavery would be left.
 
 158 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 The agriculturist, who after a failure of crops would be 
 unable to pay the rent, which is exacted of him by force, 
 would be compelled, in order not to lose everything, to 
 sell himself to the man who had the money. 
 
 If a bucket is leaky, there is certaiuly a hole in it. As 
 we look at the bottom of the bucket, it may appear to us 
 that the water is leaking out of several holes ; but, no 
 matter how much we may stop up these imaginary holes, 
 the water will continue to flow. In order to stop the 
 flow, it is necessary to find the place where the water 
 escapes from the bucket and stop it from the inside. The 
 same has to be done with the proposed measures for 
 stopping the irregular distribution of wealth, in order to 
 stop the hole through which the wealth of the people 
 leaks out. They say : " Form labour unions ; turn the 
 capital into public property ; turn the land into public 
 property ! " All this is nothing but an external stoppage 
 of the places through which the water seems to leak. In 
 order to stop the leakage of the working men's wealth, 
 which passes into the hands of the leisure class, it is 
 necessary to find the inside hole through which this 
 leakage takes place. 
 
 This hole is the violence exerted by an armed man 
 over one who is not armed ; it is the violence of the 
 army, which takes the men away from their labour, or 
 which despoils them of the land and of the products of 
 their labour. So long as there shall exist a single armed 
 man who arrogates to himself the right to kill another, 
 there will exist the irregular distribution of wealth, that 
 is, slavery. 
 
 Wliat led me into the error that I could help others was 
 that I imagined that my money was the same kind of 
 money as Semen's. But that was not true. 
 
 There exists a common opinion that money represents 
 wealth ; but money is the product of labour, and so money
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 159 
 
 represents labour. This opinion is as correct as that other 
 opinion that every political organization is the result of a 
 pact (contrat social). 
 
 All want to believe that money is only a medium of 
 the exchange of labour. I have made some boots, you 
 have raised some graiu, he has fattened some sheep ; in 
 order to be able more conveniently to exchange our arti- 
 cles, we introduce money, which represents a correspond- 
 ing share of labour, and by means of it we exchange some 
 soles for a brisket of mutton and ten pounds of flour. We 
 exchange our products through the medium of the money, 
 and the money of each of us represents our individual 
 labour. That is quite true, but only so long as in society, 
 where this exchange takes place, there has not appeared 
 the violence of one man over another, not only violence 
 to another man's labour, as is the case in war and slavery, 
 but also violence in the defence of one's labour against 
 others. It will be true only in a society whose members 
 fully execute the Christian law, in a society where he 
 who asks receives what he asks for, and where they do 
 not ask the aggressor to give back what he has taken. 
 But as soon as any violence is exerted in society, the 
 money at once loses for the owner its significance as a 
 representative of labour, and assumes the meaning of 
 a right which is not based on labour, but on violence. 
 
 The moment there is war, and one man takes anything 
 away from another, the money can no longer be a repre- 
 sentative of labour ; the money which the warrior gets for 
 the booty which he sells, and which the chief of the 
 warrior gets, is by no means a product of their labour, 
 and has an, entirely different meaning than the money 
 received for work put into making boots. So long as 
 there are slave-owners and slaves, as has always been the 
 case in the whole world, it is just as impossible to say 
 that money represents labour. The women have woven 
 some hnen, and this they sell, and they receive money
 
 160 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 for it ; the serfs have woven for the master, and the 
 master sells the linen, and receives money for it. Either 
 money is the same ; but the first is the product of labour, 
 the second is the product of violence. In the same way 
 a stranger or my father has made me a present of money, 
 and my father, giving it to me, knew, and I, too, know, 
 and everybody else knows, that nobody can take this 
 money away from me ; that if any one should try to take 
 it from me, or even not to return it to me by a set time, 
 at which he promised to return it to me, the authorities 
 would take my part and compel him by force to return 
 the money to me. And so it is again obvious that this 
 money can in no way be called a representative of labour 
 on a par with the money which Sem^n received for saw- 
 ing wood. Thus in a society in which there is the least 
 violence which takes possession of other people's money, 
 or which defends the possession of money from others, 
 the money cannot always be a representative of labour. 
 In such a society it is sometimes a representative of 
 labour, and sometimes of violence. 
 
 Thus it would be if there appeared even one case of 
 violence exerted hy one man over others among absolutely 
 free relations ; but now, when for the accumulation of 
 money there have passed centuries of the most varied forms 
 of violence ; when this violence merely changes forms and 
 does not cease ; when, as is acknowledged by everybody, 
 the money itself in its accumulation forms violence ; when 
 money, as the product of direct labour, forms but a small 
 part of the money formed from every description of 
 violence, — now to say that money represents the labour 
 of him who possesses it is an obvious delusion or a con- 
 scious lie. We may say that it ought to be so, or that it 
 is desirable that it should be so, but by no means that 
 it is so. 
 
 Money represents labour. Yes. Money represents 
 labour ; but whose ? In our society money is only in the
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 161 
 
 very rarest cases a representative of the labour of the 
 owner of the money, and is nearly always a representative 
 of the labour of other people, past or future. It is a rep- 
 resentative of other people's obligations to do work, as 
 established through violence. 
 
 In its most precise and, at the same time, most simple 
 definition, money is a conventional token which gives the 
 right, or, more correctly, the possibility, to exploit the 
 labour of other people. In its ideal significance, money 
 ought to give this right or possibility only when it itself 
 serves as a representative of labour, and money could be 
 that in a society where there is no violence. But the 
 moment there is any violence in society, that is, the pos- 
 sibility of exploiting another man's labour without one's 
 own work, this possibility of exploiting another man's 
 labour, without the determination of the person over 
 whom this violence is exerted, is also expressed by 
 money. 
 
 A proprietor imposes upon his serfs certain obligations 
 in kind, a certain number of bolts of Hnen, corn, cattle, 
 or a corresponding sum of money. One farm furnishes 
 cattle, but pays money in lieu of the liuen. The propri- 
 etor takes a certain sum of money only because he knows 
 that for this nioney they will make just as many bolts of 
 linen for him (as a rule he will take a little more so as to 
 be sure that they will always produce the exact amount) 
 and to the proprietor this money obviously represents the 
 obligation of other people to do work. 
 
 The peasant gives the money as a claim against some 
 unknown person, and there are many persons who will 
 be willing for the money to produce so and so many bolts 
 of linen. The reason that the people will undertake to 
 produce the Hnen is this, that they have not had time 
 to fatten their sheep, and they have to pay money for the 
 sheep, and the peasant who wiU take the money for 
 the sheep will take it because he has to pay for the corn
 
 162 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 which did not grow well this year. The same thing 
 takes place in the state, in the whole world. 
 
 A man sells the product of his present, past, or future 
 labour, sometimes his food, as a rule not because the 
 money is for him a convenience of exchange, — he would 
 gladly exchange without money, — but because they 
 exact the money from him by force, as a claim to his 
 own labour. 
 
 When the King of Egypt demanded labour from his 
 slaves, the slaves gave it all, but they gave only their 
 past and their present labour, — they could not give their 
 future labour. But with the dissemination of monetary 
 tokeus and the consequent credit, it became possible to 
 give up money for future labours. With the existence 
 of violence in society, money represents only the possi- 
 bility of a new form of an impersonal slavery, which 
 takes the place of the personal slavery. A slave-owner 
 has the right to Peter's, Ivan's, Sidor's labour. But the 
 owner of money, where money is demanded of all, has 
 the right to the labour of all those nameless men who 
 are in need of money. Money does away with all that 
 hard side of slavery, when the owner knows his right 
 to Ivan ; at the same time it does away with all the 
 human relations between the owner and the slave, which 
 softened the hardness of personal slavery. 
 
 I do not say that such a condition is, perhaps, neces- 
 sary for the evolution of humanity, for progress, and so 
 forth. I have only tried to make clear to myself the 
 concept of money and of that common error into which I 
 had fallen when I regarded money as the representative 
 of labour. I convinced myself by experience that money 
 is not the representative of labour, but in the majority of 
 cases a representative of violence, or of especially com- 
 plex devices based on violence. 
 
 Money has in our time completely lost that desirable 
 significance as a representative of labour ; such a signifi-
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 163 
 
 cance it has only exceptionally, for as a general rule it 
 has become a right or a possibility for exploiting the 
 labour of others. 
 
 The dissemination of money, of credit, and of all kinds 
 of monetary tokens more and more confirms this mean- 
 ing of money. Money is the possibility or the right to 
 exploit the labours of others. Money is a new form of 
 slavery, which differs from the old only in being imper- 
 sonal, and in freeing people from all the human relations 
 of the slave. 
 
 Money is money, a value which is always equal to 
 itself, which is always considered absolutely regular and 
 legal, and the use of which is not considered immoral, as 
 the use of the right of slavery was considered to be. 
 
 In my youth it became fashionable in clubs to play 
 lotto. Everybody rushed to play it, and, as they said, 
 many persons were ruined, families were made unfortu- 
 nate, other people's Crown money was gambled away, 
 and men shot themselves, and the game was prohibited 
 and is prohibited until this day. 
 
 I used to see, I remember, unsentimental old gamblers, 
 who would tell me that this game was particularly agree- 
 able in that a person did not see whom in particular he 
 was beating, as is the case in other games ; the lackey 
 did not even bring money, but only chips, and each 
 person lost but a small stake, and his grief could not be 
 observed. The same is true of roulette, which is every- 
 where prohibited for good reasons. 
 
 The same is true of money. I have a magic never- 
 failing rouble ; I cut off the coupons and am removed 
 from all the affairs of the world. Whom am I harming ? 
 I am a most innocuous and kindly man. But this is 
 only playing lotto or roulette, where I do not see the 
 man who shoots himself on account of his losses, while 
 it furnishes me those little coupons which I regularly 
 cut off at a right angle from the bonds.
 
 164 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 I have done uothiug and will do nothing but cut off 
 those little coupons, and I believe firmly that money is 
 a representative of labour. How strange ! And they 
 talk of insane persons ! What madness can be more 
 terrible than this ? A clever and learned man, who in 
 all other things is sensible, lives senselessly and eases his 
 conscience by not enunciating the one word which it is 
 necessary to say that there may be a meaning to his 
 reflection, aud considers himself righteous. The little 
 coupons are representatives of labour ! Of labour ! Yes, 
 but whose labour ? Obviously not his who owns it, but 
 his who works. 
 
 Money is the same as slavery ; it has the same aims 
 and the same consequences. Its aim is the liberation of 
 self from the original law, as a profound writer from the 
 masses has correctly said, — from the natural law of life, 
 as we call it, from the law of personal labour for the 
 gratification of one's wants. The consequences of money 
 are the same as those of slavery were for the owner : the 
 breeding aud invention of new and endlessly new wants, 
 which can never be satisfied, pampered wretchedness, 
 debauch ; and for the slaves : the oppression of man, his 
 reduction to the level of an animal. 
 
 Money is a new and terrible form of slavery, and, like 
 the old form of personal slavery, it corrupts both the 
 slave and the slave-owner, but it is even much worse 
 because it frees the slave and the slave-owner from per- 
 sonal human relations.
 
 XXII. 
 
 I HAVE always to marvel at the words frequently re- 
 peated : " Yes, that is so in theory, but how is it in prac- 
 tice ? " Just as though theory were a series of fine words 
 which are needed for conversation, but not that practice, 
 that is, all activity, should inevitably be based upon it. 
 There must have existed a terriljle lot of stupid theories 
 in the world, if such a remarkable reflection has passed 
 into use. Theory is what a man thinks about a subject, 
 and practice is what he does. How, then, can a man 
 think that it is necessary to do something in a certain 
 way, and do the opposite ? If the theory of bread-baking 
 is this, that the dough has first to be made and then be 
 left to rise, then, outside of crazy men, no one who knows 
 the theory will do the opposite. But it has become a 
 fashion with us to say that this is a theory, and how is it 
 in practice ? 
 
 In the subject which interests me there has been con- 
 firmed what I have always thought, that the practice 
 inevitably follows from the theory : not that it justifies it, 
 but that it cannot be anything else ; that, if I have come 
 to understand the matter of which I have been thinking, 
 I cannot do it otherwise than in the manner in which I 
 understand it. 
 
 I wanted to help the poor only because I had money 
 and because I shared the general confidence that money 
 was a representative of labour, or in general something 
 lawful and good. But, when I began to give the money, 
 I saw that what I was giving was the notes against the 
 poor which I had collected, and that I was doing what 
 
 165
 
 166 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 many proprietors used to do when they compelled certain 
 serfs to serve others. I saw that every use of money — 
 whether it be the purchase of something, or the transmis- 
 sion of the money to another for nothing — was the 
 sending to protest of a note against the poor, or the trans- 
 ference of the same to another person for the purpose of 
 sending it to protest against the poor. And so I clearly 
 saw the insipidity which I was trying to commit, — to 
 help the poor by exacting from the poor. I saw that 
 money in itself not only failed to be good, but was also 
 an obvious evil which deprived people of their chief good, 
 of labour, and of the use of this, their own labour, and 
 that I was unable to transmit this good to any one, 
 because I was myself deprived of it : I have no labour and 
 am not so fortunate as to make use of my own labour. 
 
 One would think that there was nothing peculiar in 
 this reflection as to what money is. But this reflection, 
 which I made not for the mere sake of reflecting, but in 
 order to solve the question of my life, my suffering, was 
 for me an answer to the question as to what should be 
 done. 
 
 The moment I understood what wealth was, what 
 money was, it not only became clear to me what I had 
 to do, but it also became clear and indubitable to me 
 what all others ouglit to do, and that they inevitably 
 would do it. In reality I understood nothing but what 
 I had known long ago, — the truth which had been trans- 
 mitted to men since the most remote times by Buddha, 
 and Isaiah, and Lao-tse, and Socrates, and was particu- 
 larly clearly and indubitably transmitted to us by Jesus 
 Christ and his predecessor, John the Baptist. In reply to 
 men's questions as to what they should do, he answered 
 simply, briefly, and clearly, He that hath two coats, let 
 him impart to him that hath none ; and he that hath meat, 
 let him do likewise (Luke iii. 10, 11). 
 
 The same, with greater clearness and frequently, was
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 167 
 
 said by Christ. He said, Blessed are the poor, and woe 
 to the rich. He said that one could not serve God and 
 Mammon. He forbade his disciples to take, not only- 
 money, but even two coats. He said to the rich young 
 man that he could not enter into the Idngdom of God 
 because he was rich, aud that it was easier for a camel to 
 pass through tlie eye of a needle than for a rich man 
 to enter into the kingdom of God. He said that he who 
 would not leave everything, his house, and children, and 
 fields, in order to follow him, was not his disciple. He 
 spoke a parable about the rich man who did no wrong, 
 like our own rich, but dressed himself w^ell and ate and 
 drank good food, and who thus lost his soul, and about 
 poor Lazarus, who did no good, but who saved himself 
 merely by being poor. 
 
 That truth was sufficiently well known to me, but the 
 fallacious teachings of the world had dimmed it so that 
 it had become for me a theory, in the sense which people 
 are fond of ascribing to the word, that is, idle words. 
 But as soon as I succeeded in destroying in my conscious- 
 ness the sophisms of the worldly teaching, the theory 
 blended with the practice, and the reality of my life and 
 of the life of all men became its inevitable consequence. 
 
 I understood that man, in addition to his life for his 
 personal good, must inevitably also serve the good of 
 other men ; that, if we are to take an example from 
 the life of animals, as certain people are fond of doing, 
 defending violence and struggle by the struggle for exist- 
 ence in the animal kingdom, the comparison ought to be 
 taken from among the social animals, such as the bees, 
 and that, therefore, man, to say nothing of his innate love 
 for his neighbour, by reason and by his ovsn nature is 
 called to serve other people aud the common human ends. 
 I understood that the natural law of man was only that 
 which made it possible for him to fulfil his destiny, 
 and so be happy. I understood that this law had been
 
 168 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 
 
 impaired by this, that men, like the phmderer bees, free 
 themselves through violence from labour, and exploit the 
 labour of others, directing this labour, not to a common 
 aim, but to the personal gratification of multiplying 
 passions (lusts), and that, like the plunderer bees, they 
 perish from this. I understood that men's misfortune 
 was due to the slavery in which one set of men held other 
 men. I understood that the slavery of our time was pro- 
 duced by the violence of militarism, by the appropriation 
 of land, and the exaction of money. And, having come 
 to understand the meaning of all three instruments of 
 the new slavery, I could not help but wish to be freed 
 from a participation in it. 
 
 When I was a slave-owner, possessing serfs, and com- 
 prehended the immorality of this situation, I tried at 
 that time, in company with other people who understood 
 it, to free myself from that situation. My liberation con- 
 sisted in this, that, as I considered myself immoral, I 
 tried, so long as I was not able to free myself completely 
 from this situation, to urge as little as possible my rights 
 as a slave-owner, and to live and let the people live in 
 such a way as though these rights did not exist, and 
 at the same time to use every effort in impressing the 
 other slave-owners with the lawlessness and inhumanity 
 of their imaginary rights. 
 
 I cannot help but do the same in respect to the present 
 slavery : as little as possible urge my rights, so long as I 
 am not able completely to renounce these rights, which are 
 given to me by land-ownership and by money, and which 
 are supported by the violence of mihtarism, and at the 
 same time with all my means impress upon other people 
 the lawlessness and inhumanity of these imaginary rights. 
 The participation in slavery on the side of the slave-owner 
 consists in the exploitation of other people's labour, no 
 matter whether the slavery is based on my right to the 
 slave, or on my ownership of land, or on money.
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 169 
 
 And so, if a man indeed dislikes slavery and does not 
 wish to be a participant in it, the first thing he will do 
 will be this, that he w411 not make use of other people's 
 labour, either through the ownership of land, or through 
 serving the government, or through money. 
 
 But the refusal to employ any of the means in use for 
 the purpose of exploiting other people's labour will inevi- 
 tably bring such a man to the necessity, on the one hand, 
 of curtailing his needs, and, on the other, of doing for 
 himself what formerly others did for him. 
 
 This simple and inevitable inference enters into all the 
 details of my hfe, modifies it all, and at once frees me 
 from those moral sufferings which I used to experience 
 at the sight of the suffering and tlie debauchery of men, 
 and at once destroys all those three causes of the impossi- 
 bility of helping the poor, at which I arrived in seeking 
 the causes for my failure. 
 
 The first cause w^as the crowding of people into the 
 cities and the swallowing up iu the cities of the Vv'ealth 
 of the country. A man need but have the desire not to 
 exploit the labours of others by means of serving the 
 government and owning land and money, and therefore to 
 satisfy his needs himself to the best of his strength and 
 abihty, in order that it should never occur to him to leave 
 the village (in which it is easiest of all to satisfy one's 
 wants) for the city, where everything is the product of 
 somebody else's labour, where everything has to be 
 bought ; and then, in the country, a man will be able 
 to help the needy, and he will not experience that feeling 
 of helplessness which I experienced in the city, when I 
 tried to help people, not by means of my own labour, but 
 by that of others. 
 
 The second cause was the disunion between the rich 
 and the poor. A man need but wash not to exploit other 
 people's labour by means of service, of ownership of land, 
 and of money, in order to be put to the necessity of
 
 170 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 satisfying his own wants, and immediately the wall will 
 be destroyed which separates him from the working people, 
 and he will blend with them, and will stand shoulder to 
 shoulder with them, and will have the possibility of help- 
 ing them. 
 
 The third cause was shame, which was based on the 
 consciousness of the immorality of my possession of that 
 money with which I wanted to help others. We need 
 but wish not to exploit other people's labour by means 
 of service, of ownership of laud, and of money, and we 
 shall never have that superfluous fool's money, the presence 
 of which with me has provoked in people who have no 
 money certain demands which I could not satisfy, and in 
 me — a feeling of the consciousness of my unrighteousness.
 
 XXIII. 
 
 I SAW that the cause of men's suffering and debauchery 
 was this, that certain people were in slavery to others, 
 and so I drew the simple conclusion that, if I wished to 
 help others, I must first of all stop causing those mis- 
 fortunes which I wish to assist, that is, not take part in 
 the enslavement of men. But what had been urging me 
 to enslave people was the fact that I had been accustomed 
 from childhood not to work, but to make use of the 
 labours of other people, and that I had been living in a 
 society which not only was used to this enslavement of 
 other people, but also justified this enslavement witli all 
 kinds of clever and insipid sophisms. I drew the follow- 
 ing simple conclusion that, in order that I might not 
 cause people's suffering and debauchery, I must as little 
 as possible make use of the work of others, and myself 
 work as much as possible. By a long path I came to the 
 inevitable conclusion which a thousand years ago was 
 made by the Chinese in this utterance : " If there is one 
 idle man, there is another who is starving." I came to 
 this simple and natural conclusion that, if I pitied that 
 worn-out horse which I was riding, the first thing I ought 
 to do, if I really was sorry for it, was to get off and 
 walk. 
 
 This answer, which gives such complete satisfaction to 
 the moral feeling, begged for my recognition, and begs 
 for the recognition of all of us, but we do not see it and 
 look aside. 
 
 In our search after a cure for our social diseases we 
 
 look about on all sides, — in governmental, and anti- 
 
 171
 
 172 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 goverDmental, and scientific, and philautliropic supersti- 
 tions, and we do not see what strikes our eyes. 
 
 We use the vessel in the house, and want others to 
 carry it out, and pretend that we suffer for them, and 
 want to make it easier for them, and invent all kinds of 
 devices, except the simplest one, that of carrying it out 
 ourselves, if we wish to use it in the house, or else going 
 back of the barn. 
 
 For him who sincerely suffers in seeing the men who 
 surround us suffer, there is a very clear, simple, and easy 
 means, the only possible one for the cure of the evils 
 which surround us and for the recognition of the lawful- 
 ness of our life, — the same that John the Baptist gave to 
 the question. What shall we do then ? and which Christ 
 confirmed : not to have more than one garment and not to 
 have money, that is, not to make use of the labours of 
 others, and so first of all to do with our own hands what 
 we are able to do. 
 
 That is so simple and so clear. But that is simple and 
 clear when the wants are clear and simple, and when a 
 man himself is fresh and not corrupted to the core through 
 laziness and idleness. I live in the village, lying on the 
 oven, and order my debtor next door to chop wood and 
 make a fire in the oven. It is very clear that I am lazy 
 and am taking my neighbour away from his work ; and 
 I shall feel ashamed, and it will be tiresome for me to 
 lie all the time, and if my muscles are strong and I am 
 accustomed to work, I shall go and chop the wood myself. 
 
 But the offence of slavery in all kinds of forms has 
 existed so long ; so many artificial wants have grown 
 up on it ; so many people in various stages of habits as 
 regaids these wants are interrelated ; men have been so 
 spoiled and so pampered for generations ; such complex 
 temptations and justifications in their luxury and their 
 idleness have been invented by people, that for a man 
 who is at the top of the ladder of idle people it is far
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 173 
 
 from being so easy to understand his sin, as for a peasant 
 who compels his neighbour to make a fire in his oven. 
 
 For people who are on the uppermost rung of this 
 ladder it is terribly hard to understand what it is that 
 is demanded of them. Their heads are dizzy from the 
 height of that ladder of lie on which they stand, when 
 they behold that spot on the earth to which they must 
 descend in order to begin their life, not well, but only not 
 entirely inhumanely ; and it is from this that the simple 
 and clear truth seems so terrible to them. 
 
 To a man with ten servants, liveries, coachmen, a chef, 
 pictures, pianos, it will appear strange and even ridiculous 
 to do what is the simplest and the first action of each 
 man, not necessarily a good man, but one who is not an 
 animal : to chop his own wood, with which his food is 
 prepared and which furnishes him heat ; to clean his 
 own overshoes or boots, with which he has carelessly 
 stepped into the mud ; to fetch his own water, with 
 which he makes his ablutions, and to carry out the dirty 
 water in which he has washed himself. 
 
 But, besides the very remoteness of people from the 
 truth, there is also another cause which keeps people 
 from seeing the obligatoriness for them of the simplest 
 and most natural personal physical work : it is the com- 
 plexity, the interworking of the conditions, of the advan- 
 tages of all people who are connected with one another, in 
 which a rich man lives. 
 
 This morning I went out into the corridor where the 
 fires are made in the stoves. A peasant was making a 
 fire in the stove which heats my son's room. I went in 
 to see him : he was asleep. It was eleven o'clock in the 
 morning. It was a holiday, and so the excuse, — there 
 were no lessons. 
 
 The smooth-looking, eighteen-year-old lad with a beard, 
 having eaten a great deal in the evening, is sleeping until 
 eleven o'clock, but the peasant, who is of his age, got up
 
 174 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 in the morning, has finished a lot of work, and is making 
 a tire in the teuth stove, but he is asleep. " If only the 
 peasant did not make a fire in his stove, in order to warm 
 up his sleek, lazy body ! " I thought. But immediately I 
 recalled that this stove warmed also the room of the 
 stewardess, a woman of forty years of age, who the night 
 before had worked until three o'clock in the night, in 
 order to get everything ready for the supper, which my 
 son also ate, and had cleaned away the dishes, and still 
 had got up at seven o'clock. The peasant is making the 
 fire for her, too. And the lazy fellow is getting his heat, 
 which is to be put down to her account. 
 
 It is true, the advantages of all men are interwoven, 
 but even without any prolonged calculation the conscience 
 of each man tells him on whose side is the labour, and on 
 whose the idleness. But it is not merely conscience that 
 tells ; it is the ledger that shows it in the clearest manner 
 possible. The more money one spends, the more he causes 
 others to work for him ; the less he spends, the more he 
 works. 
 
 And industry, and public undertakings, and finally the 
 most terrible of words, — culture, and the evolution of 
 the sciences and arts ?
 
 XXIV. 
 
 In March of last year I returned home late in the even- 
 ing. As I turned from Ziibov Lane into Khamovnicheski 
 Lane, I saw some black spots in the suow of Virgin Field. 
 Something was moving about in that place. I should 
 have paid no attention to this, if a policeman who was 
 standing at the entrance of the lane had not called out 
 in the direction of the black spots : 
 
 " Vasili, why don't you come along ? " 
 
 " She won't go ! " a voice answered from there, and 
 thereupon the black spots moved toward the policeman. 
 
 I stopped to ask the policeman what it was. He 
 said: 
 
 " They took in the girls of Ezhanov House and led 
 them to the station, but this one fell behind, and will 
 not move." 
 
 A janitor in a sheepskin coat was leading her. She 
 was walking in front, and he kept pushing her from 
 behind. All of us, the janitor, the policeman, and I, 
 were wearing our winter furs, but she had only a skirt 
 on. In the darkness I could make out a brown dress, 
 and a kerchief on her head and neck. She was small of 
 stature, like an abortion : her legs were short, and her 
 figure was out of proportion, broad and unshapely. 
 
 " You, wench, keep us standing here. Go on, I say ! 
 I'll teach you ! " shouted the policeman. 
 
 He was evidently getting tired, and annoyed at her. 
 
 She made a few steps, and stopped again. The old janitor, 
 
 a good-natured man (I know him), pulled her hand. 
 
 " Come now, go on ! " he pretended to be angry. 
 
 175
 
 176 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN 1 
 
 She tottered and began to speak with a wheezing voice. 
 In every sound there was a false note, a snoring, and a 
 squeak. 
 
 " Don't push me ! I'll get there ! " 
 
 " You will freeze to death," said the janitor. 
 
 " The kind I am do not freeze, — I am of the warm 
 kind." 
 
 She meant to be jesting, but her words sounded hke 
 scolding. Near a lamp-post which is not far from the 
 gate of our house she stopped again, leaning, almost 
 throwing herself on the fence, and began to rummage 
 in her skirts with her awkward, frosted hands. Again 
 they shouted to her, but she only gurgled, and continued 
 doing something. In one hand she held a cigarette bent 
 into an arc, and in the other she had some matches. I 
 stopped behind her ; I felt ashamed to pass by her, and 
 yet ashamed to stand and gaze. Finally I made up my 
 mind and went up to her. 
 
 She was lying with her shoulder against the fence, 
 and uselessly kept striking matches against the fence, and 
 throwing them away. I scanned her face. She was 
 indeed an abortion, but, as I thought, an old woman, — I 
 gave her thirty years. The colour of her face was sallow ; 
 her eyes, smaU, turbid, bloodshot ; her nose knob-shaped ; 
 her lips crooked, slavering, and sunken at the corners ; 
 and a short strand of dry hair peeped out from under- 
 neath her kerchief. Her waist was long and flat, and 
 her arms and legs were short. I stopped opposite her. She 
 looked at me and smiled, as though she knew everything 
 I was thinking about. 
 
 I felt that I had to say something to her. I wanted 
 to show her that I was sorry for her. 
 
 " Have you any parents ? " I asked. 
 
 She laughed hoarsely, then suddenly stopped, and 
 raising her eyebrows, gazed at me. 
 
 " Have you any parents ? " I repeated.
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 177 
 
 She smiled with an expression which seemed to say : 
 " What makes him trouble himself to ask me ? " 
 
 " I have a mother," she said. " What is that to you ? " 
 
 " And how old are you ? " 
 
 " Going on sixteen," she said, replying readily, evidently 
 to a habitual question. 
 
 " March ! Yon make me freeze, — the devil take you ! " 
 shouted the policemaD ; and she tottered away from the 
 fence, and, swaying to and fro, went down Khamovnicheski 
 Lane to the station, while I turned into the gate and went 
 home, where I asked whether my daughters had returned. 
 I was told that they had been to an evening entertain- 
 ment, had had a good time, and were back home, asleep. 
 
 The next morning I wanted to go to the police station 
 to find out what became of that unfortunate woman, and 
 I got ready to go quite early, when I received the visit of 
 one of those unfortunate men of the gentry who in their 
 weakness stray from their lordly life and now rise and 
 now fall again. I had known him for three years. Dur- 
 ing these three years he had several times squandered 
 everything he had, even the garments on his back ; just 
 such a misfortune had befallen him lately, and for the 
 time being he passed his nights in Rzhanov House, in a 
 night lodging apartment, and in the daytime came to see 
 me. He met me as I was going out, and, without listening 
 to what I had to say, began to tell me what had happened 
 in the night in Rzhanov House. He did not half finish 
 his story ; he, an old man who had seen all manner of 
 people, suddenly burst out weeping and sobbing, and, 
 when he stopped, he turned his face to the wall. Every- 
 thing he told me was an absolute truth. I verified his 
 story on the spot, and learned some new details, which I 
 shall not give with the story. 
 
 In the night lodging apartment, in the lower story, 
 Number 32, in which my friend stayed, there was, among 
 the number of transient inmates, men and women, who
 
 178 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 come together with one another for five kopeks, a laun- 
 dress, of about thirty years of age, a blond, quiet, orderly, 
 but sickly woman. The landlady is the paramour of a 
 boatman. In the summer her cohabiter keeps a boat, and 
 in the winter they make a hving by letting the room to 
 night lodgers, — three kopeks without a pillow, and five 
 kopeks with a pillow. The laundress had lived there for 
 several months, and was a quiet woman ; but of late they 
 began to dislike her, because she coughed and did not let 
 the inmates sleep. Especially a half-crazy old woman of 
 eighty years, who was also a constant inmate of this 
 apartment, took a dislike to the laundress, and nagged her 
 to death, because she would not let her sleep and kept 
 clearing her throat all night long, like a sheep. The 
 laundress kept quiet, — she was in debt for her lodging 
 and felt guilty, and so she had to be quiet. 
 
 She went less and less frequently to work, her strength 
 gave out, and so she could not pay the landlady ; the last 
 week she did not go to work at all, and with her cough- 
 ing only poisoned the lives of all, especially of the old 
 woman, who did not go out herself. Four days before, 
 the landlady had refused to give her lodging : she was 
 owing six dimes, did not pay her rent, and there was no 
 hope that she would pay it ; and the cots were all occu- 
 pied, and the lodgers complained of her coughing. 
 
 When the landlady refused to give lodging to the 
 laundress and told her to leave the room, if she did not 
 pay, the old woman was glad and pushed the laundress 
 out-of-doors. The laundress went away, but came back 
 an hour later, and the landlady did not have the heart to 
 drive her away again. " Where shall I go ? " said the 
 laundress. But on the third day the landlady's paramour, 
 a Muscovite who knew what was what, went for a police- 
 man. The pohceman, with a sabre and a pistol on a red 
 cord, came to the apartment and, politely uttering civil 
 words, led the laundress out-of-doors.
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 179 
 
 It was a clear, sunshiny, but cold March day. Eunlets 
 were flowing, and janitors were chopping wood. The 
 public sleighs leaped over the crusted snow and screeched 
 over the stones. The laundress went up-hill on the 
 sunny side, reached a church, and sat down at the portals 
 of the church, on the sunny side. But when the sun 
 began to go down behind the houses and the puddles 
 were sheeted with ice, the laundress began to feel cold 
 and chilly. She got up and pulled herself along. 
 Whither ? Home, to that only home in which she had 
 lived of late. Before she reached the house, resting on 
 her way, it grew dark. She went up to the gate, turned 
 into it, slipped, groaned, and fell down. 
 
 A man, another passed. " No doubt drunk." Another 
 passed. He stumbled over the laundress, and said to the 
 janitor : " A drunken woman is wallowing at the gate, — 
 I almost broke my head falling over her ; take her away, 
 or do something ! " 
 
 The janitor went. The laundress was dead. That was 
 what my friend told me. People may think that I have 
 picked out the facts, — the meeting with a fifteen-year- 
 old prostitute and the story of this laundress ; but you 
 must not think so : that actually happened in one night 
 in March of 1884, though I do not remember the date. 
 
 And so, after hearing my friend's story, I went to the 
 police station in order to go from there to Rzhanov House, 
 to find out the details of the story about this laundress. 
 The weather was fine, the sun shone, and again could the 
 running water be seen through the stars of the night frost 
 in the shade, while in Khamo\'niche8ki Square everything 
 melted in the sun, and the water ran. A noise came up 
 from the river. The trees of Neskiichni Garden could be 
 seen in the blue distance across the river ; the browned 
 sparrows, unnoticeable in winter, struck one's eyes with 
 their mirth ; men, too, seemed to wish to be merry, but 
 thev had all too many cares. One could hear the ringing
 
 18d WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 of bells, and against the background of these blending 
 sounds could be heard the sounds of firing in the barracks, 
 the whistling of rifle-balls, and their pinging against the 
 target. 
 
 I came to the police station. Here a few armed men, 
 policemen, took me to their chief. He, too, was armed 
 with a sabre and a pistol, and was busy giving orders 
 about a tattered, shivering old man, who was standing 
 before him and from weakness was unable to answer the 
 questions put to him. Having finished his business, with 
 the old man, he turned to me. I asked him about the 
 girl of the evening before. At first he listened attentively 
 CO me, and then smOed, both because I did not know the 
 regulation about taking them to the police station, and 
 especially because I was surprised at her youth. 
 
 "Why, there are some of twelve years, and lots of 
 thirteen and fourteen," he said, cheerfully. 
 
 In- reply to my question about the girl of the evening 
 before, he explained to me that they had all of them been 
 sent to the committee (I think I am right). In reply to 
 my question as to where they had passed the night, he 
 answered indefinitely. He did not remember the one I 
 was talking about, — there were so many of them each 
 day. 
 
 In Ezhanov House I found, in Number 32, the sexton 
 reading the prayers over the deceased woman. She had 
 been placed on what had been her cot, and the lodgers, 
 all of them people without means, had collected among 
 themselves money for the mass, the coffin, and the shroud, 
 and the old women had dressed and prepared her. The 
 sexton was reading in the darkness ; a woman in a cloak 
 was standing with a wax tapci', and another taper was 
 held by a man (one would think a gentleman) in a clean 
 overcoat with an astrakhan collar, shining galoshes, and a 
 starched shirt. This was her brother. They had found 
 him.
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 181 
 
 I went past the deceased woman to the landlady's 
 corner, and asked her all about it. 
 
 She was frightened at my questions; she was appar- 
 ently afraid lest she should be accused of something ; 
 later she talked more freely, and told me everything. 
 As I went back I looked at the dead woman. All dead 
 persons are beautiful, but this one was especially beauti- 
 ful and invited sympathy in her coffin : her face was clean 
 and pale, with closed, bulging eyes, sunken cheeks, and 
 soft blond hair on her high brow ; her face looked weary, 
 kind, and not sad, but surprised. Indeed, if the living do 
 not see, the dead are surprised. 
 
 On the day on which I noted this down a grand ball 
 was given in Moscow. 
 
 That night I left home at nine o'clock. I live in a 
 locality which is surrounded by factories, and I left the 
 house after the whistles of the factory had blown, wdiich 
 after a week of unceasing work dismissed the people for 
 a free day. 
 
 Factory hands rushed by me, and I walked past factory 
 hands who were making for the inns and restaurants. 
 Many were already drunk, and many were with women. 
 
 I live among factories. Every morning at five o'clock 
 I hear a whistle, another, a third, a tenth, and so on and 
 on. That means that the work of the women, children, 
 and old men has begun. At eight o'clock there is a 
 second whistle : this is a half-hour intermission. At 
 noon — a third : this is an hour for dinner ; and at eight — 
 a fourth : the end of work. 
 
 By a strange coincidence all three factories in my 
 neighlDourhood produce nothing but articles for balls. 
 
 In the one nearest to me they manufacture stockings ; 
 in another — silk stuffs; in the third — perfumes and 
 pomatum. 
 
 It is possible to hear these whistles, and not connect 
 with them any other idea than the definition of time.
 
 182 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 " Ah, there is the whistle, and so it is time to take a 
 walk ! " But it is also possible to connect with these 
 whistles what there is in reality, namely, that the first 
 whistle at five in the morning means, that people who 
 have slept in a damp basement, frequently men and 
 women indiscriminately together, are getting up in the 
 dark and are hastening to the plant where the machines 
 wMr, to take their places at their work, the end and per- 
 sonal use of which they do not see, and work, frequently 
 in a hot and stifling atmosphere, and in the dirt, with a 
 very short intermission, an hour, two, three, twelve, and 
 more hours in succession. They fall asleep and again 
 wake up, and again and again continue the same senseless 
 labour, which want alone compels them to do. 
 
 Thus passes one week after another, with the interrup- 
 tion of holidays, and even now I see the labourers who 
 are dismissed for one of these holidays. They come out 
 into the street: everywhere are restaurants, the Tsar's 
 inns girls. And they are drunk and drag one another by 
 the hand, and take along girls, such as the one who the 
 day before was taken to the station, and hire cabs, and 
 ride in them, and go from restaurant to restaurant, 
 and curse, and loaf, and talk, themselves not knowing 
 what. I had seen such loafing of the labourers before, 
 and had shunned them with a feeling of loathing, and 
 had almost rebuked them ; but ever since I have been 
 hearing these whistles every day and known their mean- 
 ing, I have been wondering how it is that all the men do 
 not join those gangs of which Moscow is full, and that all 
 the women do not fall to the condition of the girl whom 
 I met near my house. , 
 
 I walked about, watching these labourers, who loafed 
 in the streets until eleven o'clock. After that the anima- 
 tion began to die down Here and there a few drunken 
 persons were left, and here and there men and women 
 were being taken to the station. Then carriages began to
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 18 
 
 o 
 
 make their appearance, all of them moving in the same 
 direction. 
 
 On the box of each carriage there is a coachman, fre- 
 quently in a sheepskin coat, and a lackey, a dandy with a 
 cockade. The well-fed trotters in housings fly through 
 the frost at a rate of twenty versts an hour ; in the car- 
 riages are ladies, who are wrapped in capes and who are 
 guarding their flowers and their coiffures. Everything, 
 from the harness on the horses, the carriages, the rubber 
 tires, the cloth of the coachman's coat, to the stockings, 
 shoes, flowers, velvet, gloves, and perfume, — all that is 
 made by those people who are lying drunk on their cots 
 in sleeping apartments, or are passing their nights with 
 prostitutes in doss-houses, or are locked up in jails. And 
 the visitors to the ball ride past them in everything of 
 theirs, and it does not occur to them that there is any 
 connection between the ball to which they are hastening 
 and these drunkards at whom the coachmen shout. 
 
 These people enjoy themselves at the ball, in the calm- 
 est manner possible and with the fullest conviction that 
 what they are doing is not bad, but very good. They 
 enjoy themselves ! They enjoy themselves from eleven 
 until six in the morning, through the deepest night, while 
 these people are tossing with empty stomachs in lodging- 
 houses, and some of them die, hke the laundress. 
 
 Their enjoyment consists in this, that women and 
 girls, baring their breasts and attaching bustles behind, 
 get themselves up in an indecent manner in which no 
 uncorrupted woman or girl would want to appear before 
 a man ; and in this half-naked condition, with protrud- 
 ing bare breasts, arms bare to the shoulder, artificial 
 bustles, and prominent hips, in the most glaring light, 
 the women and the girls, whose first virtue has always 
 been modesty, appear amidst strange men, who themselves 
 wear indecently close-fitting garments, and they embrace 
 them and circle around with them to the sounds of intox-
 
 184 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 icating music. Old women, who frequently are as much 
 bared as the younger women, sit and watch, and eat and 
 drink what tastes good ; old men do the same. No 
 wonder all this takes place in the night, when all those 
 people are asleep, and no one can see them. But this is 
 not done in order to conceal anything : it seems to them 
 that there is nothing to conceal, that it is very good, 
 and that with this enjoyment, in which the painful labour 
 of thousands of people is used up, they not only do not 
 offend any one, but even support the poor people. 
 
 It may be very merry at balls ; but how did this come 
 about ? When we see in society and about us even one 
 man who has not eaten or is suffering cold, we feel 
 ashamed to make merry, until that man gets something 
 to eat and is warmed up, to say nothing of this, that it is 
 impossible to imagine people making merry at an entertain- 
 ment which causes suffering to others. We loathe and 
 cannot understand the merriment of bad boys who pinch 
 a dog's tail with a forked stick and find fun in doing it. 
 
 How is it, then, that here, in these our entertainments, 
 we are so blind as not to see the forked stick with which 
 we are pinching the tails of all those people who suffer 
 for the sake of our entertainment ? 
 
 Not a woman who goes to this ball in a dress costing 
 150 roubles was born at a ball or at Madame Minan- 
 guoit's, but each one has lived in the country, has seen 
 peasants, and knows her nurse and chambermaid, who 
 have poor fathers and brothers, for whom the earning of 
 150 roubles with which to build a hut is the aim of a 
 long life of hard labour ; she knows this ; how, then, can 
 she make merry, knowing that at this ball she is wear- 
 ing on her bared body that hut which is the dream of 
 the brother of her good chambermaid ? 
 
 But, let us suppose that she may not have made this 
 reflection ; one would think she could not help knowing 
 that the velvet and the silk, the confectionery and the
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 185 
 
 flowers, and the laces, and the dresses do not grow of 
 their own accord, but are made by men ; she cannot help 
 knowing what kind of people make all these things, under 
 what conditions, and why. She cannot help knowing 
 that the seamstress, whom she scolded, did not make that 
 dress for her out of love for her ; and so she cannot help 
 knowing that all this was done for her from want, that, like 
 her dress, the laces, and the flowers, and the velvet were 
 done in the same way. But, maybe, they are so befogged 
 that they do not see this ; but the woman certainly cannot 
 fail to have observed that live or six respectable, often 
 sickly, old lackeys and maids lost sleep while busy with 
 her. She saw their gloomy faces. She cannot help 
 knowing that this night the frost reached 28 degrees 
 Eeaumur, and that the old coachman passed the whole 
 night on the box. But I know that they, indeed, do not 
 see any of these things. And if they, these young women 
 and girls, who on account of the hypnotism produced on 
 them by this ball do not see all this, they cannot be con- 
 demned. These poor women do everything which is 
 regarded as good by their elders ; but how will the elders 
 explain their cruelty to the people ? 
 
 The elders will always give tliis one explanation : " I do 
 not force a soul ; I buy the things, and I hire the serv- 
 ants, the maids, and the coachmen. There is nothing 
 bad in buying and hiring. I do not force a soul, — I hire 
 them, — so where is the wrong ? " 
 
 The other day I called on an acquaintance of mine. 
 As I passed through the first room, I was surprised to find 
 two women there at the table, for I knew that my acquaint- 
 ance was a bachelor. A lean, sallow, old-looking woman, 
 of about thirty years of age, with a kerchief thrown over 
 her shoulders, was doing something very rapidly on the 
 table, jerking her body nervously, as though in a fit. 
 Diagonally across from her sat a little girl, who was 
 doing something in the same way, jerking aU the time.
 
 186 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 Both women seemed to be subject to the St. Vitus's dance. 
 I went up to them, and took a glance at what they were 
 doing. They cast their eyes up at me, but continued 
 their work in the same concentrated manner. Before 
 them lay a loose heap of tobacco and paper shells : they 
 were making cigarettes. The woman rubbed the tobacco 
 in the palms of her hands, tilled the mould with it, stuck 
 a shell over it, pushed the tobacco in, and threw the 
 cigarette to the girl. The girl rolled up a piece of paper, 
 and stuck the wad into the cigarette, which she threw 
 down, to pick up another. All this was done with such 
 rapidity and with such tension that it is impossible to 
 describe it to a man who has not seen it. I expressed 
 my surprise at their rapidity. 
 
 " Have been doing nothing else for fourteen years," 
 said the woman. 
 
 « Well, is it hard ? " 
 
 " Yes. It hurts in the chest, and the odour is hard 
 to bear." 
 
 Indeed, she did not have to tell me so. It was enough 
 to look at her and at the girl. The girl has been working 
 at it for more than two years ; but any one who sees her 
 at her work will say that it is a strong organism which 
 is beginning to decompose. My acquaintance, a good and 
 liberal man, hired them for two roubles and fifty kopeks 
 per thousand. He has money, and he pays them for their 
 work, so where is the harm ? My acquaintance gets up at 
 noon. The evenings, from six until two, he passes playing 
 cards, or at the piano, and he eats and drinks savoury 
 food ; all his work is done by others. He is trying a 
 new pleasure, smoking. He began to smoke within my 
 memory. 
 
 There are a woman and a girl who can barely support 
 themselves by changing themselves into machines and all 
 their lives inhaling tobacco, and who thus ruin their lives. 
 He has money, which he has not earned, and he prefers
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 187 
 
 to play vint to making cigarettes for himself. He gives 
 these women money on condition that they continue to 
 live just as wretchedly as before, that is, tliat they make 
 cigarettes for him. 
 
 I love cleanliness and give money on this condition 
 alone, that the laundress shall wash the shirt which I 
 change twice a day, and this shirt has worn out the 
 laundress, and she has died. 
 
 Where is the wrong here ? People who buy and hire 
 will continue without me to compel others to make velvet 
 and confections, and will buy them, and without me men 
 will hire people to make cigarettes and wash shirts. Why, 
 then, should I deprive myself of velvet, and confections, 
 and cigarettes, and clean shirts, if such is the order of 
 things ? I frequently, almost always, hear this reflection. 
 It is the same kind of a reflection that a maddened crowd 
 makes when it destroys something. It is the same kind 
 of a reflection that dogs are guided by, when one of them 
 knocks down another, and all the others rush upon the 
 under dog and tear it to pieces. " If the others have begun 
 to ruin the thing, why can't I do it also ? Well, what 
 will happen if I wear a dirty shirt and make my own 
 cigarettes ? Will anybody be better off from it ? " ask 
 people who want to justify themselves. If we were not 
 so far from the truth, it would be a shame to answer such 
 a question ; but we are so mixed up that this question 
 seems very natural to us, and so, though we feel ashamed, 
 we must answer it. 
 
 What difference will there be if I wear a shirt a week, 
 and not a day, and make my own cigarettes, or stop 
 smoking altogether ? 
 
 It will be this, that some laundress and some maker of 
 cigarettes will strain themselves less, and this, that what 
 before I spent for laundry and the making of cigarettes, I 
 can give to the laundress, or to other laundresses and 
 labourers, who are tired by their work, and who, instead
 
 188 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 of working above their strength, will be able to rest and 
 to have some tea. But I have heard objections to this. 
 (Eich and elegant people are so ashamed to understand 
 their position.) To this they say : " If I wear dirty linen 
 and stop smoking, and give this money to the poor, the 
 poor will none the less be despoiled of everything, and 
 your drop in the ocean will do no good." 
 
 One feels even more ashamed to answer this objection, 
 but the answer has to be given. It is such a common 
 objection. The answer to it is simple. 
 
 If I come to savages, and they treat me to cutlets, which 
 seem savoury to me, and I on the following day learn 
 (perhaps I see it myself) that the savoury cutlets are made 
 of the flesh of a captive man, who was killed for the 
 purpose of furnishing savoury cutlets, and I find it wrong 
 to eat men, — then, no matter how good the cutlets may 
 taste, no matter how common the custom of devouring 
 men may be among my fellows, no matter how little the 
 captives who are prepared as food may profit from my 
 refusal to eat the cutlets, I shall not and cannot eat them 
 again. Maybe I shall devour human flesh when driven to 
 it by hunger, but I shall not feast any one and shall not 
 take part in a feast at which human flesh is eaten, and 
 shall not look for such feasts, or be proud of taking part 
 in them.
 
 XXV. 
 
 But what shall we do ? We certainly did not do this ? 
 If not we, who did ? We say that we did not do it ; it just 
 did itself, as children say, when they break something, 
 that it just broke itself. We say that so long as cities 
 exist and we live in them, we support people by buying 
 their labour for the purpose of serving them. 
 
 But that is not true, and that is the reason why we 
 need only look at ourselves, to see how we live in the 
 country, and how we there support people. 
 
 The winter is past in the city, and Easter week comes. 
 In the city the same orgy of the rich is continued : in the 
 boulevards, the gardens, and the parks, and on the river 
 there are music, theatres, rides, promenades, all kinds of 
 illuminations, and fireworks ; but in the country it is 
 better : the an- is better, and the trees, the fields, the 
 flowers, are fresher. We must go where all this is budding 
 and flowering. And the majority of the rich people, who 
 exploit the labours of others, go into the country, to 
 breathe this better air and to look at these better fields 
 and woods. 
 
 And so the rich people settle in the country, amidst 
 dirty-looking peasants, who live on bread and onions, 
 work eighteen hours a day, go nights without getting 
 enough sleep, and wear coarse clothes. Here no one has 
 tempted the people : there have been no factories here, 
 and there are none of those unemployed hands, of whom 
 there are so many in the city, and whom we are supposed 
 to be feeding by giving them work. Here the people never 
 get enough time in the summer to do all their work, and 
 
 189
 
 190 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 not only are there here no unemployed hands, but much 
 property goes to ruin from lack of working hands, and a 
 mass of men, children, old men, and women with children 
 perish from overstraining themselves. How do the rich 
 arrange their lives here ? 
 
 Like this. If there was an old house, which was built 
 in the days of serfdom, it is renovated and beautified ; if 
 there is none, a new one, two or three stories high, is 
 built. The rooms, of which there are from twelve to 
 twenty, and more, are all about six arshius in height. 
 The floors are of parquetry, the windows have large panes ; 
 there are costly carpets, costly furniture, and a buffet 
 costing from two hundred to six hundred roubles. 
 
 The walks near the house are made with gravel, the 
 ground is levelled off and provided with garden beds, and 
 croquet grounds are laid out ; they put up reflecting 
 globes, frequently greenhouses, hotbeds, and high stables, 
 always with ornaments on the ridge-piece. Everything is 
 painted with oil-colours, the oil being what the old men 
 and the children do not get in their porridge. 
 
 If the rich man is able, he settles in such a house ; if 
 not, he hires one ; but no matter how poor or how liberal 
 a man from our circle may be, when he settles in the 
 country, he settles in a house, for the building and clean- 
 liness of which it is necessary to take dozens of people 
 away from their work, though they have not time enough 
 to attend to the corn for their own sustenance. 
 
 It is impossible to say here that there are factories and 
 that it will be all the same, whether I make use of them 
 or not. Here we directly introduce factories of things 
 which we need, and directly, by exploiting the want of 
 the people who surround us, tear them away from the 
 work which is necessary for them and for us and for all 
 men, and thus we corrupt one set of men and ruin the 
 lives and the health of other men. 
 
 Let us say, a cultured and honourable family from
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 191 
 
 the gentry or from the official classes is living in the 
 country. 
 
 All the members of the family and the guests come 
 down there in the middle of June, because until then they 
 have been studying and passing examinations, that is, 
 they arrive in the beginning of mowing-time. The mem- 
 bers of this family (like nearly all people of this circle) 
 stay in the country from the beginning of the busy sea- 
 sou, the haying-time, not to its end, for in September the 
 sowiug and the potato-digging is still going on, but to 
 the time of slackening the intensity of the labour. 
 
 During the whole time of their stay in the country 
 there is going on around them, by their side, that summer 
 work of the peasants, of the tension of which we cannot 
 form any idea, no matter how much we may have heard 
 of it, or how much we may have read about it, or looked 
 at it, unless we experience it ourselves. 
 
 The members of the family, about ten of them, live as 
 badly as in the city, even worse, if such thing is possible, 
 than in the city, because here in the country it is 
 assumed that the members of the family are resting (from 
 doing nothing) and so have no simihtude of work, no 
 excuse for their idleness. 
 
 About St. Peter's Day, — during hungry Lent, when the 
 peasants' food consist? of kvas, bread, and onions, — 
 the mowing begins. The gentlemen who live in the 
 country see this work, partly order the men about, partly 
 enjoy looking at it, smelling the odour of the wilting hay, 
 hearing the songs of the women and the clanking of the 
 scythes, and seeing the rows of mowers and raking women. 
 
 They see this near the house, and when the younger 
 people and the children, who have been doing nothing 
 the whole day, are sure to be driven on well-fed horses, a 
 distance of half a verst, in order to bathe in the river. 
 
 The work which is being done at the mowing is one of 
 the most important in the world. Nearly every year the
 
 192 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 lack of hands and of time causes the mowings to remain 
 partly unmown, and for the same reason the meadows are 
 liable to be spoiled by the rain ; the more or less tense 
 work decides the question whether twenty or more per 
 cent, of hay will be added to the wealth of the people, or 
 whether this amount will rot, or harden on the root. If 
 there is more hay, the old men will get meat to eat, and 
 the children milk to drink. Thus it is in general, and in 
 particular the question is here being solved for every 
 mower as to the bread and milk for himself and the 
 children in the winter. Every labouring man and woman 
 knows this, and even the children know that this is an 
 important work and that it is necessary for them to work 
 with all their might and main, — to carry the pitcher 
 with kvas to their fathers in the field, and, changing the 
 heavy pitcher from hand to hand, to run with bare feet 
 and as fast as possible the two versts from the village, in 
 order to get there in time, and keep their fathers from 
 scolding. Everybody knows that from mowing-time 
 until the harvest there will be no interruption in the 
 work and no time for resting. 
 
 And it is not the mowing alone, for everybody has, in 
 addition to the mowing, other work to do; the ground 
 has to be turned up and harrowed ; the women have to 
 attend to the making of the linen, and the bread, and the 
 washing ; and the men have to go to mill, and to the city, 
 and to attend to the business of the Commune, and go to 
 the judge and to the captain, and look after the wagons, 
 and feed the horses at night, — and all, the old, and the 
 young, and the sick, work with all their might. The 
 peasants work so hard that, before the end of the day's 
 work, the weak, the striplings, and the old walk the last 
 rows with great difficulty, tottering as they walk, and 
 with difficulty get up after a rest ; similarly work the 
 women, who are often pregnant or nursing babies. 
 
 The work is tense and incessant. All work with all
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 193 
 
 their might, and during this work not only eat up all 
 the supplies of their scanty food, but also all their for- 
 mer supplies : all of them, never any too stout, grow 
 lean after their summer's work. 
 
 Here is a small company working a-mowing : three 
 peasants, — one old man, another, his nephew, a young 
 married lad, and a shoemaker of the manor, a muscular 
 man. This mowing; decides the fate of the winter for 
 them all, whether they can keep a cow, and pay their 
 taxes. They have been working without cessation and 
 without rest for two weeks. The rain has retarded their 
 work. After the rain, when the grass dried in the wind, 
 they decided to finish the work and, to do the work more 
 quickly, they determined to have two women to each 
 scythe. With the old man comes out his wife, fifty years 
 of age, worn out from work and eleven childbirths, and 
 deaf, but still a good worker, and his thirteen-year-old 
 daughter, a rather small, but strong and quick girl. With 
 the nephew comes out his wife, a powerful and tall 
 woman, as strong as any peasant, and his sister-in-law, 
 the pregnant wife of a soldier. With the shoemaker 
 comes his wife, a good worker, and her mother, an old 
 woman, finishing her eighth decade, who otherwise is out 
 begging alms. They start out in a row and work from 
 morning until night, in the sweltering heat of the June sun. 
 They hate to stop their work to fetch some water or kvas. 
 
 A tiny boy, the old woman's grandchild, fetches the 
 water. The old woman, who seems to be worrying lest 
 she be driven away from the work, holds on to the rake 
 and moves on with difficulty, but still keeps up with the 
 rest. The boy is all bent up, and takes short steps with 
 his bare feet, dragging along the pitcher of water, which 
 is heavier than he himself, and changing it from hand to 
 hand. The girl shoulders a load of hay, which is also 
 heavier than she ; she takes a few steps, and stops, and 
 throws down the load, unable to carry it any longer. The
 
 194 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 fifty-year-old woman is raking without cessation and, with 
 her kerchief knocked to one side, is dragging along the hay, 
 breathing heavily and tottering in her walk ; the eighty- 
 year-old woman does nothing but rake, but even that is 
 above her strength ; she slowly shuffles her bast shoe 
 covered feet and, scowling, looks gloomily in front of her, 
 like a dangerously sick or dying man. The old man pur- 
 posely sends her away from the rest to rake near the 
 cocks, so that she may not keep in a row with the rest, 
 but she does not give up, and with the same dead, gloomy 
 face works while the others work. 
 
 The sun is setting behind the forest, and the cocks are 
 not yet all cleared away : there is still nuich work ahead. 
 
 All feel that it is time to take a rest, but nobody speaks, 
 waiting for the others to say it is. Finally the shoemaker, 
 feeling that he has no more strength, proposes to the 
 old man to leave the cocks until the next day, and the old 
 man consents to it, and immediately the women run after 
 their clothes, after the pitchers, and after the forks, and 
 the old woman sits down at once, and then lies down, still 
 looking ahead of her with the same dead glance. But 
 the women walk away, and she gets up, groaning, and 
 drags herself away after them. 
 
 And here is the gentleman's house. That same even- 
 ing, while from the village are heard the sounds of the 
 whetstones of the weary mowers, returning from the mow- 
 ing, the sounds of the hammer against the scythe-blade, 
 the shouts of the women and girls who, having barely put 
 down their rakes, are already running to drive the cattle 
 home, — in the house of the gentleman other sounds are 
 heard : the banging of the piano is heard, there resounds 
 a Hungarian song, and now and then, through the song, 
 one catches the sound of the mallets striking the croquet 
 balls. At the stable stands a carriage drawn by four well- 
 fed horses. It is the carriage of the foppish driver. 
 
 Guests have arrived: they paid ten roubles for being
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 195 
 
 driven fifteen versts. The horses, standing at the car- 
 riage, tinkle with their Httle bells. There is hay in their 
 trough, and they trample it under foot, that hay which 
 the peasants gather with such difficulty there in the field. 
 There is a commotion in the yard of the manor : a healthy- 
 looking, well-fed lad in a pink shirt, given him by the 
 janitor for his service, is calhng to the coachmen to hitch 
 and saddle the horses. Two peasants, who live here as 
 coachmen, come out of the coachmen's room and walk 
 leisurely, swaying their arms, to saddle the horses for the 
 gentlemen. 
 
 Still nearer to the house the sounds of another piano 
 are heard. A conservatory graduate, who is living with 
 the gentlefolk, to teach the children music, is practising 
 Schumann. The sounds of one piano break in on those 
 of the other. Near the house two nurses are walkins; : 
 one of them is young, the other old. They are leading 
 and carrying children, of the same age as those who were 
 carrying the pitchers from the village, to put them to bed. 
 One of the nurses is an Englishwoman, who cannot talk 
 Kussian. She was imported from England, not because 
 she is supposed to have any special qualifications, but 
 because she cannot talk Eussian. Farther down a peasant 
 and two women are watering the flowers near the 
 house, while another is cleaning a gun for the young 
 master. 
 
 Here two women are carrying a basket with clean un- 
 derwear ; they have washed the linen of the family and 
 of the English and the French assistants. In the house 
 two women with difficulty manage to wash all the dishes 
 for the gentlefolk, who have just had their meal, and two 
 peasants in dress coats are running up and down on the 
 staircase, passing coffee, tea, wine, Seltzer. On the porch 
 a table is set : they have just finished eating, and soon 
 they will eat again until cockcrow, until midnight, until 
 three o'clock, often until daybreak.
 
 196 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 Some sit and smoke, playing cards ; others sit and 
 smoke, carrying on liberal conversations ; others walk 
 from place to place, eating and smoking, and, not knowing 
 what to do, decide to go out riding. There are fifteen 
 able-bodied men and women there, and they are served 
 by about thirty able-bodied men and women servants. 
 
 And this is taking place where every hour, every lad, is 
 valuable. And this will take place in July, when the 
 peasants, without getting enough sleep, will mow the oats 
 at night, to keep them from shelliug out, and the women 
 will get up at night in order to thresh the straw for sheaf 
 ropes, when the old women, and the pregnant women, and 
 the young children will overwork and get sick from too 
 much drinking, and when there will not be enough hands, 
 nor horses, nor wagons, to take to the barn the corn which 
 feeds all men, of which millions of puds are needed a day 
 in Eussia, in order that people may not die ; and at this 
 time this life of the gentlefolk will be continued, — there 
 will be theatres, picuics, hunts, drinking, eating, pianos, 
 singing, dancing, - — an unceasing orgy. 
 
 Here it is impossible to give the excuse that such is 
 the order of things : nothing of the kind is the case. We 
 ourselves introduce this life, taking the bread and the 
 labour away from the men who are worn out by labour. 
 We live as though there w^ere no connection between 
 the dying laundress, the fourteen-year-old prostitute, the 
 women who are fagged out by the making of cigarettes, 
 and the old women and children about us who work 
 intensely, above their strength, without sufficient food ; 
 we live, — enjoying ourselves in luxury, as though there 
 were no connection between that and our life ; we do not 
 want to see this, that, if it were not for our idle, luxurious, 
 and debauched life, there would be none of this work above 
 their strength, and if there were none of that work, there 
 would not be our fife. 
 
 It seems to us that sufferings are one thing, and our
 
 
 s 

 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 197 
 
 life another thing, and that we, living as we do, are as 
 innocent and pure as doves. 
 
 We read the descriptions of the lives of the Eomans 
 and marvel at the inhumanity of the soulless LucuUi, 
 who stuffed themselves with food and drink, while the 
 people died of hunger ; we shake our heads and marvel at 
 the savagery of our ancestors, the serf-owners, who intro- 
 duced domestic theatres and orchestras, and who appointed 
 whole villages to maintain their gardens, and from the 
 height of our greatness we marvel at their inhumanity. 
 We read the words of Isaiah, Chapters V. : 
 8. Woe unto them that join house to house, that lay 
 field to field, till there be no place, that they may be 
 placed alone in the midst of the earth ! 
 
 11. Woe unto them that rise up early in the morning, 
 that they may follow strong drink ; that continue until 
 night, till wine inflame them ! 
 
 12. And the harp and the viol, the tabret and pipe, and 
 wine, are in their feasts : but they regard not the work of 
 the Lord, neither consider the operation of his hands. 
 
 18. Woe unto them that draw iniquity with cords of 
 vanity, and sin as it were with a cart rope : 
 
 20. Woe unto them that call evil good, and good evil; 
 that put darkness for light, and light for darkness ; that 
 put bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter ! 
 
 21. Woe unto them that are wise in their own eyes, 
 and prudent in their own sight ! 
 
 22. Woe unto them that are mighty to drink wine, and 
 men of strength to mingle strong drink : 
 
 23. Which justify the wicked for reward, and take 
 away the righteousness of the righteous from him ! 
 
 We read in the Gospel of Matthew, Chapter III., 10 : 
 And now also the axe is laid unto the root of the 
 
 trees : therefore every tree which bringeth not forth good 
 
 fruit is hewn down, and cast into the fire. 
 
 And we are absolutely convinced that we are the good
 
 198 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 tree which bhugs forth fruit, aud that these words are not 
 said to us, but to somebody else, to some bad people. 
 We read the words of Isaiah, Chapter VI. : 
 
 10. Make the heart of this people fat, and make 
 their ears heavy, and shut their eyes ; lest they see 
 with their eyes, and hear with their ears, and under- 
 stand with their heart, and convert, and be healed. 
 
 11. Then said I, Lord, how long? And he answered. 
 Until the cities be wasted without inhabitant, aud the 
 houses without man, and the land be utterly desolate. 
 
 We read this, and are absolutely convinced that this 
 remarkable work was not done to us, but to some other 
 people. The reason why we do not see it, is because 
 this remarkable work has been done to us : we do not 
 hear, nor see, nor comprehend with our hearts. How did 
 this happen ?
 
 XXVL 
 
 How can a man who considers himself, I shall not 
 say a Christian, nor even a cultured or humane man, but 
 simply a man who is not completely deprived of reason 
 and of conscience, live in such a way that, without taking 
 part in the struggle for the life of all humanity, he only 
 swallows the labours of the men who are struggling for 
 life, and by his demands increases the labour of those who 
 struggle and of those who perish in this struggle ? Our 
 so-called Christian and cultured world is full of such 
 people. Not only is our world full of such men, but 
 the ideal of the men of our Christian cultured world is 
 the acquisition of the greatest possible possessions, that 
 is, of the possibility of wealth which gives comfort and 
 idleness, that is, a liberation from the struggle for life, 
 and the greatest possible exploitation of the labour of 
 one's brothers, who are perishing in this struggle. How 
 could people have fallen into such a remarkable delusion ? 
 
 How could they have reached such a point as not to 
 see, to hear, and to comprehend with their hearts what 
 is so clear, so obvious, and so indisputable ? 
 
 We need but stop for a moment and think, in order to 
 be frightened at that remarkable contradiction between 
 our hfe and what we profess, we, I do not say the Chris- 
 tians, but the humane and cultured people. 
 
 I do not know whether that God, or that law of Nature, 
 by which the world and people exist, is good or bad ; but 
 the position of men in the world, from the time we know 
 it, is such that naked men, without wool on their bodies, 
 without holes in which to hide themselves, without food 
 
 199
 
 200 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 
 
 which they may find iu the fields, like Robinson on his 
 island, are all put to the necessity of struggling with 
 Nature constantly and without cessation iu order to cover 
 their bodies, make clothes for themselves, defend them- 
 selves, put a roof over their heads, and work for their 
 food, with which two or three times a day to still their 
 hunger and the hunger of their children and old men who 
 cannot work. 
 
 Wherever, at whatever time, and in whatever numbers 
 we may observe the life of people, whether in Europe, in 
 China, in America, or in Russia, whether we shall view 
 all humanity, or a small part of it ; whether in ancient 
 times, in the nomad state, or in our time, with steam 
 motors, sewing-machines, electric light, and perfected 
 agriculture, we shall see one and the same thing, — that 
 people, working constantly and inteusely, are not able to 
 acquire food, protection, and clothing for themselves and 
 for their little ones and their old men, and that a con- 
 siderable part of men is now perishing, as it perished 
 before, from a want of the means of life and from their 
 excessive labour to obtain them. 
 
 No matter where we may live, — if we draw about us 
 a circle of one hundred thousand, or of one thousand, or 
 of ten versts, or of one verst, and look at the lives of those 
 whom this circle takes in, - — we shall see in this circle : 
 children born before their time, old men and women, sick 
 lying-in women, and weak persons, who have not enough 
 food and rest to be able to live and so die before their 
 time ; we shall see people who in the full strength of 
 their growth are killed outright by perilous and harmful 
 work. 
 
 Ever since the world has existed, we see men with 
 terrible tension, privations, and sufferings struggling with 
 their common want, unable to vanquish it. We know 
 besides that each of us, no matter where he may live and 
 how he may live, every day, every hour involuntarily
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 201 
 
 absorbs for himself part of the labours which are worked 
 out by humanity. Xo matter where and how he may 
 live, the house and the roof have uot grown over him of 
 their own accord. The wood did not walk into his stove, 
 nor did the water come, nor did the baked bread, the 
 dinner, the clothes, the footgear fall down from the sky : 
 all that was done for him uot only by the men of the 
 past, but is being also done by the men of the present, 
 hundreds and thousands of whom are wasting away and 
 dying in vain endeavours to earn for themselves and for 
 their children the necessary roof, food, and clothing, — 
 the means for saving themselves and their children from 
 sufferings and premature death. All men struggle with 
 want. They struggle with so much tension that every 
 moment their like, their fathers, mothers, children, are 
 perishing all around them. 
 
 People are in this world as in a sea-washed ship with 
 a small supply of food : all are placed by God, or by 
 Nature, in such a situation that they are compelled, while 
 economizing on their food, constantly to struggle against 
 want. Every stoppage of each of us in this labour, every 
 absorption of the labours of others, which is useless for 
 the common good, is ruinous for ourselves and for our 
 kind. 
 
 How, then, does it happen that the majority of the 
 cultured people of our time, though doing no work, calmly 
 absorb other men's labours, which are necessary for life, 
 and regard such a life as most natural and rational ? 
 
 In order that men may free themselves of the labour 
 which is proper and natural to all, may transfer it to 
 others, and with all that not consider themselves traitors 
 and thieves, two suppositions only are possible : first, 
 that we, the men who do not take part in the general 
 labour, are beings distinct from the labouring men and 
 have a special purpose in society, like the drones or queen 
 bees, which have a different purpose than the working
 
 202 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 bees ; and second, that the work which we, the men who 
 are freed from the struggle for hfe, are doing for the 
 other men is so useful for all men that it certainly redeems 
 the harm which we do to other people by making their 
 situation harder. 
 
 In former days people who exploited the labours of 
 others asserted that, in the first place, they were a special 
 breed, and, in the second, were specially designated by 
 God to care for the good of individual men, that is, to 
 govern them and teach them, and so they assured others 
 and frequently believed themselves that the work which 
 they were doing was more important and more necessary 
 for the people than the labours which they exploited. 
 And so long as there was no doubt as to the immediate 
 interference of the Divinity in human affairs and in the 
 distinction of races, this justification was sufficient. But 
 with Christianity and the consequent consciousness of 
 the equality and unity of all men, this justification could 
 not be advanced in its older form. It was impossible to 
 assert that men are born of different breeds and distinctions 
 and with different destinies, and the old justification, 
 though supported by some people, has slowly been abol- 
 ished and hardly exists now. 
 
 The justification of the distinctness of the human 
 breeds was destroyed ; but the fact itself of the liberation 
 of self from labour and of the exploitation of the labour 
 of others has remained the same for those who have the 
 power to do so, and for the existing fact they have always 
 invented new justifications, with which, even without the 
 acknowledgment of the distinctness of the breeds of men, 
 the liberation of self from work, as practised by those 
 who could do so, might appear just. They have invented 
 very many such justifications. However strange it may 
 appear, the chief activity of what at a given time was 
 called science, of what formed the ruling tendency of 
 science, has been and even now continues to consist in
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 203 
 
 the discovery of such justifications. This has been the 
 aim of the activity of the theological sciences ; this has 
 been the aim of the juridical sciences ; this has been the 
 aim of the so-called philosophy, and this has become of 
 late (however strange it may appear to us contemporaries, 
 who make use of this justification) the aim of the activity 
 of the contemporary experimental science. 
 
 All the theological finesses, which try to prove that a 
 given church is the one true successor of Christ, and 
 so has full and infinite power over the souls and even 
 the bodies of men, has this aim for the chief motive of its 
 activity. 
 
 All the juridical sciences, the political, the criminal, the 
 civil, the international laws, have this one purpose ; the 
 majority of the pliilosophical theories, especially Hegel's 
 theory, which has been reigning for so long a time, with 
 its thesis of the rationahty of everything which exists, 
 and that the state is a necessary form of the perfection of 
 personality, have the same purpose. 
 
 A very poor English publicist, whose works have all 
 been forgotten and acknowledged to be the most insignifi- 
 cant of the insignificant, writes a treatise on population, in 
 which he invents a law about the increase of the pop- 
 ulation which is out of proportion with the means of 
 existence. This imaginary law the writer decks out 
 mathematically with baseless formulas and lets out into 
 the world. To judge from the frivolity and vapidity of 
 this work, one would suppose that it would not attract 
 anybody's attention and would be forgotten, like all the 
 subsequent writings of this author ; but something quite 
 different takes place. The publicist who has written this 
 work at once becomes a learned authority and is kept on 
 this height for almost half a century. Malthus ! Malthus's 
 theory, — the law of the increase of the population in 
 a geometric, and of the means of existence in an arith- 
 metical proportion, and the natural and sensible means
 
 204 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 for limiting ' the population, all that hecame scientific, 
 unquestionable truths, which were not verified and were 
 used as axioms, for the purpose of building further deduc- 
 tions upon them. Thus acted learned, cultured men ; but 
 among the masses of idle men there was expressed a 
 respectful confidence in the newly discovered great laws 
 of Malthus. 
 
 Why did that happen ? One would think that those 
 were scientific deductions which had nothing in common 
 with the instincts of the crowd. 
 
 But this can only appear so to him who believes that 
 science is something original, like the church, which is not 
 subject to errors, and not simply the inventions of feeble, 
 erring men, who only for importance' sake substitute 
 the word " science " in the place of men's thoughts and 
 words. 
 
 It was sufficient to make practical deductions from 
 Malthus's theory, in order to see that this theory was 
 most human, with most definite aims. 
 
 The deductions which resulted directly from this 
 theory were as follows: the wretched condition of the 
 labouring people is not due to the cruelty, egotism, and 
 ignorance of the rich and of those in power, but it is so 
 in consequence of an unchangeable law, which is inde- 
 pendent of men, and if any one is to blame for it, it 
 is the starving working men themselves: why are these 
 fools born, if they know that they will have nothing to 
 eat ? And so the rich and the classes in power are not 
 to blame for anything, and may continue to live as 
 before. 
 
 And this deduction, so valuable to the crowd of idle 
 men, had this effect, that all the scientists overlooked the 
 baselessness, irregularity, and complete arbitrariness of 
 the deductions, and the crowd of the learned, that is, idle 
 men, knowing instinctively to what these deductions 
 would lead, enthusiastically hailed this theory, imposed
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 205 
 
 apon it the stamp of truth, that is, of science, and held 
 on to it for half a century. 
 
 Kant's positive philosophy and the resulting doctrine 
 about humanity being an organism, — Darwin's doc- 
 trine of the law of the struggle for existence, which is 
 supposed to govern life, and of the consequent distinction 
 of the human races, — the now favourite anthropology, 
 biology, and sociology, have the same purpose. All these 
 have become favourite sciences, because they all serve for 
 the justification of the existing self-liberation of one set of 
 men "from the human obligation of labour, and of their 
 absorption of the labour of others. 
 
 All these theories, as is always the case, are worked 
 out in the mysterious sanctuaries of the high priests and 
 are in indefinite, obscure expressions disseminated among 
 the masses, which accept them. As in antiquity all the 
 theological intricacies, the justifications of ecclesiastic and 
 political violence, remained a special knowledge of the 
 priests, while among the masses there were current 
 the ready deductions, taken on faith, that the power 
 of the kings, the clergy, and the nobility was sacred ; 
 even so later the philosophical and juridical intricacies of 
 the so-called science were the possession of the priests 
 of this science, while among the masses were current 
 the deductions, taken on faith, that the structure of 
 society has to be such as it is, and cannot be other- 
 wise. 
 
 Even so now the laws of life and of the evolution of 
 the organisms are analyzed only in the sanctuaries of the 
 priests ; but among the masses are current the deductions, 
 taken on faith, that the division of labour is a law which 
 is confirmed by science, and that so it must be : that some 
 should die from starvation, and work, while others must 
 eternally be idle, and that this perdition of some and 
 idleness of others are an unquestionable law of humanity, 
 to which we must submit.
 
 206 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 
 
 The current justification of this idleness among the 
 mass of all so-called cultured people, with their various 
 activities, from the railroad man to the writer and artist, 
 is now as follows : 
 
 We, who have freed ourselves from the universal 
 human obligation of participating in the struggle for 
 existence, serve progress, and so benefit the whole society 
 of men, thus redeeming the whole harm which is done to 
 the same people by exploiting their labour. 
 
 This reflection seems to the men of our time quite dis- 
 similar to those reflections by which the former leisure 
 classes used to justify themselves ; just as the reflection 
 of the Eoman emperors and citizens as to this, that with- 
 out them the cultured world would perish, seemed to 
 them quite apart from the reflection of the Egyptians and 
 the Persians, and just as a similar reflection of the medise- 
 val knights and clergy seemed to them quite distinct from 
 the reflection of the Eomans. 
 
 But that only seems so. It is enough to enter into the 
 comprehension of the essence of the justification of our 
 time, in order to become convinced that there is nothing 
 new in it. 
 
 It is only a little differently clothed, but it is the same, 
 being based on the same. Every justification of a man 
 who, without working, absorbs the labour of others — the 
 justification of Pharaoh and the priests, of the Roman and 
 mediyeval emperors and their citizens, the knights, priests, 
 and the clergy — is always composed of two propositions : 
 (1) we take the labour of the rabble because we are spe- 
 cial people, predetermined by God to govern the rabble 
 and to teach them the divine truths ; (2) the people of 
 the masses cannot be the judges of the measure of the 
 labours which we take from them for the good which we 
 do them, because the Pharisees said long ago (John vii. 
 49), This people who knoweth not the law are cursed. 
 The people do not understand wherein their good lies, and
 
 WHAT SHALL. WE DO THEN? 207 
 
 SO they cannot be the judges of the benefit conferred on 
 them. 
 
 The justification of our time, in spite of its seeming 
 pecuharity, is by its essence composed of the same two 
 propositions: (1) we, the special people, the cultured 
 people, are serving progress and civilization, and so 
 confer a great benefit on the masses ; (2) the uneducated 
 masses do not understand the benefit which we are con- 
 ferring upon them, and so cannot be the judges of it. 
 
 We free ourselves from labour, make use of the labour 
 of others, and thus burden the condition of our brothers, 
 and we affirm that in place of the labour we confer upon 
 them a great benefit, of which they cannot be the judges. 
 
 Is it not the same ? The only difference is this, that 
 formerly it was the Eoman citizens, the priests, the 
 knights, the nobility, that had the right to other people's 
 labour ; now it is only the caste of people who call them- 
 selves cultured. The lie is the same, for the proposition 
 of the men who justify themselves is equally false. The 
 lie consists in this, that before reflecting on the benefit 
 conferred on the people by the men who are freed from 
 labour, certain people, the Pharaohs, the priests, or we, 
 the cultured men, put ourselves in this position and 
 maintain it, and only then invent a justification for it. 
 
 This condition of violence, which one set of men exerts 
 upon others, as before, so even now serves as a foundation 
 for everything. 
 
 The difference between our justification and the most 
 ancient one is only this, that it is more fallacious and 
 less substantial than the former. 
 
 The ancient emperors and the Popes could, if they 
 themselves and the people believed in their divine calling, 
 explain simply why they were those people who should 
 make use of the labours of others : they said that they 
 were destined for it by God, and that God had also pre- 
 scribed to them to transmit to the people the divine
 
 208 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 truths which were revealed to them, aud to govern the 
 people. 
 
 But the cultured people of our time, who do not work 
 with their hands, by recognizing the equahty of men, can 
 no longer explain why they and their children (for educa- 
 tion is obtained only by means of money, — of power) 
 are those chosen fortunate people who are called to con- 
 fer a certain light benefit, and not other people among the 
 millions who perish by the hundred and the thousand, 
 while supporting the possibihty of their culture. 
 
 Their only justification is this, that they — the men 
 of the present time, in place of the evil which they do to 
 the people by freeing themselves from labour and absorb- 
 ing theirs, confer on the people a benefit which is incom- 
 prehensible to them, and which redeems all the harm that 
 is done to them.
 
 XXVIL 
 
 The proposition by which men who have liberated 
 themselves from labour justify their liberation, will in 
 its simplest and at the same time its most precise ex- 
 pression be like this : we, the people who are in a 
 position, by having freed ourselves from labour, to make 
 use through violence of the labour of other men, in con- 
 sequence of this position of ours confer a benefit on them, 
 those other people ; or, in other words : certain people, 
 in return for the palpable and comprehensible harm 
 which they do to others in forcibly making use of 
 their labours and thus increasing the difficulty of their 
 struggle with Nature, confer upon them a benefit, which 
 is impalpable and incomprehensible to them. This prop- 
 osition is very strauge ; but the people of former times 
 and of the present, who sit on the necks of the working 
 people, believe in it and ease their consciences with it. 
 
 Let us see in what manner this proposition is in our 
 day justified among the various classes who have eman- 
 cipated themselves from labour. 
 
 I serve people by my political or ecclesiastic activity, 
 as a king, a minister of state, a bishop ; I serve people 
 by my commercial or industrial labour ; I serve people by 
 my scientific or artistic activity. We are all with our 
 activity as indispensable to the masses as they are in- 
 dispensable to us. 
 
 Thus say the various men of our time, who have 
 emancipated themselves from labour. 
 
 Let us successively analyze the bases on which they 
 assert the usefulness of their activities. 
 
 209
 
 210 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 There can be but two signs of the usefulness of one 
 man's activity for another: the external one, — the rec- 
 ognition of the usefulness of the activity by him who 
 is benefited, and the internal one, — the desire of be- 
 ing useful to another, which lies at the base of the 
 activity of him who confers the benefit. 
 
 The men of the state (I include among this number 
 the ecclesiastics who are established by the government) 
 are useful to those men whom they govern. 
 
 An emperor, king, president of a republic, prime minis- 
 ter, minister of justice, minister of war, of education, a 
 bishop, and all their subordinates, who serve the state, 
 live, by having freed themselves from the struggle of 
 humanity for life and by imposing the whole burden 
 of the struggle on the other people, on the ground that 
 their activity redeems them. 
 
 Let us apply the first sign : is the benefit conferred by 
 this activity recognized by those labouring people upon 
 whom the activity of the men of state is directly 
 exerted ? 
 
 Yes, it is : the majority of men regard the political 
 activity as indispensable to themselves, — the majority 
 recognize the usefulness of this activity in principle ; but 
 in all its known manifestations, in all the known special 
 cases, every one of the institutions and of the actions of 
 this activity meets, in the midst of those men for whose 
 benefit it is exercised, not only a denial of a benefit con- 
 ferred, but also the assertion that this activity is harmful 
 and disastrous. 
 
 There is no political and no social activity which by 
 many men is not considered harmful : the courts, banks. 
 County Councils, township offices, pohce, clerg}% every 
 political activity from that of the highest power down to 
 that of the rural officer and policeman, from that of the 
 bishop to that of the sexton, is by one part of men con- 
 sidered useful, and by the other harmful. And this does
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 211 
 
 not take place in Kussia alone, but in the whole world 
 also, in France, and in America. 
 
 The whole activity of the Eepubhcan party is con- 
 sidered harmful by the Kadical party, and vice versa, the 
 wliole activity of the Eadical party, if the power is in its 
 hands, is considered harmful by the Eepublican party and 
 by others. 
 
 And not only is the whole activity of the men of state 
 never considered useful by all men, — this activity has 
 also this property, that it has always to be exerted by the 
 use of violence, and that, to obtain this benefit, there are 
 .necessary murders, capital punishments, jails, compulsory 
 taxes, and so forth. 
 
 And so it turns out that the usefulness of the political 
 activity is not recognized by all men and is always denied 
 by one part of men, and that moreover this usefulness has 
 the property of always finding its expression in violence. 
 And so the usefulness of the political activity cannot be 
 confirmed by the fact that it is recognized by those men 
 for whom it is intended. 
 
 Let us apply the second sign. Let us ask the men of 
 state, from the king down to the policeman, from the 
 president down to the secretary, and from the patriarch 
 down to the sexton, inviting their sincere answer, whether 
 they, in holding their offices, have in view the benefit 
 which they wish to confer on people, or whether they 
 have other aims ; whether, in their desire to occupy the 
 post of king, president, minister, or rural officer, of a sex- 
 ton, or a teacher, they are impelled by a striving for other 
 people's benefit or for their own personal advantage. 
 
 The answer of conscientious men will be that their chief 
 impulse is their personal advantage. 
 
 And so it turns out that one class of men, which ex- 
 ploits the labours of others, who perish in this labour, 
 is redeeming this unquestionable harm with an activity 
 which by many people is always regarded as harmful, and
 
 212 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 not useful, which cannot be freely received by the people, 
 but must always be enforced by violence, and the aim 
 of which is not the benefit of others, but the personal 
 advantage of those men who exert it. 
 
 What, then, is confirmed by the assumption that the 
 political activity is useful to men ? 
 
 Only this, that those men who exert it are firmly con- 
 vinced that it is useful, and that this activity has always 
 existed ; but there have always existed, not only ex- 
 tremely useless, but even harmful institutions, such as 
 slavery, prostitution, and wars. Industrialists — includ- 
 ing in this term merchants, manufacturers, railroad men, 
 bankers, and agriculturists — believe in this, that they 
 confer a benefit which unquestionably redeems the harm 
 done by them. 
 
 On what grounds do they think so ? 
 
 In reply to the question as to who and what people 
 recognize the usefulness of their activity, the men of state, 
 with the inclusion of the clericals, could point to thou- 
 sands and millions of working people, who in principle 
 recognize the usefulness of the political and clerical 
 activity ; but who will be pointed out to us by the bank- 
 ers, manufacturers of whiskey, velvet, bronzes, mirrors, 
 to say nothing of cannon ? Who will be pointed out 
 by the merchants, agriculturists, when we ask these 
 whether the benefit which they confer is recognized by 
 public opinion ? 
 
 If some people are found who recognize the production 
 of cottons, rails, beer, and similar articles as useful, there 
 will be found an even greater number of men who recog- 
 nize the production of these articles as harmful. The 
 activity of the merchants, who advance the price of 
 articles, and of the landed proprietors, will not even be 
 defended by any person. Besides, this activity is always 
 connected with harm to the labourers and with violence, 
 which, though less direct than the political violence, is as
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 213 
 
 cruel in its consequences, since the industrial and com- 
 mercial activities are all based on the exploitation of want 
 in every form : on its exploitation for the purpose of com- 
 pelhng the labourers to do hard and undesirable work; 
 on the exploitation of the same want for the purpose of 
 purchasing commodities at a low price and selling articles 
 of necessity to the people at the highest price; on the 
 exploitation of this want for the purpose of exacting 
 interest on money. No matter from what side we may 
 view their activity, we shall see that the benefit exerted 
 by the industrialists is not recognized by those for whom 
 it is exerted, either in principle, or in special cases, and in 
 general is directly recognized as harmful. 
 
 But if we apply the second sign, and ask what the 
 impelling cause of the activity of the industrialists is, we 
 shall receive an even more definite answer than in respect 
 to the activity of the men of state. 
 
 If a man of state says that in addition to his personal 
 advantage he has in view the common good, it is impossi- 
 ble to disbelieve him, and each of us knows such men, 
 but an industrialist by the very essence of his business 
 cannot have in view the common good, and will be con- 
 sidered ridiculous in the eyes of his fellows if in his busi- 
 ness he shall pursue any other aim than the increase of 
 his wealth or its maintenance. 
 
 Thus the labouring people do not consider the activity 
 of the industrialists useful to themselves. 
 
 This activity is connected with violence against the 
 labourers, and the aim of this activity is not the benefit 
 of the working people, but always personal advantage, 
 and suddenly — strange to say — these industrialists are 
 so convinced of the benefit which they confer on people 
 by their activity that in the name of this imaginary benefit 
 they do undoubted, obvious harm to these labourers by 
 emancipating themselves from labour and absorbing the 
 labour of the working classes.
 
 214 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 The men of science and of art have freed themselves 
 from labour and have imposed this labour on others and 
 live with a calm conscience, being firmly convinced of 
 this, that they confer on others a benefit which redeems 
 all that. 
 
 On what is their conviction based ? 
 
 We shall ask them, as we asked the men of state and 
 the industrialists, whether the labouring people, all of 
 them, or even a majority of them, recognize the benefit 
 which art and science confer upon them. 
 
 The answer will be a very lamentable one. 
 
 The activity of the men of state and of the church is 
 recognized as useful in principle by nearly everybody, and 
 in application by the greater half of those working people 
 upon whom it is directed ; the activity of the industriahsts 
 is recognized by a small number of working people ; but 
 the activity of the men of science and of art is not recog- 
 nized as useful by anybody among the labouring people. 
 The usefulness of this activity is recognized only by those 
 who exert it or wish to exert it. The working people — 
 those who carrv on their shoulders the whole labour of 
 life and feed and clothe the men of science and of art — 
 cannot recognize the activity of these men as useful for 
 themselves, because they cannot even have any conception 
 about this activity which is so useful to them. This 
 activity presents itself to the labouring people as useless 
 and even corrupting. 
 
 Thus the labouring people look without exception upon 
 the universities, libraries, conservatories, picture-galleries, 
 museums, and theatres, which are built at their expense. 
 A labouring man looks so definitely upon this activity as 
 harmful that he does not send his children to school, and, 
 to compel the masses to take part in this activity, it 
 became necessary everywhere to introduce the law of 
 compulsory school attendance. A labouring man always 
 looks inimically upon this activity, and will stop looking
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 215 
 
 upon it in such a way only when he himself ceases to 
 be a labourer and, by means of his earnings and later 
 by the means of the so-called culture, passes from 
 the labouring class into that of men who live by 
 sitting on the shoulders of others. And although the 
 activity of the men of sciences and of arts is not recog- 
 nized and cannot be recognized by any one among the 
 labouring people, the labourers are none the less compelled 
 to bring sacrifices in favour of this activity. 
 
 A man of state sends another directly to the guillotine 
 or to jail ; an industrialist, making use of the labours of 
 another, takes the last away from him, leaving him the 
 choice between starvation and pernicious work ; but a 
 man of science or of art apparently does not compel, but 
 only offers his wares to those wdio want to take them ; 
 but, in order to produce his wares, which are undesirable 
 to the working people, he takes from them by force, 
 through the men of state, the greater part of their labour 
 for buildings and their maintenance, for academies, univer- 
 sities, gymnasia, schools, museums, libraries, conservatories, 
 and for the support of the men of science and of art. 
 
 And if we ask the men of science and of art about the 
 aim which they pursue in their activities, we get the most 
 remarkable answers. A man of state could have answered 
 that his aim is the common good, and there is in this a 
 grain of truth which is confirmed by public opinion. But 
 the answer of the men of science and of art at once 
 startles us by its groundlessness and impudence. 
 
 The men of the sciences and of tlie arts say, without 
 adducing any proof for it, just as the priests used to say 
 in antiquity, that their activity is most important and 
 most necessary for all men, and that without this activity 
 all humanity would perish. They affirm that it is so, 
 although no man but they themselves understands or 
 recognizes their activity, and although true science and 
 true art, by their own definition, ought to have no aim
 
 216 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 of usefulness. The men of science and of art abandon 
 themselves to their favourite occupation, without caring 
 what benefit people will derive from it, and are always 
 convinced that they are doing a most important and 
 necessary work for humanity ; so that, while a sincere 
 man of state, in recognizing the fact that the chief motive 
 of his activity is his personal impulses, tries as much as 
 possible to be useful to the labouring people, and the 
 industrialist, in recognizing the selfishness of his activity, 
 tries to give it the character of a common good, the men 
 of the arts and the sciences do not even consider it 
 necessary to cloak themselves with a tendency for what 
 is useful : they even deny the aim of the useful ; so con- 
 vinced are they, not of the usefulness, but of the sacred- 
 ness, of their occupation. 
 
 And so it turns out that a third division of men, who 
 have emancipated themselves from labour and have im- 
 posed it upon others, are busying themselves with subjects 
 wliich are completely incomprehensible to the labouring 
 people, and which the masses regard as trifles and fre- 
 quently as harmful trifles ; and they busy themselves 
 with these subjects without the least consideration of their 
 usefulness to men, but only for their own amusement, 
 being for some reason completely convinced that their 
 activity will always be such that the labouring people 
 cannot live without it. 
 
 Men have emancipated themselves from labour for life 
 and have unloaded this labour on people who are perishing 
 in this labour ; men exploit this labour, and affirm that 
 their occupations, which are incomprehensible to all other 
 men and are not directed upon the usefulness of men, 
 redeem all the harm which they do to men by eman- 
 cipating themselves from the labour for life and by 
 absorbing the labour of others. 
 
 To redeem that unquestionable and obvious harm 
 which the men of state do to people by their emancipa-
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 217 
 
 tion from the struggle with Nature and the exploitation 
 of the labour of others, they do to people another obvious, 
 unquestionable harm, — all kiuds of violence. 
 
 To redeem that unquestiouable and obvious harm 
 which the industrialists do to people by exploiting their 
 labour, they strive to acquire for themselves, consequently 
 to take away from others, as much wealth as possible, 
 that is, as much of the labour of others as possible. 
 
 The men of science and of the arts, in return for that 
 unquestionable and obvious harm which they do to the 
 labouring people, busy themselves with matters which are 
 incomprehensible to the labouring people, and which, 
 according to their own assertion, to be real, must not 
 have usefulness in view, but that toward which they 
 feel themselves drawn. And so all these men are fully 
 convinced that their right to exploit other people's labour 
 is unshakable. 
 
 It would seem to be obvious that aU those people who 
 have emancipated themselves from the labour of life have 
 no grounds for this. But strange to say, these people 
 believe firmly in their righteousness and live as they do 
 with a calm conscience. 
 
 There must be some foundation, there must be some 
 false creed, at the basis of such a terrible delusion.
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Indeed, at the basis of the position in which people 
 are who Hve by the labour of others, lies not only a 
 belief, but a whole creed, and not one, but three creeds, 
 which during the ages have grown up by superposition 
 and have been compacted into one monstrous deception, 
 — humbug, as the English say, — which conceals from 
 men their unrighteousness. 
 
 The oldest creed in our world, which justified men's 
 defection from their fundamental duty of the labour of 
 life, was the church-Christian creed, according to which 
 men are by God's will differentiated from one another, as 
 the sun differs from the moon and the stars, and the 
 stars among themselves ; some people are commanded by 
 God to have power over all men, others over many, 
 others again over a few, while others are commanded 
 by God to obey. 
 
 This creed, though now tottering on its foundations, 
 still continues to act on people from inertia, so that many, 
 who do not recognize the doctrine itself, none the less are 
 guided by it. 
 
 The second justificatory creed of our world is the one 
 which I cannot call otherwise than the politico-philosoph- 
 ical creed. According to this creed, which was perfectly 
 expressed in Hegel, everything which exists is rational, 
 and the order of things which was established and is 
 maintained by people was not established and is not main- 
 tained by people but is the one possible form of the 
 manifestation of the spirit, or in general of the life of 
 humanity. And this creed is in our time no longer 
 
 218
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 219 
 
 shared by meu who guide pubhc opmion, and mauitaina 
 itself only through inertia. 
 
 The last, now reiguing creed, the one on which the 
 justification of the leading meu of state, of industry, of 
 science, and of art is based in our day, is the scientific 
 ci-eed, not in the simple meaning of this word, which des- 
 ignates knowledge in general, but in the sense of one 
 special kind of knowledge, both as to form and to con- 
 tents. 
 
 On this new creed, which is called science, is mainly 
 based the justification which iii our day conceals from 
 the idle people their defection from their calling. 
 
 This new creed made its appearance in Europe simul- 
 taneously with the appearance of a large class of rich and 
 idle people, who serve neither the church, nor the state, 
 and who needed a justification corresponding to their 
 position. 
 
 Not very long ago, previous to the French Eevolution, 
 all the leisure people in Europe, to have the right to ex- 
 ploit the labours of others, were compelled to have some 
 very definite occupations : they had to serve the church, 
 the government, and the army. The men who served 
 the government ruled the people ; those who served the 
 church taught them the divine truths ; those who served 
 the army defended the people. 
 
 Only three classes, the clergy, the rulers, the mihtary, 
 regarded themselves as having the right to make use of 
 the labours of the masses, and could always bring forward 
 their service to the people ; all the other rich people, who 
 did not have this justification, were despised and, feeling 
 their unrighteousness, were ashamed of their wealth and 
 idleness. 
 
 But the time came when this class of the rich, who 
 were subject neither to the clerg}', nor to the government, 
 nor to the army, multiphed, thanks to the vices of the 
 three estates, and became a power, and these men neede(i
 
 220 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 
 
 a justification. And the justification made its appear- 
 ance. 
 
 Less than a century passed, when all these men, who 
 serve neither the government, nor the church, and who take 
 no part in these matters, not only acquired the same rights 
 for the exploitation of the labours of others, as the former 
 estates had possessed, aud so stopped being ashamed of 
 their wealth and idleness, but also began to consider their 
 position fully justified. There has in our day evolved an 
 enormous number of such men, and their number is all 
 the time growing. And what is remarkable is this, that 
 these new men, the legality of whose emancipation from 
 labour was even recently not recognized, now are the only 
 ones who consider themselves fully justified, and they at- 
 tack the three former classes, the servants of the church, 
 of the state, and of the army, recognizing their hberatiou 
 from labour as irregular and their activity even as harmful. 
 
 And what is still more remarkable is this, that the 
 former servants of the state, the church, and the army no 
 longer fall back on their divine election or even ou the 
 philosophical significance of the state, which is supposed 
 to be necessary for the manifestation of individuahty, but 
 even throw down these supports, which have held them 
 up for so long a time, and seek those supports on which 
 stands the now ruling class, which has discovered this new 
 justification, and at the head of which stand the learned 
 and the artists. If now a man of state occasionally 
 through his old reminiscence defends his position by say- 
 ing that he was destined for it by God, or that the state 
 is a form of the evolution of the individual, he does so 
 because he has fallen behind the times, and he feels him- 
 self that nobody believes him. In order firmly to defend 
 himself, he has now to find, not theological or philosoph- 
 ical, but new scientific supports. It is necessary to ad- 
 vance the principle of the nationalities or of organic 
 evolution, — it is necessary to keep on the good side of
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 221 
 
 the ruling class, as in the Middle Ages it was necessary 
 to keep on the good side of the clergy, as at the end of 
 last century it was necessary to keep on the good side of 
 the philosophers (Frederick, Catherine). 
 
 If a rich man now at times, from old habit, speaks of 
 the divine providence wliich chose him to become a rich 
 man, or of the significance of aristocracy for the good of 
 the state, he speaks so because he is beliind the times. 
 In order firmly to justify himself, he must advance his 
 cooperation with the progress of civiHzation by the per- 
 fection of the means of production, the cheapening of the 
 necessary commodities, the establishment of international 
 amity. A rich man must think and speak in scientific 
 language, and, as formerly sacrifices were brought to the 
 clergy, so now he brings them to the ruling class, — he 
 must publish periodicals and books, found galleries, musical 
 societies, or a kindergarten, or technical schools. 
 
 But the ruling class is that of the learned and the 
 artists of a given tendency : they have the complete 
 justification of their emancipation from labour, and on 
 their justification, as formerly on the theological and 
 later on the philosophical justification, is now based every 
 justification, and they now distribute to the other classes 
 the diplomas for justification. 
 
 The class which now has a full justification in its 
 emancipation from labour is the class of the men of 
 science, especially of experimental, positive, critical, evolu- 
 tionary science, and the class of artists who work in the 
 same direction. 
 
 If a learned man or an artist from old habit now speaks 
 of prophecy, revelation, or the manifestation of the spirit, 
 he does so because he has fallen behind the times, and he 
 does not justify himself : in order to stand firmly, he must 
 in some way articulate his activity with the experimental, 
 positive, critical science, and place this science at the 
 foundation of his activity.
 
 222 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 
 
 In that case alone will the science or the art with 
 which he busies himself be real, and he himself in our 
 day be able to stand on imperturbable foundations, and 
 no doubt exist any longer as to the benefit which it 
 confers on humanity. 
 
 On the experimental, critical, positive science is now 
 based the justification of all men who have emancipated 
 themselves from labour. 
 
 The theological and philosophical justifications have 
 outlived their usefulness, and they diffidently and bashfully 
 make themselves known and try to give way to the scien- 
 tific justifications ; but the scientific justification boldly 
 overturns and destroys what is left of the former justifica- 
 tions, everywhere takes their place, and, with the con- 
 viction of its imperturbability, raises its head high. 
 
 The theological justification said that men according 
 to their destination are called, some to command, others 
 to obey, some to live in abundance, others in want ; and 
 so he who believes in the revelation of God cannot doubt 
 the legality of the state of those men who by the will of 
 God are called to command and be rich. 
 
 The philosophico-political justification said : " The state 
 with all its institutions and different classes of men accord- 
 ing to privileges and to property is that historic form 
 which is necessary for the regular manifestation of the 
 spirit in humanity, and so the position by privilege and 
 property, which one occupies in the state and in society, 
 must be such for the regular life of humanity." 
 
 The scientific theory says : " All that is nonsense and 
 superstition ; one is the fruit of the thought of the 
 theological period of the life of humanity, the other is that 
 of the metaphysical period. For the study of the laws of 
 the life of human societies there is only one unquestionable 
 method, — the method of the positive, experimental, crit- 
 ical science. Nothing but sociology, which is based on 
 biology, which in its turn is based on all the other positive
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 223 
 
 sciences, can give us the laws of the life of humanity. 
 Humanity, or the human societies, are organisms, all ready 
 or in the act of formation and subject to all the laws of the 
 evolution of the organisms. One of these chief laws is the 
 division of the functions of labour among the particles of 
 the organs. If some people command and others obey, 
 if some live in abundance and others in want, this takes 
 place, not by the will of God, not because the state is a 
 form of the manifestation of the individual, but because 
 in the societies, as in the organisms, takes place the 
 division of labour which is indispensalJe for the life of 
 the whole : some men perform in societies the muscular 
 labour, while others do the mental labour." 
 
 On this creed is based the reigning justification of our 
 time.
 
 XXIX. 
 
 A NEW teaching is preached by Christ and is recorded 
 in the gospels. This teaching is persecuted, and is not 
 accepted, and they invent the history of the fall of the 
 first man and of the first angel, and this invention is 
 accepted as Christ's teaching. This invention is insipid, 
 has no foundation, but from it inevitably results the con- 
 clusion that a man may live badly and yet consider him- 
 self justified by Christ, and this conclusion is so opportune 
 for those feeble men who do not like any moral labour, 
 that this invention is immediately accepted as a truth 
 and even as a divine, revealed truth, although nowhere 
 in what is called revelation is there even a hint concern- 
 ing this, and the invention is put at the base of the 
 millennial labour of the learned theologians, who upon it 
 construct their theories. 
 
 The learned theologians break up into sects and begin 
 to deny the structures of one another, and they begin to 
 feel that they themselves are becoming entangled and do 
 not understand what they say ; but the crowd demands 
 of them a confirmation of their favourite doctrine, and 
 they pretend that they understand and believe what they 
 say, and continue to preach. But the time comes when 
 the arguments prove useless, the crowd looks into the 
 sanctuaries of the priests, and to its astonishment sees, in 
 place of the solemn and undoubted truths that the theo- 
 logical mysteries seemed to it to be, that there has never 
 been there anything but the grossest deception, and 
 marvels at its blindness. 
 
 The same has happened with philosophy, not in the 
 
 224
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 225 
 
 sense of the wisdom of a Confucius, a Socrates, an Epic- 
 tetus, but with the professorial philosophy, whenever it 
 pandered to the instincts of the idle rich. 
 
 Not long ago there reigued in the learned world the 
 philosophy of the spirit, according to which it appeared 
 that everything which existed was rational, that there 
 was neither bad nor good, and that a man must not 
 struggle with evil, but only manifest his spirit, — one in 
 military service, another in a court, a third on the violin. 
 
 There have been many different expressions of human 
 wisdom, and these manifestations have been known to 
 the men of the nineteenth century. They have known 
 Eousseau, and Pasqual, and Lessing, and Spinoza, and all 
 the wisdom of antiquity, but nobody's wisdom has taken 
 possession of the crowd. It cannot even be said that the 
 success of Hegel's philosophy depended on the harmony 
 of his theories. There have been other harmonious 
 theories, such as those of Fichte and Schopenhauer. 
 There was but one reason why this teaching for a short 
 time became the creed of the whole world ; the reason 
 was, like the reason of the success of the theory of the 
 fall and redemption of man, that the deductions from this 
 philosophical theory pandered to the weaknesses of men. 
 They said : everything is rational, everything is good, 
 nobody is to blame for anything. And just as the theo- 
 logians did with the theory of redemption, so the philoso- 
 phers built their tower of Babel on Hegelian foundations 
 (and even now a few men who are behind the times are 
 sitting on it), and in the same way their tongues became 
 confused, and they felt that they themselves did not 
 know what they were saying, and, without carrying the 
 dirt out of their house, tried just as carefully to maintain 
 their authority before the crowd, and the crowd asked as 
 much as before for a confirmation of what was opportune 
 for it, and believed that what to it appeared obscure and 
 contradictory was as clear as day up there, on the philo-
 
 226 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 sophical heights. And again the time came when even 
 this theory was worn out, and in its place there appeared 
 a new theory, and the old one became useless, and the 
 crowd peeped into the mysterious sanctuaries of the priests, 
 and saw that there was nothing there, and never had been 
 anything but very obscure and senseless w^ords. This 
 took place within my memory. 
 
 When I began to live, Hegehanism was the foundation 
 of everything : it was in the air, found its expression in 
 newspaper and periodical articles, in novels, in treatises, 
 in art, in history, in sermons, in conversations. A man 
 who did not know Hegel had no right to speak : he who 
 wanted to know the truth studied Hegel. Everything 
 leaned on him, and suddenly forty years have passed, 
 and nothing is left of him, and there is no mention even 
 made of him, as though he had never existed. And what 
 is most remarkable is that, like pseudo-Christianity, Hege- 
 liauism fell, not because somebody overthrew it, — no, as 
 it was, so it still is, — but because it suddenly became 
 evident that the learned, cultured world had no use for 
 either. 
 
 If we now talk to a modern cultured man about the 
 fall of the angel and of Adam, and about the redemption, 
 he will not even try to dispute and prove the injustice of 
 it, but will ask in perplexity : " What angel ? Why 
 Adam ? What redemption ? What do I want with it ? " 
 The same is true of Hegelianism. The modern man will 
 not dispute, but will only marvel. " What spirit ? Where 
 does it come from ? Why is it manifested ? What do I 
 want with it ? " 
 
 " Yes," the learned men of the present will say, " that 
 was due to the fact that it was the delirium of the theo- 
 logical and of the metaphysical periods ; now w^e have 
 the critical, positive science, which will not deceive us, 
 because it is all based on induction and experience. Now 
 our knowledge is not shaky as it used to be, and only
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 227 
 
 on our path lies the solution of all the questions of 
 humanity." 
 
 But it is precisely what the theologians used to say, 
 and they were certainly no fools ; — we know that there 
 were among them people of very great intellect; and 
 precisely the same, and not with less conviction, and not 
 with less recognition on the part of the crowd of the so- 
 called cultured people, did the Hegelians say within my 
 memory. And certainly such men as our Hertzen, Stan- 
 k^vich, and Byelinski were no fools. Why, then, has this 
 remarkable phenomenon happened that clever people have 
 with the greatest conviction preached, and the crowd 
 has with awe received, such unfounded and barren doc- 
 trines ? There is just one reason for it, and it is this, 
 that the doctrines preached justified the people in their 
 bad hves. 
 
 Is not the same the reason of the self-confidence of the 
 men of the positive, critical, experimental science, and of 
 the awed relation of the crowd to what they preach ? At 
 first it appears strange how the theory of evolution (Hke 
 the redemption iu theology, it serves for the majority as 
 a popular expression of the whole new creed) can justify 
 people in their unrighteousness, and it seems that the 
 scientific theory has to do with facts only, and does 
 nothing but observe facts. 
 
 But that only seems so. Even so it seemed in the 
 case of the theological doctrine that the theology busied 
 itself only with dogmas and had no relation to the life of 
 men : even so it seemed in philosophy : it seemed to be 
 occupied only with its transcendental ratiocinations. 
 
 But that only seemed so. Even so it seemed in the 
 case of the Hegelian doctrine on a large scale, and in 
 particular in the case of the Malthusian theory. 
 
 Hegelianism seemed to be occupied only with its log- 
 ical constructions and to have no relation to the life of 
 men ; the same seemed to be the case with the Malthusian
 
 228 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 
 
 theory : it seemed to be occupied only with the facts of 
 statistical data. But that only seems so. 
 
 Modern science investigates facts. But what facts ? 
 Why such facts, and no others ? 
 
 The men of modern science are very fond of saying 
 with solemnity and conviction : " We investigate noth- 
 ing but facts," imagining that these words have some 
 meaning. 
 
 It is impossible to investigate nothing but facts, be- 
 cause of the facts which are subject to our investigation 
 there is an infinite number (in the exact sense of the 
 word). Before investigating facts it is necessary to have 
 a theory, on the basis of which such or such facts are 
 chosen out of the endless number. And this theory 
 exists, and is even very definitely expressed, though 
 many of the men of modern science either ignore it, that 
 is, do not want to know, or indeed do not know it, or 
 pretend that they do not know it. Even so it has always 
 been with all the reigning, guiding creeds, — with theology 
 and with philosophy. 
 
 The foundations of every creed are always given in 
 the theory, and the so-called learned men only invent the 
 further deductions from the original data, sometimes with- 
 out knowing them. But there is always a fundamental 
 theory. Even so modern science now chooses its facts 
 on the basis of a very definite theory, which at times it 
 knows, at times does not want to know, at times indeed 
 does not know ; but that theory exists. 
 
 This theory is : all humanity is an undying organism, 
 and men are the particles of the organism, each of whom 
 has his special calling in order to serve the whole. 
 
 Just- as the cells, composing the organism, divide the 
 labour among themselves for the struggle for existence of 
 the whole organism, strengthen one quality and weaken 
 another, and form themselves into one organ in order the 
 better to satisfy the needs of the whole organism, and just
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 229 
 
 as with the social animals, with the ants and bees, the 
 separate individuals divide the labour among themselves, — 
 the queen laying eggs, the drone fertilizing them, the bees 
 working for the life of the whole, — even so in humanity 
 and human societies takes place the same differentiation 
 and integration of the parts. 
 
 And so, in order to find the law of man's life, it is 
 necessary to study the laws of life and of the evolu- 
 tion of the organisms ; in the life and evolution of 
 the organisms we find the following laws : the law 
 that every phenomenon is accompanied by something 
 more than the immediate consequences ; another law 
 about the instability of the homogeneous ; and a third 
 law about heterogeneity and homogeneity, and so forth. 
 All this seems very innocent, but it is enough to make 
 the deductions from all these investigations of facts in 
 order to see at once whither these facts teud. All these 
 facts teud to one thing, namely, to recognizing humanity 
 or human society as an organism, and so to recognizing 
 the division of activities which exists in human societies 
 as organic, that is, as necessary ; and since in human 
 societies there are manifested very many cruelties and 
 abominations, these phenomena are not to be regarded as 
 cruel and abominable, but to be viewed as undoubted 
 facts, which confirm the general law, namely, the law of 
 the division of labour. 
 
 The philosophy of the spirit also justified every cruelty 
 and abomination ; there it was philosophical, and so — 
 irregular ; but according to science it all turns out to be 
 scientific, and so — unquestionable. 
 
 How can one help accepting such a beautiful theory ! 
 It is enough for me to view human society as an object 
 of observation, in order calmly to devour the labours of 
 others who are" perishing, consoling myself with the 
 thought that my activity as a dancer, lawyer, doctor, 
 philosopher, actor, investigator of mediumism and of the
 
 230 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 form of atoms is a functional activity of the organism of 
 humanity, and so there cannot even be a question as 
 to the justice of my exploiting the labours of others, — I 
 am only doing what is pleasant for me, — as there can be 
 no question as to the justice of the activity of the brain 
 cell which is making use of the muscular labour. 
 
 We cannot help but admit such a practical theory, in 
 order that we may for ever hide our conscience in our 
 pocket, and live a completely unbridled animal life, feeling 
 under our feet the imperturbable support of our modern 
 science. It is on this new creed that the justification of 
 the idleness and the cruelty of men is now based.
 
 XXX. 
 
 This creed began but recently, some fifty years ago. 
 Its chief founder, the French savant Comte, a system- 
 atizer and at the same time a religious man, was, under 
 the influence of the then new physiological investigations 
 of Bichat, struck by an old idea, which had been expressed 
 long ago by Menenius Agrippa, that human societies, even 
 all humanity, might be considered as one whole, as an 
 organism, and men as the living particles of separate 
 organs, each of which had its definite purpose to serve the 
 whole organism. Comte took such a liking to this idea 
 that lie began upon it to construct a philosophic theory, 
 and this theory so carried him away that he entirely for- 
 got that his point of departure was nothing more than a 
 pretty comparison, which is proper in a fable, but in no 
 way can serve as a foundation for science. As often hap- 
 pens, he accepted his favourite assumption as an axiom, 
 and imagined that his whole theory, was based on the 
 firmest and most experimental foundations. According 
 to his theory it turned out that, since humanity is an 
 organism, the knowledge of what a man is, and what his 
 relation to the world ought to be, is possible only through 
 the knowledge of the properties of this organism. In 
 order to discover these properties, man is able to make 
 observations on other, lower organisms, and from their 
 life to make his inferences. 
 
 And so, in the first place, the only true method of 
 science, according to Comte, is the inductive, and all 
 science is only that which has experiment for its founda- 
 tion ; in the second, the aim and apex of science now is 
 
 231
 
 232 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 the new science of the imaginary organism of humanity, 
 or of the superorganic being, humanity : this new imag- 
 inary science is sociology. From this view of science in 
 general it appeared that all former knowledge had been 
 false, and all history of humanity in the sense of its self- 
 knowledge was divided into three, or really two, periods, 
 
 (1) the theological and the metaphysical period, which 
 lasted from the beginning of the world until Comte, and 
 
 (2) the present period of the one, true science, the positive, 
 which began with Comte. 
 
 All that was very nice ; there was but one mistake 
 here, namely, this, that the whole building was reared on 
 the sand, on the arbitrary assertion that humanity is 
 an organism. 
 
 This assertion was arbitrary, because we have just as 
 little right to acknowledge the existence of an organism 
 of humanity, wliich is not subject to observation, as to 
 assume the existence of a triune God and similar theo- 
 logical propositions. 
 
 This assertion was irregular, because to the concept of 
 humanity, that is, of men, there was irregularly added 
 the definition of an organism, whereas humanity lacks the 
 essential sign of an organism, a centre of sensation and of 
 consciousness. We_ call an elephant or a bacterion an 
 organism, only because from analogy we assume in these 
 beings the same unification of sensation and of conscious- 
 ness which we know in ourselves ; but in human societies 
 and in humanity this essential sign is absent, and so, no 
 matter how many other common signs ,we may find in 
 humanity and in the organism, without this essential sign 
 the acknowledgment of humanity as an organism is 
 irregular. 
 
 But in spite of the arbitrariness and irregularity of the 
 fundamental proposition of positive philosophy, it was ac- 
 cepted by the so-called cultured world with the greatest 
 sympathy, on account of its justification of the existing
 
 "WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 233 
 
 order of things, so important for the crowd, by acknowl- 
 edging the legality of the existing violence in humanity. 
 What is remarkable in this respect is this, that of Comte's 
 works, which consist of two parts, of positive philosophy 
 and of positive politics, the learned world accepted the 
 first only, the one which justified on the new experimen- 
 tal principles the existing evil of human societies ; but the 
 second part, which dealt with the moral obligations of 
 altruism which resulted from acknowledging humanity as 
 an organism, was considered not only unimportant, but 
 even insignificant and unscientific. 
 
 The same was repeated as with the two parts of Kant's 
 teaching. The critique of sound reason was accepted 
 by the learned crowd ; but the critique of practical reason, 
 the part which contains the essence of the moral teaching, 
 was rejected. In Comte's teaching they recognized as 
 scientific what pandered to the reigning evil. But even 
 the positive philosophy which the crowd accepted, being 
 based on an arbitrary and irregular proposition, was in 
 itself too groundless and therefore unstable, and so was 
 unable to hold itself for any length of time. 
 
 Suddenly, among the many idle speculations of the 
 men of 'the so-called science, there appears again a new, 
 and just as arbitrary and irregular an assertion that living 
 beings, that is, organisms, have been derived one from the 
 other, — not only one organism from another, but one 
 organism from many, that is, that in a very long interval 
 of time, in a million years, a fish and a duck, for example, 
 may have not only been derived from one and the same 
 ancestor, but that also one organism may have been de- 
 rived from many separate organisms, so that, for example, 
 a whole swarm of bees may produce one animal. This 
 arbitrary and incorrect assertion was accepted by the 
 learned world with still greater sympathy. This assertion 
 was arbitrary, because no one has ever seen how one or- 
 ganism is produced from others, and so the assumption
 
 234 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 about the origin of species will always remain an assump- 
 tion, and not an experimental fact. And this assumption 
 was incorrect, because the solution of the question about 
 the origin of species by saying that they originated in 
 consequence of the law of heredity and adaptation during 
 an infinitely long period of time, is not at all a solution, 
 but only a repetition of the question in a new form. 
 
 According to the solution of the question by Moses 
 (the whole significance of the theory consists in a polemic 
 with him) it turns out that the diversity of the species of 
 living beings is due to God's will and infinite power ; but 
 according to the theory of evolution it turns out that the 
 diversity of the living beings originated from itself in 
 consequence of infinitely diversified conditions of heredity 
 and surroundings in an infinite period of time. The 
 theory of evolution, speaking in simple language, asserts 
 only that in an infinite period of time anything you please 
 may originate from anything you please. 
 
 There is no answer to the question, but the same ques- 
 tion is differently put : instead of the will, accident is 
 put, and the coefficient of the infinite is transferred from 
 power to time. But this new assertion, intensified by 
 Darwin's followers in the sense of arbitrariness and incor- 
 rectness, strengthened the former assertion of Comte, and 
 so it became the revelation of our time and the foundation 
 of all the sciences, even of history, philology, and religion, 
 and, besides, according to the naive confession of the 
 founder of the theory liimself, of Darwin, his idea was 
 called forth by Malthus's law and so advanced the theory 
 of the struggle of the living beings and of men for exist- 
 ence as the fundamental law of everything living. But 
 that was all the crowd of idle people needed for their 
 justification. 
 
 Two unstable theories, which could not stand on their 
 legs, supported one another and assumed a semblance of 
 stability. Both theories bore in themselves a meaning
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 235 
 
 which was precious to the crowd, namely, that men are 
 not to blame for the existing evil of human societies, but 
 that the existing order is precisely what it ought to be ; 
 and the new theory was accepted by the crowd in the 
 sense in which it was needed, with full faith and unheard 
 of enthusiasm. And on these two arbitrary and incorrect 
 propositions, which were accepted as dogmas of faith, the 
 new scientific creed was firmly grounded. 
 
 In subject and in form this new creed has an unusual 
 resemblance to the Christian creed of the church. 
 
 In subject this resemblance consists in this, that in 
 either an unreal, fantastic meaning is ascribed to reality, 
 and this unreal meaning is made a subject for investiga- 
 tion. 
 
 In the church - Christian creed the real Christ has 
 assumed the fantastic meaning of God himself ; in the 
 positive creed the fantastic meaning of an organism is 
 ascribed to an actual being, — to living men. 
 
 In form the resemblance of the two creeds is striking 
 in this, that in either a certain comprehension of one set 
 of men is acknowledged to be the one infallibly correct 
 and true comprehension. 
 
 In the Christianity of the church the comprehension of 
 divine revelation by the people who called themselves the 
 church is recognized as sacred and exclusively true ; ac- 
 cording to the positive creed the comprehension of science 
 by the men who call themselves scientific is recognized as 
 unquestionable and true. Just as the Christians of the 
 church recognized the beginning of the true knowledge of 
 God only from the foundation of their church, and only, 
 as it were, out of civihty, said that the former believers 
 were also the church ; even so the positive science, accord- 
 ing to its assertion, began only with Comte, and the men 
 of science, again only out of civility, admit the existence of 
 science before their day, but only in the person of some 
 of its representatives, such as Aristotle ; just like the church,
 
 236 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 SO the positive science completely excludes the knowledge 
 of all the rest of humanity, recognizing all such knowl- 
 edge as erroneous. 
 
 The resemblance goes even farther : just as to the 
 aid of the fundamental dogma of theology, of the divinity 
 of Christ and of the trinity, there comes the old dogma of 
 man's fall and of his redemption through Christ's death, 
 which receives a new meaning, and of these two dogmas 
 the popular ecclesiastic doctrine is composed, — so in our 
 time, to the aid of Comte's fundamental dogma about the 
 organism of humanity comes the old dogma of evolution, 
 which receives a new meaning, and from both the popular 
 scientific creed is composed. 
 
 In either creed the new dogma is necessary for the sup- 
 port of the old one, and is comprehensible only in connec- 
 tion with the fundamental dogma. If to the believer in 
 Christ's divinity it is not clear and not comprehensible 
 why God came down upon earth, the dogma of redemption 
 gives this explanation. 
 
 If to the believer in the organism of humanity it is not 
 clear why an aggregate of individuals may be considered 
 an organism, the dogma of evolution furnishes this expla- 
 nation. 
 
 The dogma of redemption is necessary in order to 
 harmonize the contradiction with the actuality of the 
 first dogma. 
 
 God came down upon earth in order to save men, and 
 men are not saved, — how is this contradiction to be 
 harmonized ? The dogma of redemption says : " If you 
 believe in the redemption, you are saved." 
 
 Similarly the dogma of evolution is necessary in order 
 to solve the contradiction with the actuality of the first 
 dogma : humanity is an organism, and yet we see that it 
 does not answer the first sign of an organism, — how is 
 this to l^e harmonized ? And so the dogma of evolution 
 says : " Humanity is an organism in formation. If
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 237 
 
 you believe in this, you can view humanity as an 
 organism." 
 
 And just as for a man who is free from the supersti- 
 tion of the trinity and the divinity of Christ it is even 
 impossible to comprehend wherein the interest and mean- 
 ing of the doctrine of redemption lies, and this meaning 
 is explained only by acknowledging the fundamental 
 dogma about Christ being God himself, — even so for 
 humanity, which is free from the positive superstition, it 
 is even impossible to comprehend in what lies the interest 
 of the teaching about the origin of species of evolution, 
 and this interest is explained only when one knows the 
 fundamental dogma about humanity being an organism. 
 
 And just as all the finesses of theology are compre- 
 hensible to him only who believes in the fundamental 
 dogmas, even so all the finesses of sociology, which now 
 occupy all the minds of the men of the very latest and 
 profoundest science, are comprehensible to the believer 
 only. 
 
 The resemblance of the two creeds consists further in 
 this, that the propositions once accepted on faith and no 
 longer subject to investigation serve as a foundation 
 for the strangest of theories, and the preachers of these 
 theories, having appropriated to themselves the method 
 of asserting their right to recognize themselves as holy in 
 theology and as scientific in knowledge, that is, infallible, 
 reach the most arbitrary, incredible, and groundless 
 assertions, which they express ^vith the gi-eatest solemnity 
 and seriousness, and which with the same seriousness and 
 solemnity are disputed in detail by those who do not 
 agree on particular points, but equally recognize the 
 fundamental dogmas. 
 
 The Basil the Great of this creed, Spencer, for example, 
 in one of his first writings expresses these creeds as fol- 
 lows : societies and organisms, he says, differ in this : 
 
 (1) That, beginning as small aggregates, they imper-
 
 238 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 ceptibly grow in mass, so that some of them reach a size 
 which is ten thousand times as large as the original. 
 
 (2) That, while in the beginning they are of such a 
 simple structure that they may be regarded as deprived 
 of all structure, they during the time of their growth 
 acquire a constantly increasing complexity of structure. 
 
 (3) That, although in their early, undeveloped period 
 there exists between them hardly any mutual relation 
 of the particles between themselves, this relation finally 
 becomes so powerful that the activity and the hfe of each 
 particle becomes possible only with the activity and the 
 life of the rest. 
 
 (4) That the life and the development of society are 
 independent and more prolonged than the life and the 
 development of any of its component units, which are 
 born, grow, act, reproduce, and die separately, while the 
 body politic, which is composed of them, continues to live 
 generation after generation, developing in the mass, on ac- 
 count of the perfection of the structure and the functional 
 activity. 
 
 After that follow the points of difference between 
 organisms and society, and it is proved that these dif- 
 ferences are only seeming ones, and that organisms and 
 societies are completely alike. 
 
 To a fresh man there presents itself the direct question : 
 "What are you talking about? Why is humanity an 
 organism ? or why does it resemble it ? 
 
 " You say that societies according to these four signs 
 are like organisms, but there is nothing of the kind. You 
 only take a few of the signs of tlie organism, and classify 
 human societies according to them. 
 
 " You adduce four signs of resemblance, then take the 
 signs of difference, but only the seeming ones (as it appears 
 to us), and you conclude that human societies may be 
 viewed as organisms. But this is an idle play of dialec- 
 tics and nothing else. On such a foundation it is possible
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 239 
 
 to classify anything you please according to the signs of 
 the organism." 
 
 I shall take the first thing that occurs to me, let us say 
 uhe forest, as it is sowed in the field and grows up : 
 
 (1) Beginning as a small aggregate, etc. ; precisely the 
 same takes place in the fields, when the seeds slowly take 
 root in them, and the forest grows up. 
 
 (2) In the beginning the structure is simple, then the 
 complexity grows, etc. ; precisely the same is true of 
 the forest : first there are nothing but little birches, then 
 willov/s and hazel bushes are added ; at first they grow 
 straight, and later their branches intertwine. 
 
 (3) The interrelation of the particles increases to such 
 an extent that the life of each particle depends on the 
 life and the activity of the rest ; precisely the same is true 
 of the forest : the hazel bushes warm the trunks (cut them 
 out, and the other trees will freeze), the border under- 
 brush guards it against the wind, the seed trees continue 
 ilie species, the tall and leafy trees furnish shade, and the 
 life of one tree depends on the other. 
 
 (4) The separate parts may die, but the whole lives ; 
 the same is true of the forest : as the proverb says, The 
 forest does not lament a tree. 
 
 Precisely the same is true with the example generally 
 adduced by the advocates of the theory, that if the arm is 
 chopped off, the arm will die ; plant a tree beyond the 
 shade and the forest soil, and it will die. 
 
 There is also a remarkable resemblance between this 
 creed and the Christian dogma of the church and any 
 other which is based on dogmas that are taken upon 
 faith, on account of its impermeability against the proofs 
 of logic. Having shown that the forest may, according to 
 this theory, with equal right be considered an organism, 
 you think that you have proven to them the incorrectness 
 of their definition, — but that is where you are mistaken. 
 
 The definition which they give to the organism is so
 
 240 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 inexact and so extensible that they can classify under 
 their definition anything they please. 
 
 " Yes," they will say, " a forest may be regarded as an 
 organism. A forest is a peaceful interaction of individuals 
 which do not destroy one another, — an aggregate, — 
 and its parts may also come into a closer union and, like 
 a bee swarm, may become an organism." 
 
 Then you will say that if it is so, the birds, and the 
 insects, and the grasses of this forest, which interact and 
 do not destroy one another, may also be viewed with the 
 trees as one organism. 
 
 They will agree even to that. Every aggregate of liv- 
 ing beings which interact and do not destroy one another 
 may, according to their theory, also be viewed as an 
 organism. You may assume a union and cooperation 
 between any things you please, and from evolution you 
 may affirm that out of anything you please there will in 
 a very long time be produced anything you please. 
 
 It is impossible to prove to those who believe in the 
 trinity of God that that is not so, but it is possible to 
 show them that their assertion is an assertior not of 
 knowledge, but of faith, and that if they assert that there 
 are three Gods, I with the same right may assert that 
 there are seventeen and a half of them ; the same, with 
 even greater assurance, may be proved to the followers 
 of the positive and evolutionary science. On the basis 
 of this science I will undertake to prove anything you 
 please. And what is most remarkable is this, that this 
 same positive science recognizes the scientific method as a 
 sign of true knowledge, and has itself defined what it 
 calls a scientific method. What it calls the scientific 
 method is common sense, and it is this common sense 
 which accuses it at every step. 
 
 The moment those who occupied the places of the 
 saints began to feel that there was nothing saintly left in 
 them, and that they were all cursed, hke the Pope and
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 241 
 
 our Synod, they immediately called themselves, not only 
 holy, but also most holy. The moment science felt that 
 there was nothing of common sense left in it, it called 
 itself the science of common sense, that is, scientific 
 science.
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The division of labour is the law of everything in exist- 
 ence, and so it must be also in human societies. It is 
 very likely that it is so, but the question still remains 
 whether the division of labour which is uow in human 
 societies is that division of labour which there ought to 
 be. And if people consider a certain division of labour 
 irrational and unjust, no science can prove to people that 
 that which they regard as irrational and unjust ought to 
 exist. 
 
 The theological theory has proved that the power is 
 from God, and it is very likely that it is, but the question 
 is still left : whose power is from God, Catherine's or 
 Pugach^v's ? And no finesses of theology have been able 
 to solve this doubt. 
 
 The philosophy of the Spirit has proved that the state 
 is a form of the evolution of individuals ; but the question 
 was still left : can the state of a Nero or of a Dzhingis- 
 khan be regarded as a form of the evolution of individu- 
 als ? And no transcendental words have been able to 
 solve this. 
 
 The same is true of the scientific science. 
 
 The division of labour is a condition of the life of 
 organisms and of human societies ; but what is it in these 
 human societies that must be regarded as an organic 
 division of labour ? And no matter how much science 
 may study the division of labour in tlie cells of rain- 
 worms, all these observations will not make a man regard 
 as correct a division of labour which is not recognized as 
 such by his reason and his conscience. 
 
 No matter how convincing the proofs may be in the 
 
 242
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 243 
 
 case of the division of labour of the cells iu organisms 
 under observation, a man, if he is not yet deprived of rea- 
 son, will none the less say that it is uot right for a man 
 to be weaving cottons all his life, and that this is not a 
 division of labour, but an oppression of men. 
 
 Spencer and the rest say that there are whole settle- 
 ments of weavers, and that, therefore, the weavers' activ- 
 ity is an organic division of labour, — but saying this, 
 they say precisely what the theologians have said. 
 
 There is a power, and so it is from God, no matter 
 what it may be. There are weavers, consequently such 
 is the division of labour. It would be well to say so, if 
 the power and the population of the weavers were made 
 by themselves, but we know that they are not made by 
 themselves, but by us. And so we have to find out 
 whether we made this power by God's will or by our 
 own, and whether we made these weavers according to 
 an organic law or according to something else. 
 
 People live and support themselves by agriculture as is 
 proper for all men : a man puts up a blacksmith's forge 
 and mends his plough, and his neighbour comes and asks 
 him to mend his, and promises labour or money for it. A 
 third, a fourth come, and in the society of these men the 
 following division of labour takes place : a blacksmith is 
 created. Another man teaches his children well, and his 
 neighbour brings his children to him, and asks him to 
 teach them, — and a teacher is created. But the smith 
 and the teacher became and still are such because they 
 were asked, and they remain such only so long as they 
 are asked to be a smith or a teacher. If it should happen 
 that there should be many smiths and teachers, or that 
 their labour is not wanted, they would, as common sense 
 demands, and as always happens where there are no 
 causes for violating the regularity of the division of 
 labour, at once give up their professions and return to 
 agriculture.
 
 244 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 
 
 People who act in this manner are guided by their rea- 
 son and their conscience, and so we, the men who are 
 endowed with reason and conscience, assert that such a 
 division of labour is regular. But if it should happen 
 that the smiths could compel others to work for them, and 
 should continue to make horseshoes, when they were not 
 needed, and the teachers should teach when there was no 
 one to teach, every fresh man, as a man, that is, as a 
 being endowed with reason and with conscience, would 
 plainly see that that would not be a division, but a 
 seizure of somebody else's labour, because such an activ- 
 ity would depart from that one measure by which we can 
 tell the regularity of the division of labour : the demand 
 for this labour by other men, and a freely offered remu- 
 neration for this labour. And yet just such activity is 
 what according to the scientific science is called division 
 of labour. 
 
 People do what others do not even think of demanding, 
 and demand to be fed for it, saying that this is just, be- 
 cause it is a division of labour. 
 
 What forms the chief public calamity of the masses, — 
 not in our country alone, — is the government, the num- 
 berless officials ; what forms the cause of the economic 
 wretchedness of our time is what the English call over- 
 production (the manufacturing of a mass of articles which 
 cannot be got rid of, and which nobody wants) : all this 
 comes from the strange comprehension of the division of 
 labour. 
 
 It would be strange to see a shoemaker, who thought 
 that people were obliged to support him, because he 
 never stopped making boots, which people have long 
 stopped wanting ; but what is to be said of those men of 
 the government, the church, science, the arts, who do not 
 make boots, who do not produce anything tangible or 
 useful for the people, for whose commodities there is no 
 demand, and who, on the basis of the division of labour,
 
 WHAT SUALL WE DO THEN ? 245 
 
 demand just as boldly that they should be given palatable 
 food and drink, and be comfortably clothed ? 
 
 There may be, and there are, wizards for whose activity 
 there is a demand, and to whom people carry for this 
 pancakes and half-stoups ; but it is hard to imagine that 
 there should be wizards whose witchery is not wanted, 
 and who none the less demand boldly to be given good 
 food, because they would practise their magical art. 
 
 And yet it is this that happens in our world with the 
 people of the government, the church, science, and art. 
 
 And all this takes place on the basis of that false 
 comprehension of the division of labour, which is not 
 determined by one's conscience, but by observation, which 
 with such unanimity is professed by the men of science. 
 
 The division of labour has indeed existed at all times, 
 but it is regular only when man decides by his reason and 
 his conscience what it is to be, and not when he shall 
 observe it ; but the conscience and the reason of all men 
 decide this question in a very simple, unquestionable, and 
 unanimous manner. 
 
 They decided that the division of labour is regular only 
 when the special activity of a man is so necessary to men 
 that they, asking him to serve them, themselves offer to 
 support him for what he will do for them. But when 
 a man can from childhood to his thirtieth year sit on the 
 neck of others, promising, after he has learned it, to do 
 something useful, which nobody asks him to do, and when 
 he later, from his thirtieth year until his death, can pro- 
 ceed living in the same way, all the time with only the 
 promise to do something which nobody asks him to do, 
 that will not be any division of labour (as, indeed it does 
 not exist in our society), but, what it really is, only a 
 seizure by the strong of the labour of others ; it is the 
 same seizure of other men's labour by the strong which 
 formerly the theologians used to call divine destination, 
 and the philosophers later called necessary forms of hfe,
 
 246 WHAT SHRILL WE DO THEN? 
 
 and now the scientific science calls organic division of 
 labour. 
 
 The whole significance of the reigning science is only 
 in this. 
 
 It has now become a distributer of diplomas for 
 idleness, because it alone analyzes and decides in its 
 sanctuaries which is a parasitical and wliich an organic 
 activity of man in the social organism, — as though a 
 man could not find out this same thing much more cor- 
 rectly and more quickly by consulting his reason and his 
 conscience. 
 
 And as formerly for the clergy and later for the men 
 of the State there could have been no doubt as to who 
 were most useful to others, so it seems now to the scien- 
 tific science that there can be no doubt as to the fact that 
 its activity is unquestionably organic : they, the scientific 
 and the artistic actors, are the most precious brain cells 
 of the org' nism. But God be with them ! Let them 
 reign, eat and drink what is good, and live idly, as lived 
 and reigned the priests and the sophists, if only, as priests 
 and sophists, they did not corrupt people. 
 
 Ever since there have been people, rational beings, 
 they have distinguished between good and evil and have 
 made use of what the men before them have distinguished 
 in this respect : they have struggled against the evil, 
 sought the true and best path, and slowly but unyieldingly 
 advanced on this path. And always, barring this path, 
 there have risen before men all kinds of deceptions which 
 have for their aim to show that this must not be done, 
 and that it is necessary to live the best way one can. 
 There arose the terrible, old deceptions of tlie ecclesiastics ; 
 with a terrible struggle and labour men slowly emanci- 
 pated themselves from them, but before they managed to 
 free themselves, a new deception, the politico-philosoph- 
 ical, took the place of the old ones. Men freed them- 
 selves even from this.
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 247 
 
 And a new, a still worse, deception grew out on the 
 path of men, — the scientific deception. 
 
 This new deception is just like the older ones : its 
 essence consists in substituting something external for the 
 activity of our reason and of our conscience and of those 
 who have lived before us: in the church teaching this 
 external matter was revelation, in science it is observation. 
 
 The trap of this science consists in this, that, pointing 
 out to men the grossest deviations of the activity of men's 
 reason and conscience, it destroys in them their faith 
 in reason and conscience, and, conceahng its deception, 
 which is clothed in a scientific theory, it assures them 
 that they, studying the external phenomena, are studying 
 undoubted facts, such as will reveal to them the law of 
 man's hfe. But the mental demoralization consists in 
 this, that, by acquiring the belief that the objects, which 
 in reahty are subject to the conscience and to reason, are 
 subject to observation, these people lose the consciousness 
 of good and evil and become incapable of understanding 
 those expressions and definitions of good and evil which 
 have been worked out by the whole preceding hfe of 
 humanity. All this in their jargon is conventional and 
 subjective. All this has to be abandoned, they say ; it is 
 impossible through reason to understand the tnith, be- 
 cause it is possible to err, and there is another path which 
 is faultless and almost mechanical : it is necessary to 
 study facts. But facts have to be studied on the basis of 
 scientific science, that is, of two groundless propositions, 
 — of positivism and of evolution, — which are given out 
 as most unquestionable truths. 
 
 And the reigning science declares, with a not less decep- 
 tive solemnity than does the church, that the solution of 
 all the questions of life is possible only through the study 
 of the facts of Nature and especially of the organisms. 
 
 The credulous multitude of youths, overcome by the 
 novelty of this authority, which is not only not yet
 
 248 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 
 
 destroyed, but even not yet touched by criticism, throws 
 itself with avidity on the study of these facts in the 
 natural sciences, on that only path which, according to 
 the assertion of the reigning doctrine, can lead to the 
 elucidation of the questions of life. 
 
 But the farther the disciples move in this study, the 
 farther and farther removed from them becomes, not only 
 the possibility, but even the idea itself of the solution 
 of the questions of life, and the more and more do they 
 become accustomed, not so much to observe, as to take on 
 trust the observations of others (to believe in cells, in pro- 
 toplasm, in the fourth state of matter, and so forth) ; the 
 more and more does the form shield the contents from 
 them ; the more and more do they lose the consciousness 
 of good and evil and the ability to understand those expres- 
 sions and definitions of good and evil which are worked 
 out by the whole preceding life of humanity ; the more 
 and more do they acquire a special scientific jargon of 
 conventional expressions, which has no universal human 
 significance ; the more and more do they enter into ravines 
 of unenlightened observations ; the more and more are they 
 deprived of the ability, not only to think independently, but 
 even to understand a fresh, human thought which is found 
 outside their Talmud ; and, above all else, they pass their 
 best years in becoming dissociated from life, that is, from 
 labour, get accustomed to regard their condition as justi- 
 fied, and grow even physically to be worthless parasites. 
 And just like the theologians and Talmudists, they com- 
 pletely wrench their brains and become eunuchs of 
 thought. And just like them, in proportion with their 
 dulling, they acquire a self-confidence which deprives 
 them for ever of the possibility of a return to the simple, 
 clear, and universally human manner of thinking.
 
 XXXII. 
 
 The division of labour in human society has always 
 existed and, no doubt, will always exist ; but for us the 
 question is not whether it is and will be, but what we 
 must be guided by, in order that the division may be regu- 
 lar. Now if we take observation as a standard, we shall 
 in this manner at once renounce all standards, and then 
 every division of labour which we shall see among 
 people, and which will appear regular to us, will be re- 
 garded as regular by us, — and to this indeed the reigning 
 scientific science leads us. 
 
 Division of labour ! Some busy themselves with men- 
 tal, spiritual labour, others with muscular, physical labour. 
 With what assurance these people speak ! They want to 
 believe so, and it seems to them that there is indeed taking 
 place a completely regular exchange of services, where in 
 reality it is only a very simple and old form of violence. 
 
 " Thou, or rather you " (for it is always a number of 
 people who feed one), " feed and clothe me and do for me 
 all the coarse labour which I shall demand, and which 
 we are accustomed to receive from childhood, and I will 
 do for you that mental labour which I can and to which 
 I am accustomed. You give me the physical food, and I 
 will furnish you with your spiritual pabulum." (The cal- 
 culation seems quite correct, and it would be quite correct, 
 if this exchange of services were voluntary, if those who 
 furnish the physical food were not compelled to furnish it 
 before they receive the spiritual pabulum.) 
 
 The producer of the spiritual food says : " In order that 
 
 249
 
 250 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 I may be able to give you the spiritual food, feed and 
 clothe me, and carry out my impurities." 
 
 The producer of the physical food is compelled to do 
 this, without uttering any demands, and has to give the 
 physical food, though he may not receive any spiritual 
 food. If the exchange were voluntary, the conditions of 
 the two would be the same. 
 
 "We agree to this, that the spiritual food is as necessary 
 for man as the physical food. The savant, the artist, says : 
 " Before we can begin to serve men by means of the spir- 
 itual food, it is necessary for men to provision us with 
 the physical food." But why should not the producer of 
 physical food say that before he is to serve them with 
 the physical food he needs the spiritual food, and that, if 
 he does not receive it, he is unable to work ? 
 
 You say : " I need the work of the ploughman, smith, 
 shoemaker, carpenter, mason, privy cleaner, and others in 
 order that I may be able to prepare my spiritual food." 
 Every labourer ought equally to say : " Before I go out to 
 work in order to prepare the physical food for you, I must 
 possess the fruits of the spiritual food. To have strength 
 for the work there are indispensable to me : the religious 
 teaching, the order in the social life, the application of 
 knowledge to labour, the joys and the consolations which 
 the arts give. I have no time to work out my teaching 
 about the meaning of life, — give it to me. I have no 
 time to think out statutes of social life, such that justice 
 would not be impaired, — give it to me. I have no time 
 to busy myself with mechanics, physics, chemistry, tech- 
 nology, — give me the books with the indications of how 
 to improve my tools, my methods of work, my dwelling, 
 my heating, my lighting. I have no time to busy myself 
 with poetry, plastic art, music, — give me the necessary 
 incitements and consolations for life ; give me the prod- 
 ucts of the arts. You say that you cannot busy your- 
 self with your important and necessary works, if you shall
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 251 
 
 be deprived of the labour which the labouring people are 
 bearing for you, but I say," the labourer will say, " that I 
 cannot possibly busy myself with my not less important 
 and necessary labours, — ploughing, hauling manure, and 
 cleaning up your impurities, — if I shall be deprived of the 
 religious guidance and of what corresponds to the demands 
 of my mind and conscience, of a rational government which 
 will make my labour secure, of the indications of knowl- 
 edge for the alleviation of my work, of the joy of art for 
 the ennoblement of my labour. Everything which you 
 heretofore have offered me in the form of spiritual food is 
 not only of no use to me, but I even fail to understand 
 to whom it can be of any use. And so long as I do not 
 get this food, which is proper for me, as it is for any man, 
 I cannot feed you with the physical food, which I pro- 
 duce.'' 
 
 What if the labourer should say so ? 
 
 If he should, it would not be a conceit, but the sim- 
 plest justice. 
 
 If a labourer should say this, there would be more 
 justice on his side than on the side of the man of mental 
 labour. There is more justice on his side, because the 
 labour which is supplied by the labourer is more impor- 
 tant, more indispensable, than the labour of the producer 
 of mental labour, even for this reason, that nothing keeps 
 a man of the mental labour from giving to the labourer 
 that spiritual food which he has promised him ; but what 
 keeps the labourer from giving the physical food is the 
 fact that he himself has not enough of this physical food. 
 
 What are we, the men of the mental labour, going to 
 answer, if such simple and lawful demands are made on 
 us ? How do we satisfy them ? With Filaret's Catechism, 
 with Sokoldv's Sacred History, with sheets from all kinds 
 of monasteries and from the Cathedral of St. Isaac, — 
 for the gratification of his religious demands ; with the 
 code of laws, with cassation decrees of all kinds of de-
 
 252 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 partmeDts, and with all kinds of statutes of comnjittees 
 and commissions, — for the gratification of the demands 
 for order ; with spectral analysis, Ihe measurement of the 
 milky ways, imaginary geometry, microscopic investiga- 
 tions, disputes about spiritism and mediumism, the ac- 
 tivity of the academy of sciences, — for the gratification 
 of his demands for knowledge. With what shall we 
 satisfy his artistic demands ? With Pushkin, Dostoevski, 
 Turgenev, L. Tolstoy, with pictures of the French Salon 
 and of our artists, representing nude women, satin, vel- 
 vet, landscapes, and genre, with Wagner's music and our 
 musicians ; none of these things are any good, or can be 
 any good, because we, with our right to exploit the labour 
 of the masses and with the absence of all obligations in 
 our preparation of the spiritual food, have entirely lost 
 from view that one purpose which our activity ought to 
 have. We do not even know what the working people 
 need, we have even forgotten their manner of life, their 
 view of things, their language ; we have even forgotten 
 the labouring people, and we study them as an ethno- 
 graphic rarity or as a newly discovered America. 
 
 And so we, demanding the physical food for ourselves, 
 have undertaken to furnish the spiritual food ; but in 
 consequence of that imaginary division of labour, which 
 entitles not only us to dine first, and work later, but also 
 whole generations to dine sumptuously without working 
 at all, we have prepared, in the shape of a retribution to 
 the masses for our sustenance, what, as we imagine, is 
 good only for us, for science, and for art, but useless 
 and quite incomprehensible and disgusting, like Lim- 
 burger cheese, to those people whose labours we devour 
 under the pretext of furnishing them with spiritual food. 
 
 In our blindness we have to such an extent let out of 
 view the obligation which we have taken upon ourselves 
 that we have even forgotten in the name of what our 
 labour is produced, and have made the people, whom
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 253 
 
 we undertook to serve, a subject for our scientific and 
 artistic activity. 
 
 We study and represent them for our amusement and 
 distraction, and we have entirely forgotten that we are 
 not to study and represent them, but to serve them. 
 
 We have to such an extent let out of sight this obliga- 
 tion which we have taken upon ourselves that we have 
 not even noticed that what we have undertaken to do in 
 the sphere of the sciences and arts has been done not by 
 us, but by others, and our place seems to be occupied. 
 It turns out that while we have been disputing — as the 
 theologians did about the germless generation — about 
 the spontaneous generation of the organisms, or about 
 spiritism, or about the form of the atoms, or about pan- 
 genesis, or about what there is in the protoplasm, and so 
 forth, the failures and apostates of the sciences and arts 
 have begun, by order of the business men, who have in 
 view nothing but their own gain, to furnish this spiritual 
 food to the masses. It is now forty years in Europe and 
 ten with us in Russia that there have been circulated 
 millions of books and pictures and song-books, and shows 
 have been opened, and the people look on and sing and 
 receive their spiritual food, but not from us who have 
 undertaken to furnish it, and we, who justify our idleness 
 by the spiritual food which we are supposed to be fur- 
 nishing, sit and flap our eyes. But we ought not to flap 
 our eyes, for the last justification is slipping out from 
 underneath us. 
 
 We have specialized ourselves. We have our special 
 functional activity. We are the brain of the people. They 
 feed us, and we have undertaken to teach them. Only 
 in the name of this have we emancipated ourselves from 
 labour. Now what have we taught them ? They waited 
 a year, tens, hundreds of years. And still we discuss 
 and teach and amuse one another, and have entirely for- 
 gotten them. We have forgotten them to such an extent
 
 254 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 
 
 that others have undertaken to teach and amuse them, 
 and we have not even noticed witli how Httle seriousness 
 we spoke of the division of labour, and how obvious it is 
 that what w^e say of the benefit which we confer on the 
 masses has been nothing but a shameless excuse !
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 There was a time when the church guided the spiritual 
 life of the people of our world ; the church promised the 
 good to people, and for this freed itself from participation 
 in humanity's struggle for life. And the moment it did 
 so, it departed from its calhng, and people turned away 
 from it. It is not the errors of the church that have 
 ruined it, but the departure of its servants from the law 
 of labour, which was secured in the time of Constantine 
 with the help of the temporal power ; their privilege of 
 idleness and luxury has begot the errors of the church. 
 With this privilege began the church's care for the 
 church, and not for the people whom it undertook to 
 serve, and the servants of the church abandoned them- 
 selves to idleness and debauch. 
 
 The state undertook to guide the lives of men. The 
 state promised men justice, peace, security, order, gratifi- 
 cation of general spiritual and material needs, and for this 
 the people who served the state emancipated themselves 
 from participation in humanity's struggle for life. And 
 the servants of the state, the moment they acquired the 
 possibility of exploiting the labour of others, did the same 
 that the servants of the church did. Their end was no 
 longer the people, but the state, and the servants of the 
 state, — from the kings down to the lowest officials, — in 
 Eome and in France, and in England and in Eussia and 
 in America, abandoned themselves to idleness and de- 
 bauch. 
 
 And people lost their faith in the state, and anarchy 
 consciously presents itself as an ideal. 
 
 The state has lost its enchantment for the people, only 
 
 255
 
 256 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 because its servants recognized their right to exploit the 
 labours of the people. 
 
 The same was done by science and by art, with the aid 
 of the power of the state, which they undertook to sup- 
 port. And they stipulated for themselves the right to be 
 idle and exploit the labours of others, and similarly became . 
 false to their calling. 
 
 And similarly their error was due only to this, that the 
 servants of science, by advancing the falsely raised prin- 
 ciple of the division of labour, recognized the right to ex- 
 ploit the labours of others and lost the meaning of their 
 calling, making as their aim not the benefit of the people, 
 but the mysterious benefit of science and of the arts, and, 
 like their predecessors, they abandoned themselves to 
 idleness and debauch, — not so much sensuous as mental 
 debauch. 
 
 They say that science and the arts have given much to 
 humanity. That is quite true. 
 
 The church and the state have given much to human- 
 ity, but not because they have misused their power and 
 because their servants have departed from the eternal 
 obligation of labour for hfe, which is common to all men, 
 but in spite of it. 
 
 Even so science and the arts have given much to hu- 
 manity, not because the men of science and of art, under 
 the form of the division of labour, live on the backs of the 
 labouring class, but in spite of it. The Roman republic 
 was not powerful because her citizens were able to lead a 
 life of debauch, but because among her citizens there were 
 virtuous men. The same is true of science and of art. 
 
 Science and art have given much to humanity, not be- 
 cause their servants formerly had occasionally a chance, 
 and now always have a chance, to free themselves from 
 labour, but because there have existed men of genius, 
 who, without making use of this right, have promoted 
 humanity.
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 257 
 
 The class of the learned and of the artists, which, on 
 the basis of the false division of labour, makes demands 
 on the exploitation of the labour of others, cannot cooper- 
 ate with the success of true science and of true art, be- 
 cause the lie cannot produce any truth. 
 
 We have become so accustomed to those our pampered, 
 fat, and enfeebled representatives of mental labour that 
 it appears monstrous to us to see a savant or an artist 
 plough or haul manure. It seems to us that everything 
 will perish, and that all his wisdom will be shaken up on 
 a cart, and that all those great artistic pictures, which 
 he harbours in his breast, will become soiled in the ma- 
 nure ; but we have become so accustomed to this that it 
 does not seem strange to us that our servant of science, 
 that is, the servant and teacher of truth, in causing others 
 to do for him what he can do himself, passes half his 
 time in eating sweet food, smoking, chattering, liberal 
 gossips, reading of newspapers and novels, and going to the 
 theatres ; it does not appear strange to us to see our phi- 
 losopher in the restaurant, in the theatre, at the ball, and 
 we are not surprised to hear that the artists who delight 
 and ennoble our souls have passed their lives in drunken- 
 ness, in playing cards, and with women, if not worse. 
 
 Science and art are beautiful things, and for the very 
 reason that they are beautiful they ought not to be spoiled 
 by adding to them debauch, that is, the liberation from 
 man's obligation by means of labour to serve his hfe and 
 the lives of others. 
 
 Science and art have advanced humanity, yes ! but not 
 because the men of science and of art, under the form of 
 the division of labour, have in words and, what is more 
 important, with their deeds taught others to make use of 
 violence, and to exploit the poverty and sufferings of men 
 for the purpose of freeing themselves from the very first and 
 unquestionable human obligation of working with their 
 hands in the general struggle of humanity with Xature.
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 " But it is only the division of labour, the emancipation 
 of the men of science and of art from the necessity of 
 working for their food, that has made possible that prog- 
 ress of the sciences which we see in our time," they say 
 to this. 
 
 " If all were obliged to plougli, there would not have 
 been attained those enormous results which have been 
 arrived at in our time ; there would not be that striking 
 progress which has so increased man's power over Nature ; 
 there would not be those astronomical discoveries, which 
 so startle the human mind aud which have made navi- 
 gation more secure, nor steamers, railways, wonderful 
 bridges, tunnels, steam-engiues, telegraphs, photographs, 
 telephones, sewiug - machines, phonographs, electricity, 
 telescopes, spectroscopes, microscopes, chloroform, anti- 
 septics, carbolic acid." 
 
 I cannot count out everything of which our age is so 
 proud. 
 
 Such a list and the raptures over oneself and over one's 
 exploits may be found in almost any newspaper and pop- 
 ular book. These raptures over oneself are so frequently 
 repeated, we are so overrejoiced at ourselves, that we are 
 seriously convinced with Jules Verne that science and 
 art never made such progress as in our time. 
 
 Now all this wonderful progress we owe to the division 
 of labour, so how can we help acknowledging it ? 
 
 Let us admit that the progress made in our century is 
 indeed striking, wonderful, unusual ; let us admit that we 
 
 are such peculiarly fortunate men as to hve in an unusual 
 
 258
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 259 
 
 time. But let us try aud value this progress, not in the 
 light of our self-contentment, but of the principle defended 
 by this progress of the division of labour, that is, by that 
 mental labour of the men of science for the benefit of the 
 people, which is to redeem the emancipation from labour 
 of the men of science and of art. All this progress is 
 very remarkable, but by some unfortunate accident, which 
 is acknowledged by the men of science, this progress has 
 so far not improved the condition of the labourer, but 
 has rather made it worse. 
 
 If a labourer, instead of w^alking, can travel on the 
 railway, the railway has, on the other hand, burned his 
 forest, taken the grain away from under his nose, and 
 brought him to the condition resembling slavery, — to 
 that of the railway labourer. 
 
 If, thanks to steam engines and machines, a labourer 
 can purchase wretched cottous, these eugines and ma- 
 chines, on the other hand, have deprived him of earnings 
 at home and have brought him to the state of complete 
 slavery to the manufacturer. 
 
 If there are telegraphs, which he is not kept from 
 using, but which his means do not permit him to make 
 use of, every product of liis, as soon as it rises in price, 
 is bought up under his nose by the capitalists at a low 
 price, thanks to the telegraph, before the labourer finds 
 out about the demand for this commodity. 
 
 If there are telephones and telescopes, verses, novels, 
 theatres, ballets, symphonies, operas, picture-galleries, and 
 so forth, the life of the labourer has not improved from 
 these, because, by the same unfortunate accident, these 
 are not accessible to him. 
 
 Thus, in general, — and in this the men of science 
 agree, — all these unusual inventions and productions of 
 art have so far not in the least improved the life of the 
 labourer, if they have not made it worse. 
 
 Thus, if to the question about the reality of the prog-
 
 2G0 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 ress achieved by the sciences and the arts, we do not 
 apply our rapture over ourselves, but the same standard 
 on the basis of which the division of labour is defended, 
 that is, the benefit conferred on the labouiint,' people, we 
 shall see that we have not yet any firm fountlations for 
 that self-contentment to which we so readily abandon 
 ourselves. 
 
 A peasant will travel on the railway, a woman will buy 
 cottons, in the hut there will be a lamp, and nut a torch, 
 and a peasant will light his pipe with a match, — that is 
 convenient ; but by what right can I say that the rail- 
 ways and factories have benetited the people ? 
 
 If a peasant travels on the railway and buys a lamp, 
 cottons, and matches, he does so because he cannot be 
 prohibited from doing so ; but we all know that railways 
 and factories were never built for the benefit of the 
 masses, so what sense is there in adducing accidental 
 comforts, which the labourer uses fortuitously, as a proof 
 of the usefulness of these institutions for the people ? 
 
 We all know tliat if the engineers and capitalists, who 
 built the railway or the factory, thought of the labouring 
 man, they did so only in the sense of squeezing the last 
 strength out of him. And, as we see, both in our country 
 and in Europe, and in America, they have fully accom- 
 plished this. 
 
 In everything harmful there is something useful. After 
 a conflagration we may warm ourselves at the fire and 
 light our pipe with a coal; but what sense is there in 
 saying tliat a conflagration is useful ? 
 
 Let us at least not deceive ourselves. We all know 
 the motives by which roads and factories are built and 
 coal-oil and matches are obtained. 
 
 An engineer builds a road for the government, for 
 military purposes, or for the capitalists, for financial pur- 
 poses. He makes machines for the manufacturer, for his 
 own gain and for that of the capitalist. Everything which
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 261 
 
 he makes or invents, he makes or invents for the purposes 
 of the government, of the capitalist, of the rich. All his 
 most cunning devices of engineering are directed outright 
 either to the harm of the people, as in the case of guns, 
 torpedoes, solitary cells, appliances for the monopolies, 
 telegraphs, and so forth ; or to articles which fail not only 
 to be useful, but even applicable, to the masses, such as 
 the electric light, telephones, and all the endless improve- 
 ments of comfort ; or, finally, to such objects as can cor- 
 rupt the people and extort the last money, that is, the 
 last labour, from them, such as, above all, whiskey, wine, 
 beer, opium, tobacco, then cottons, kerchiefs, and all kinds 
 of trifles. 
 
 But if it happens that the inventions of the men of 
 science and the labours of the engineers now and then 
 are useful to the people, as, for instance, the railway, cot- 
 tons, iron pots, scythes, this proves only that in the world 
 everything is connected and out of every harmful activity 
 there may come an accidental benefit for those to whom 
 this activity was harmful. 
 
 The men of science and of art could say that their 
 activity is useful for the people only if the men of science 
 and of art make it their purpose to serve the people as 
 now they make it their purpose to serve the governments 
 and the capitalists. 
 
 We could say this only if the men of science and of 
 art made it their purpose to attend to the people's wants, 
 but there do not exist such. 
 
 All the learned people are busy with their priestly 
 occupations, from which follow investigations of proto- 
 plasms, spectral analyses of stars, and so forth. But 
 science has never thought of this, with what kind of an 
 axe head and helve it is more advantageous to chop ; what 
 kind of a saw does the best work ; how it is better to 
 prepare the dough for the bread, out of what flour, and 
 how it is to be set ; how to make a fire, what stoves to
 
 262 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 put up, what food, what drink, what dishes to use, what 
 mushrooms may be eaten, and what is the best way to 
 prepare them. And yet all this is the business of science. 
 
 I know, according to its definition, science must be 
 useless, but this is an obvious and too bold an excuse. 
 The business of science is to serve the people. We have 
 invented telegraphs, telephones, phonographs, but what 
 have we advanced in life, in the labour of the masses ? 
 They have counted two millions of bugs ! But have they 
 domesticated a single new animal since Biblical times, 
 when all our animals were already domesticated ? The 
 elk, the stag, the partridge, the quail, the grouse, are still 
 wild. The botanists have found the cell, and the proto- 
 plasm in the cell, and something else in the protoplasm, 
 and something else inside of that. These occupations 
 will apparently not end for a long time, because appar- 
 ently there can be no end to them, and so they will never 
 have the time to busy themselves with what people need. 
 And so again, since Egyptian and Jewish antiquity, when 
 the wheat and lentils were already cultivated, up to our 
 time not one plant has been added to the food of the 
 people, unless it be the potato, which, however, was not 
 acquired through science. 
 
 They have invented torpedoes, appliances for the mon- 
 opolies and for privies, but the spinning-wheel, the weaver's 
 loom, the plough, the axe handle, the flail, the rake, the 
 sweep, the vat, — all these are precisely as they were in 
 the time of Riirik. And if anything has been changed, it 
 has not been changed by scientific men. 
 
 The same is true of art. We have raised a mass of 
 men to the level of great writers, have analyzed these 
 writers down to the minutest details, and have written 
 mountains of criticism, and criticisms on the criticisms, 
 and again criticisms on the criticisms of the criticisms, and 
 have collected picture-galleries, and have studied all kinds 
 of schools of art down to the finest points, and we have
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 263 
 
 symphonies and operas such as give even us trouble to 
 listen to. And what have we added to the popular epics, 
 legends, fairy-tales, songs ? What pictures and what 
 music have we given to the masses ? At Nikolskaya they 
 make books and pictures for the people, and in Tula 
 accordions, and in neither have we taken any part. 
 
 Most striking and ob\dous is the falseness of the direc- 
 tion of our science and our arts in those very branches 
 which, one would think, from their very problems ought 
 to be useful to the people, but which, in consequence of 
 the false direction, present themselves as rather pernicious 
 than useful. 
 
 An engineer, physician, teacher, artist, author, to judge 
 from his calling, ought to serve the people, and what 
 happens ? With the present tendencies they can do 
 nothing but harm to the people. 
 
 An engineer, a mechanician, has to work with a capital. 
 Without a capital he is not good for anything. All his 
 knowledge is such that in order to manifest it he needs 
 capital and the exploitation of the labourer on a large 
 scale, and, to say nothing of the fact that he has been 
 taught to spend at least fifteen hundred or two thousand 
 a year, and so cannot go to the country where nobody can 
 give him any remuneration, he by his very occupation is 
 no good for serving the people. He can by means of 
 higher mathematics figure out the span of a bridge and 
 the transmission of a motor, and so forth, but he is non- 
 plussed in the presence of the simple demands of the 
 people's labour. How to improve a plough or a cart, 
 how to make a brook fordable, — problems which exist 
 in those conditions of life in which the labourer finds him- 
 self, — of all that he knows nothing and understands less 
 than the very lowest peasant. Give him shops, all the 
 working people he wants, order machines from abroad, 
 and then he will fix everything. But he knows nothing, 
 and can know nothing, about finding, under certain condi-
 
 264 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 
 
 tions of the labour of millions of people, the means for 
 making this labour easier, and by his occupations, habits, 
 and demands made on him by hfe he is no good for this 
 work. 
 
 The physician is in a still worse condition. His whole 
 imaginary science is so placed that he is able to cure only 
 those who do notliiug and are able to make use of the 
 labours of others. He needs an endless number of costly 
 appliances, of rooms, food, privy, in order that he may be 
 able to act scientifically ; in addition to his salary he 
 needs such expenses that, in order to cure a single patient, 
 he has to starve to death a hundred of those who will 
 bear these expenses. He has studied with celebrities in 
 the capitals, who make a practice only of such patients as 
 can be cured in clinics, or who, curing themselves, are 
 able to buy the necessary machiues for their cure, and 
 even to go at once from the north to the south, or to 
 such and such watering-places. 
 
 Their science is such that each county physician com- 
 plains of not having the means for curing the labouring 
 people, that they are so poor that it is impossible to place 
 the patient in hygienic conditions, and, at the same time, 
 this physician complains that there are no hospitals, that 
 he cannot manage all the work, and that he needs more 
 assistants, doctors, and surgical help. What conclusion 
 do we come to ? To this, that the chief calamity of the 
 masses, from which originate and spread their diseases, 
 and remain uncured, is the insufficiency of the means for 
 Hfe. 
 
 And here science under the banner of the division of 
 labour calls its champions to the aid of the masses. All 
 the science has been adapted for the wealthy classes and 
 puts the problem as to how to cure those people who can 
 get everything for themselves, and send those who have 
 nothing superfluous to be cured in the same way. 
 
 But the means are wanting, and so it is necessary to
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 265 
 
 take them from the masses, who have aihnents and he- 
 come infected, but are not cured, for lack of means. 
 
 And the defenders of medicme for the people say that 
 this business has so far been httle developed. 
 
 It is evident that it has been little developed, because 
 if, God forfend, it should be developed, and the people 
 were shouldered with twenty instead of two doctors, mid- 
 wives, and surgical assistants to each county, — there 
 would soon be no persons to cure. The scientific coopera- 
 tion, of which the defenders of the science speak, ought 
 to be of a very different kind. The cooperation which 
 ought to be has not yet begun. It will begin when the 
 man of science, the engineer or the physician, shall not 
 regard as legal that division, that is, seizure of other 
 people's labour, which now exists; when he shall not 
 consider it his right to take from people, I do not say 
 hundreds of thousands, but even a modest one thousand 
 or five hundred roubles for his cooperation, and shall live 
 among the labouring people in the same conditions as 
 they, and then shall apply their knowledge to questions 
 of mechanics, engineering, hygiene, and the curing of the 
 labouring masses. But now the science, which grows fat 
 at the expense of the labouring people, has entirely for- 
 gotten the conditions of the life of these people, ignores 
 (as it expresses itself) these conditions, and most seriously 
 feels offended because its supposed knowledge finds no 
 application among the people. 
 
 The sphere of medicine, hke that of engineering, still 
 lies untouched. All the questions as to how best to 
 divide the time of labour, how best to nourish oneself, 
 how, in what manner, when to dress oneself and counter- 
 act the dampness and cold, how best to wash, nurse the 
 children, swaddle them, and so forth, especially in the con- 
 ditions in w^hich the labouring people are, — aU these 
 questions have not yet been put. 
 
 The same is true of the activity of the scientific, the
 
 266 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 pedagogical teachers. Here science has put the matter 
 in such a shape that according to science it is possible to 
 teach rich people only, and the teachers, like the engineers 
 and physicians, involuntarily cling to money, and with us 
 more particularly to the government. 
 
 And this cannot be otherwise, because a model school 
 (as a general rule, the more scientific the arrangement 
 of the school, the more expensive it is), with adjustable 
 benches, globes, and maps, and libraries, and methodics for 
 teacher and pupils, is such that it demands the doubling 
 of the taxes for each village. So science demands. 
 
 The masses need the children for work, and the more 
 they need them, the poorer they are. The scientific 
 defenders say : Pedagogy even now benefits the people, 
 and when it is developed it will be better still. Yes, peda- 
 gogy will be developed, and, instead of twenty, there will be 
 one hundred schools to each county, and all of them scien- 
 tific, and the masses will support these schools, — then 
 they will grow poorer still and will need the work of 
 their children even more than before. 
 
 " What is to be done ? " people say to this. 
 
 The government will build the schools and will make 
 instruction compulsory, as in Europe ; but the money will 
 again be taken from the people, and they will work harder 
 than ever, and will have less leisure from work, and there 
 will be no compulsory education. Again there is this one 
 salvation, and this is, that the teacher should live in the 
 conditions of the labourer and should teach for the remu- 
 neration which will voluntarily and gladly be given him. 
 
 Such is the false tendency of science, which deprives it 
 of the possibility of fulfilling its obligation, which is, to 
 serve the masses. Still more obvious is this false tend- 
 ency of our intellectual classes in the case of the activity 
 of art, which from its very purpose ought to be accessible 
 to the masses. 
 
 Science may fall back on its silly excuse that science
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 267 
 
 acts for science, and that, when it has been worked out by 
 the learned, it will become accessible to the masses also ; 
 but art — if it is art — must be accessible to all, espe- 
 cially to those in whose name it is produced. Our con- 
 dition of art strikingly arraigns the workers of art for not 
 wanting, nor knowing how, nor being able to be useful to 
 the masses. 
 
 A painter, to prepare his great productions, must have 
 a studio, which is to be large enough for an association 
 of forty joiners or shoemakers to work in, who are freezing 
 and choking to death in miserable purlieus ; but that is 
 not enough: he needs Nature, costumes, travels. The 
 Academy of Arts has spent millions, collected from the 
 people, for the encouragement of the arts, and the pro- 
 ductions of this art hang in palaces and are incompre- 
 hensible and useless to the masses. 
 
 Musicians, to express their great ideas, have to bring 
 together some two hundred men in white neckties or in 
 costumes, and to spend hundreds of thousands in order 
 to stage an opera. And the productions of this art cannot 
 call forth among the people, even if they ever could make 
 use of them, anything but perplexity and ennui. 
 
 Writers, composers, it would seem, are in no need of 
 immediate surroundings, in studios. Nature, orchestras, 
 and actors ; but even here it appears that a writer, a 
 composer, to say nothing of the comforts of his apart- 
 ments, and of all the enjoyments of life, needs, for the 
 preparation of his great productions, travel, palaces, cabi- 
 nets, the enjoyment of the arts, the attendance at theatres, 
 concerts, balls, and so forth. If he does not himself earn 
 a competence, he gets a pension, that he may compose 
 better. And again, these compositions, so much esteemed 
 by us, remain rubbish for the people, and are absolutely 
 useless to them. 
 
 What if, as the men of the sciences and arts wish, there 
 will breed even more such purveyors of spiritual pabulum.
 
 -168 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN Y 
 
 and we shall have in each village to build a studio, intro- 
 duce orchestras, and maintain a composer in those con- 
 ditions which the men of the arts regard as indispensable 
 for themselves ? 
 
 I assume that the labouring people will forego the 
 pleasure of ever seeing a picture, hearing a symphony, or 
 reading verses or novels, only not to be obliged to feed all 
 these drones. 
 
 But why could not the men of the arts serve the 
 people ? In every hut there are images and pictures ; 
 every peasant, man or woman, sings ; many of them have 
 musical instruments, and all tell stories and recite verses, 
 while many read. How is it that the two things, which 
 are made one for the other, like a key and a lock, have 
 gone so far apart that there is not even a chance for 
 bringing them together ? 
 
 Tell a painter without a studio, Nature, or costumes to 
 paint pictures worth five kopeks each, and he will tell you 
 that this means renouncing art, as he understands it. TeU 
 a musician to play the balalayka, accordion, or guitar, and 
 to teach the women to sing songs. Tell the poet to throw 
 away his poems, his novels, his satires, and to compose 
 song-books, stories, and fairy-tales which the unlettered 
 may understand — and they will tell you that you are 
 crazy. But is it less insanity for people, who, only in the 
 name of serving as spiritual pabulum to those men who 
 have brought them up, and feed and clothe them, have 
 emancipated themselves from labour, so to forget their 
 obligation as to become unaccustomed to prepare this food 
 which is so useful to the masses, and to regard this very 
 departure from their obligation as their special distinc- 
 tion? 
 
 " But so it is everywhere," you are told. 
 
 It is irrational everywhere, and it will remain so as 
 long as people, under the pretext of the division of labour 
 and of the promise of serving as spiritual food for the
 
 WHAT SUALL WE DO THEN? 269 
 
 masses, will only absorb the labour of the masses. There 
 will be a ministration to the masses by means of the 
 sciences and the arts only when the people who live 
 among the masses and like the masses, without claiming 
 any privileges, will offer them their scientific and artistic 
 services, which to accept or reiect will depend on the will 
 of the masses.
 
 XXXV. 
 
 To say that the activity of the sciences and arts has 
 cooperated with the forward movement of humanity, 
 comprehending by this activity what is now called by 
 this name, is the same as to say that the clumsy, inter- 
 fering plashing of the oars in a vessel which is going 
 down the stream is cooperating with the motion of the 
 vessel. It only interferes with it. 
 
 The so-called division of labour, that is, the seizure of 
 other people's labour, which in our day has become a con- 
 dition of the activity of the men of science and of art, has 
 been and still remains the chief cause of the slow forward 
 movement of humanity. The proof of this is found in 
 that confession of all men of science that the acquisitions 
 of science and of the arts are inaccessible to the labour- 
 ing masses, on account of the unequal distribution of 
 wealth. 
 
 But the inequality of this distribution does not diminish 
 proportionately with the progress of the sciences and arts, 
 but only keeps increasing. No wonder that it is so, 
 because this unequal distribution of wealth arises only 
 from the theory of the division of labour, which is preached 
 by the men of science and of art for their personal, selfish 
 ends. Science defends the division of labour as an un- 
 changeable law, sees that the distribution of wealth, which 
 is based on the division of labour, is incorrect and per- 
 nicious, and asserts that its activity, which recognizes the 
 division of labour, will make people happy. It turns out 
 that one set of men make use of the labours of others ; 
 but, if they will for a very long time and in still greater 
 
 270
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 271 
 
 measure make use of the labours of others, this unequal 
 distribution of wealth, that is, the exploitation of the 
 labours of others, will come to an end. 
 
 Men are standing at an ever-increasing source of water, 
 and are busy leading it aside from the thirsting people, and 
 assert that it is they who are producing this water, 
 and that very, very soon there will be enough of it to 
 suffice for all. But this water, which has been flowing 
 without interruption, and which supports all humanity, 
 is not only not the consequence of the activity of those 
 men who, standing at the source, are leading it aside, but 
 it flows and spreads, in spite of the efforts of these men 
 to arrest this flow. 
 
 There has always existed the true church in the sense 
 of people who are united in the highest truth attainable 
 at a certain period of humanity, and always it has been 
 different from the church which called itself so, and there 
 has always existed science and art, but not what called 
 itself by that name. 
 
 To those who recognize themselves as representatives 
 of science and of art of a certain period, it always seems 
 that they have done, and, above all, will this very minute 
 do, some remarkable miracles, and that outside of them 
 there has never been any science or any art. Thus it 
 seemed to the sophists, scholastics, alchemists, Cabalists, 
 Talmudists, and to our scientific science, and to our art 
 for art's sake.
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 " But science and art ! You deny science and art, that 
 is, what humanity lives by," They do not exactly offer 
 this objection to me, but always use this method in order 
 to reject my arguments, without analyzing them. 
 
 " He denies science and art, — he wants to bring people 
 back to that savage state, — so what use is there of 
 listening to him or speaking with him ? " 
 
 But that is not true. I am not only far from denying 
 science, that is, the rational human activity, and art, — 
 the expression of this rational activity, but in the name 
 of this ratioual activity and its expressions do 1 say what 
 I do ; ouly in order that humanity may have a chance to 
 get out of that savage state into which it is rapidly fall- 
 ing, thanks to the false teaching of our time, do I speak 
 as I do. 
 
 Science and art are as indispensable for men as food, 
 and drink, and raiment, and even more indispensable than 
 these ; but they do not become such because we decide 
 that what we call science and art is indispensable, but 
 because it is really indispensable to men. 
 
 If they should prepare hay for the physical food of 
 men, my conviction that hay is a food for men will not 
 make the hay be a food for men. I cannot say : " Why 
 do you not eat hay, since it is an indispensable food ? " 
 It may happen that what is offered by me is no food. 
 
 Precisely the same has happened with science and art. 
 But we imagine that if to a Greek word we shall add the 
 word " logy " and call it science, it will really be a sci- 
 ence ; and if some abominable work, as the painting of 
 
 272
 
 WHAT' SHALL WE DO THEN ? 27S 
 
 nude womeu, shall be called by a Greek word, and we 
 shall say that it is art, it will really be art. But no mat- 
 ter how much we say this, the thing with which we busy 
 ourselves, counting bugs and investigating the chemical 
 composition of the milky way, drawing nymphs and his- 
 torical pictures, composing stories and symphonies, our 
 thing will become neither science nor art so long as it 
 is not gladly accepted by those people for whom it is 
 being done. But so far it is not being accepted. 
 
 If only one class of men were permitted to produce 
 food, and all the others were forbidden to do that, or 
 were placed in an impossible position for the production 
 of food, I imagine that the quality of the food would 
 deteriorate. If people who had a monopoly for the pro- 
 duction of food were Russian peasants, there would exist 
 no other food than black bread, kvas, potatoes, and onions, 
 nothing but what they like and what pleases them. The 
 same would happen with that highest activity of science 
 and of art, if one caste appropriated to itself the monopoly^ 
 — but with this difference, that in physical food there 
 cannot be any very great deviation from naturalness : 
 though bread and onions are not very palatable food, 
 still they are edible ; but in the spiritual food there can 
 be the greatest deviations, and some people can for a long 
 time exist on useless, or even harmful, poisonous spiritual 
 food, and can slowly kill themselves with opium or alco- 
 hol, and offer the same food to the masses. 
 
 It is this that has happened with us. And it has 
 happened because the position of the men of science and 
 of art is privileged, because science and art in our world 
 are not the rational activity of all humanity \vithout 
 exception, which secretes its best forces in order to serve 
 science and art, but the activity of a small circle of men 
 having a monopoly of these occupations and calling 
 themselves men of science and of art, and so having 
 perverted the very concepts of science and of art, and
 
 274 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 having lost the meaning of their calling, and busy amus- 
 ing and saving from torturing ennui their small circle of 
 drones. 
 
 Ever since men have existed, they have always had 
 science in its simplest and broadest sense. Science, in 
 the sense of all the knowledge of humanity, has always 
 been and always will be, and without it life is unthink- 
 able : there is no need of attacking or of defending it. 
 But- the point is that the sphere of this knowledge is so 
 varied, and there enter into it so many various branches 
 of knowledge, — from the knowledge of how to mine iron 
 to the knowledge about the motion of the luminaries, — 
 that a man is lost in these various branches of knowledge, 
 if he has no guiding thread by which he can decide which 
 of all the branches of knowledge is most important and 
 which least important for him. 
 
 And so the highest wisdom of men has always con- 
 sisted in finding that guiding thread along which is to 
 be located the knowledge of men : which is first, and 
 which of less importance. 
 
 And this human knowledge, which guides all the other 
 knowledge, has always been called science in the narrower 
 sense. Such science has, until our own time, always ex- 
 isted in those human societies which have emerged from 
 the original savage state. 
 
 Ever since humanity has existed, there have always, 
 among all nations, appeared teachers who composed 
 science in its narrower sense, the science as to what is 
 most important for men to know. This science has 
 always had for its object the knowledge of what the 
 purpose, and so the true good, of each man and all men 
 is. This science has served as a guiding thread in the 
 definition of the meaning of all other knowledge and in 
 its expression, — art. 
 
 Those branches of knowledge and those arts which 
 have cooperated with and approached most the fundamen-
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 275 
 
 tal science about the purpose and good of all men have 
 stood highest in public opinion, and vice versa. 
 
 Such was the science of Confucius, Buddha, Moses, 
 Socrates, Christ, Mohammed, the science as it has been 
 understood by all men, with the exception of the men of 
 our circle of so-called cultured people. 
 
 Such a science has not only always occupied a leading 
 place, but has been the one science from which the mean- 
 ing of all others has been determined. 
 
 And this was not at all the case because, as the so- 
 called learned men of our time think, the cheats, priests, 
 and teachers of this science gave it such a significance, 
 but because, indeed, as anybody may find out by his 
 inner experience, without the science of that wherein lies 
 the destiny and good of man there can be no estimation 
 and no choice of the sciences and arts. 
 
 And so there cannot even be any study of the sciences, 
 for there is an endless number of subjects for the sciences ; 
 I underline the word " endless," because I mean it in its 
 exact sense. 
 
 Without the knowledge of that wherein lies the destiny 
 and the good of men, all the other sciences and arts be- 
 come, as indeed they are with us, an idle and harmful 
 plaything. Humanity has Hved, and it has never lived 
 without the science of that wherein is the destiny and 
 the good of men. It is true that the science of the good 
 of men seems to a superficial observer to be different with 
 the Buddhists, Brahmins, Jews, Christians, Confucianists, 
 Taoists (though it is enough for one to look more carefully 
 at these teachings in order to see their identical essence), 
 but wherever we know men who have come out of 
 their savage state, we find this science, and suddenly it 
 turns out that the men of our time have decided that this 
 very science, which heretofore was a guide to all human 
 knowledge, is in the way of everything. 
 
 People put up buildings, and one builder makes one
 
 276 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 calculation, another — another, and a third — a third. 
 The calculations vary somewhat, but they are correct, so 
 that each of them sees that if everything shall be done 
 according to the calculation, the building will be built. 
 
 Such builders are Confucius, Buddha, Moses, Christ. 
 
 Suddenly people come and affirm that the main thing 
 is not to have any calculation, but to build everything at 
 random, trusting to the eyes. And this " at random " 
 these people call a most exact science, just as the Pope is 
 called most holy. People deny every science, the very 
 essence of science, — the determination of that wherein 
 lies the destiny and the good of men, — and this denial 
 they call science. Ever since men have existed, there 
 have bred among them great minds which, in the struggle 
 with the demands of reason and of conscience, have asked 
 themselves in what consists the destiny and the good not 
 of themselves alone, but also of every man. 
 
 " What does the force which has produced me and 
 which guides me want of me and of every other man ? 
 And what must I do in order to satisfy the demands of 
 the personal and of the common good, which are inherent 
 m me ? 
 
 They asked themselves : " I am a whole and a part of 
 sometliing immeasurable, something infinite : what are 
 my relations to similar parts, — to men, — and to the 
 whole ? " 
 
 And from the voice of conscience, and from reason, 
 and from the consideration of what those who have lived 
 before them and their contemporaries have told them, 
 those who have given themselves these questions, these 
 great teachers, deduce their teachings, which are simple, 
 clear, comprehensible to all men, and always such as 
 could be fulfilled. 
 
 Such men were of the first, the second, the third, and 
 the very last magnitude. Of such people the world is full. 
 
 All living men put to themselves the question : " How
 
 WHAT SnALL WE DO THEN? 277 
 
 shall I harmonize my demands for the good of my 
 personal life with my conscience and my reason, which 
 demand the common good of men ? " And from this 
 common labour there are slowly, but uninterruptedly, 
 worked out new forms of life, which are nearer to the 
 demands of reason and of conscience. 
 
 Suddenly there appears a new caste of men, who say : 
 " All this is nonsense, and has to be given up." Such is 
 the deductive method of reasoning (no one has ever been 
 able to comprehend wherein the difference is between 
 the deductive and the inductive methods), such are the 
 methods of the theological and the metaphysical periods. 
 " Everything which men reveal through their inner ex- 
 perience and communicate to one another concerning the 
 cognition of the law of their life " (of the functional activ- 
 ity, as they say in their jargon), " everything which the 
 greatest minds of humanity have done on this path since 
 the beginning of the world, — all that is nonsense and of 
 no consequence." 
 
 According to this new teaching it turns out like this : 
 you are a cell of an organism, and the problem of your 
 rational activity consists in determining your functional 
 activity ; and in order to determine this functional activ- 
 ity of yours, you need only observe outside of yourself. 
 The fact that you are a thinking, suffering, talking, com- 
 prehending cell, and that, therefore, you can ask another 
 similar talking cell whether it suffers, rejoices, and feels 
 like you, and thus verify your own experience ; that you 
 are able to utilize that which suffering, reasoning, and 
 talking cells who have lived before you have recorded ; 
 that you have millions of cells which confirm your obser- 
 vations by their agreement with the cells which have 
 recorded their observations ; that, above all, you yourself 
 are living cells which by their immediate inner experience 
 recognize the regularity or irregularity of their functional 
 activities, — all that has no meaning, all that is a bad,
 
 278 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 a false method. The true, the scientific method is hke 
 this : if you want to know wherein consists your func- 
 tional activity, that is, wherein is your destiny and your 
 good, and the destiny and the good of all humanity and 
 of all the world, you must first of all stop hstening to the 
 voice and to the demand of your conscience and of your 
 reason, which make themselves knovra in you and in 
 your like ; you must stop believing in all that the great 
 teachers of humanity have said about their reason and 
 their conscience, must consider all that nonsense, and be- 
 gin anew. And in order to understand everything from 
 the beginning, you must look through a microscope at the 
 motion of the amcebas and the cells in rain-worms, or, 
 more comfortably still, you must believe in everything 
 which men with the diploma of infallibility will tell you 
 about these things. And looking at the motion of these 
 amoebas and cells, or reading about what others have seen, 
 you must ascribe to these cells their human feelings and 
 calculations as to what they wish, whither they tend, 
 what they reflect and calculate on, and what they are 
 used to ; and from these observations (in which every 
 word is an error of thought or of expression) judge by 
 analogy what you are, what your destiny is, and in what 
 lies your good and that of other similar cells. In order 
 to understand yourself you must study not only the rain- 
 worm, which you see, but also the microscopic beings, 
 which you almost do not see, and the transformations 
 from one being into another, which no man has ever seen, 
 and you certainly will never see. 
 
 The same is true of art. Where there has been true 
 science, art has always been an expression of the knowl- 
 edge of man's destiny and good. Ever since men have 
 existed they have out of the whole activity of the expres- 
 sions of every kind of knowledge extracted the chief 
 expression, the knowledge of the destiny and the good, 
 and the expression of this knowledge was art in its nar-
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 279 
 
 row sense. Ever siuce there have been men, there have 
 been those who are particularly sensitive and responsive 
 to the teaching about the good and the destiny of man, 
 and who on harps and timbrels, in representations and in 
 words, have expressed their human struggle with the de- 
 ceptions which drew them away from their destiny, their 
 sufferings in this struggle, their hopes in the triumph of 
 goodness, their despairs on account of the triumph of evil, 
 and their raptures at the consciousness of this approaching 
 good. 
 
 Ever since there have been men, true art, the one 
 which has been highly valued by men, has had no mean- 
 ing except as an expression about the destiny and the 
 good of man. 
 
 At all times, and down to our day, art has served the 
 teaching about life, what later was called religion, and 
 only then is it what is so highly valued by men. But at 
 the same time that the place of the science about the 
 destiny and the good was occupied by the science about 
 everything that might come to one's mind, science lost 
 its meaning and significance, and the true science was 
 contemptuously called religion, and at the same time 
 there disappeared art as an important human activity. 
 
 So long as there was a church, as a teaching about the 
 destiny and the good, art served the church and was 
 the true art ; but ever since art has left the church and 
 begun to serve science, while science serves anything that 
 may occur to it, art has lost its meaning and, in spite of 
 the assertion of the rights, based on ancient memory, and 
 of the insipid claim, which only proves the loss of its 
 calling, that art serves art, it has become a trade which 
 furnishes men with what is pleasing, and inevitably 
 blends with the choreographic, culinary, tonsorial, and 
 cosmetic arts, the producers of which call themselves 
 artists with the same right as do the poets, painters, and 
 musicians of our time.
 
 280 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 You look back, and you see : in the course of thousands 
 of years out of the number of billions of people are 
 segregated dozens of men like Confucius, Buddha, Solon, 
 Socrates, Solomon, Homer, Isaiah, David. Evidently they 
 occur but rarely among men, although at that time they 
 were not chosen from one caste only, but from among all 
 men ; apparently these true scholars, artists, producers of 
 spiritual food, are rare, and humanity has had good reason 
 to value them so highly. Now it turns out that all these 
 past great actors of science and of art are no longer of 
 any use to us. Now the scientific and artistic actors may, 
 according to the law of the division of labour, be produced 
 by machine work, and we in one decade can produce more 
 great men of science and of art than were born among all 
 men since the creation of the world. 
 
 Now there is a guild of scholars and of artists, and they 
 manufacture in an improved manner all that spiritual food 
 which humanity needs. 
 
 And they have produced such a lot of it, that there is 
 no need even of mentioning all the ancient and even all 
 the more modern men of genius, — for all that was the 
 activity of the theological and the metaphysical periods ; 
 all that has to be wiped out ; the real rational activity 
 began only fifty years ago. And in these fifty years we 
 have manufactured such a lot of great men that there are 
 more of them in one German university than there were 
 before in the whole world ; and we have produced such a 
 mass of sciences, — luckily they are easily produced (all 
 you have to do is to add to a Greek appellation the word 
 " logy," and to arrange matters according to given speci- 
 fications, and the science is all fixed), — that one man not 
 only cannot know them, but cannot even remember the 
 names of all the existing sciences, — the names alone 
 w^ould form a stout dictionary, and they produce new 
 sciences every day. 
 
 They have produced a lot of them, in the way in which
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 281 
 
 a Finnish teacher taught the children of a proprietor to 
 talk Finnish instead of French. They have taught us 
 beautifully ; but the one trouble is that none but us under- 
 stand a thing about it, and that the others consider all this 
 to be useless bosh. 
 
 However, there is an explanation for all that : the 
 people do not understand the whole usefulness of the 
 scientific science, because they are under the influence 
 of the theological period of knowledge, of that stupid 
 period when the whole nation of the Jews, and of the 
 Chinese, and of the Hindoos, and of the Greeks, under- 
 stood everything which their great teachers told them. 
 
 But no matter what the cause of it may be, the point 
 is that the sciences and the arts have always existed with 
 humanity, and that, when they actually existed, they were 
 necessary and comprehensible to all men. 
 
 We are doing things which we call sciences ojid arts, 
 and it turns out that what we do we have no right to call 
 sciences and arts.
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 " But you are only giving a different, more narrow 
 definition of science and of art, which is not in conformity 
 with science," I am told, " but this does not exclude 
 them, for there is still left the scieutific and the artis- 
 tic activity of a Galileo, Bruno, Homer, Michelangelo, Beet- 
 hoven, Wagner, and all the scholars and artists of lesser 
 magnitudes, who have devoted all their lives to the service 
 of science and of art." 
 
 This they generally say in their attempt to establish 
 the succession, which they in other cases deny, between 
 the activity of the former scholars and artists and the 
 present, and also in their attempt at forgetting that 
 special, new principle of the division of labour on the 
 basis of which science and the arts now occupy their 
 privileged position. 
 
 In the first place, it is impossible to establish a succes- 
 sion between the present and the former representative 
 men ; as the holy life of the -first Christians has nothing 
 in common with the life of the Popes, so the activity of 
 a Galileo, a Shakespeare, a Beethoven, has nothing in 
 common with the activity of a Tyndal, a Hugo, a Wagner. 
 As the holy fathers wovild have rejected any kinship with 
 the Popes, so the ancient men of science would have 
 rejected any kinsliip with the men of the present. 
 
 In the second place, thanks to the meaning which the 
 sciences and arts now ascribe to themselves, we have a 
 very clear standard, given by science itself, by means of 
 which we are able to determine their correspondence 
 or lack of correspondence, to their purpose ; and thus we 
 
 282
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 283 
 
 are able, not boldly, but by the given standard, to deter- 
 mine whether the activity vehich calls itself science and 
 art has any grounds, or not, to call itself by that name. 
 
 Wheu the Egyptian or Greek priests produced their 
 mysteries which no one understood, and said of these mys- 
 teries that in them lay all science and art, I was not able 
 on the basis of a benetit conferred by them on the people 
 to verify the reality of their science, because science, 
 according to their assertion, was supernatural ; but now 
 we all have a very clear and simple standard, which 
 excludes the supernatural : science and art promise to do 
 the brain activity of humanity for the good of society 
 or of all humanity. And so we have the right to call 
 only such activity science and art as will have this aim 
 and will attain it. 
 
 And so, no matter what the scholars and artists may 
 call themselves, who invent the theory of criminal, polit- 
 ical, and international rights, who invent new guns and 
 explosives, who compose salacious operas and operettas, 
 or just as salacious novels, we have no right to call all 
 this activity an activity of science and of art, since this 
 activity has not for its aim the good of societies or of 
 humanity, but, on the contrary, is directed to the harm 
 of men. All this is, consequently, neither science nor 
 art. Similarly, no matter what the scholars may call 
 themselves, who in the simplicity of their hearts are 
 all their lives busy investigating microscopic animals and 
 telescopic and spectral phenomena, or what the artists 
 may call themselves, who, after a careful study of the 
 monuments of antiquity, are busy preparing historical 
 novels, pictures, symphonies, and pretty verses, — all these 
 men, in spite of their zeal, cannot, according to the sci- 
 entific definition itself, be called men of science and of 
 art, in the first place, because their activity of science 
 for the sake of science, and of art for the sake of art, has 
 not the good for its aim ; and in the second place, because
 
 284 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 we do not see the consequences of this activity for the 
 good of society and of humanity. But the fact that from 
 their activity there sometimes accrues something useful 
 and agreeable for certain people does by no means give 
 us the right, again according to their own scientific 
 definition, to regard them as men of science and of art. 
 
 Similarly, no matter what men may call themselves 
 who invent applications of electricity to lighting, heating, 
 and motion, or new chemical combinations, which produce 
 dynamite or beautiful dyes ; or who play correctly Beet- 
 hoven's symphonies ; or who act, or paint beautiful por- 
 traits, genre pictures, landscapes ; or who write interesting 
 novels, the aim of which is only to offer diversion to the 
 rich in their ennui, — the activity of these men cannot 
 be called science or art, because it is not directed, like 
 the brain activity in the organism, toward the good of the 
 whole, but is guided only by personal advantage, privi- 
 leges, money, received for the invention and production 
 of so-called art, and so can in no way be separated from 
 any other selfish, personal activity which adds pleasure 
 to life, such as are the activities of restaurant-keepers, 
 and jockeys, and modistes, and prostitutes, and so forth. 
 The activities of any of these do not fit in with the defini- 
 tion of science and of art, which on the basis of the 
 division of labour promise to serve the good of all hu- 
 manity or of society. 
 
 The definition of science and of art, as made by science, 
 is quite correct, but unfortunately the activity of modem 
 sciences and arts does not fit in with it. Some of them 
 do outright what is harmful, others what is useless, and 
 others again what is insignificant, and good only for the 
 rich. 
 
 All of them may, indeed, be good men, but they do not 
 fulfil what, according to their own definition, they under- 
 took to do, and so they have as little right to regard 
 themselves as men of science and of art as have the
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 285 
 
 modern clergy who, by not fulfilling the obligations taken 
 upon themselves, have lost the right to recognize them- 
 selves as carriers and teachers of divine truth. 
 
 And it is comprehensible why the men of modern 
 science and art have not fulfilled, and cannot fulfil, their 
 calHng. They do not fulfil it, because of theii- obligations 
 they have made rights. 
 
 The scientific and artistic activity, in its real meaning, 
 is fruitful only when it knows no rights, but only obliga- 
 tions. It is only because it is always such, — because its 
 property is to be self-sacrificing, — that humanity values 
 it so highly. 
 
 If men are really called to serve others by means of 
 spiritual labour, they will always suffer in fulfilling this 
 ministration, because only in suffering, as in childbirth, is 
 the spiritual world born. 
 
 Self-renunciation and suffering will be the share of the 
 thinker and the artist, because his aim is the good of men. 
 Men are unhappy : they suffer, they perish. There is no 
 time for waiting and taking things coolly. 
 
 The thinker and the artist will never sit on Olympian 
 heights, as we are accustomed to think ; he will always, 
 eternally, be agitated and disturbed ; he might have 
 solved and uttered that which would give the good to 
 men and would free them from suffering, but he did not 
 solve and utter this, and to-morrow it may be too late : 
 he may be dead. 
 
 Not he will be a thinker and an artist who is educated 
 in an establishment where they make a scholar and an 
 artist (what they really make there is a ruiner of science 
 and of art), and receives a diploma and a competency, 
 but he who would be glad to refrain from thinking and 
 expressing what is implanted in his soul, and yet is un- 
 able to refrain from doing that toward which he is drawn 
 by two insuperable forces, — by his inner necessity and 
 by the demands of men.
 
 286 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 There is no such a thing as a smooth, easy-going, and 
 self-satisfied thinker and artist. 
 
 The spiritual activity and its expression, which are 
 indeed necessary for others, are man's most grievous call- 
 ing, his cross, as it is expressed in the Gospel. The only 
 undoubted sign of the presence of the calling is self- 
 renunciation, self-sacrifice for the purpose of manifesting 
 the force which is implanted in man for the benefit of 
 other men. 
 
 It is possible to teach how many bugs there are in the 
 world, and to observe the spots in the sun, and to write 
 novels or an opera, without experiencing any suffering ; 
 but it is impossible without renunciation to teach peo- 
 ple their good, which is all only in self-renunciation and 
 serving others, and strongly to express this teaching. 
 
 There was a church so long as the teachers endured and 
 suffered, but the moment they began to grow fat their 
 teaching activity came to an end. 
 
 " There were golden priests and wooden bowls, now the 
 bowls have become of gold, and the priests are wooden," 
 say the people. 
 
 There was good reason why Christ died on the cross, 
 and good reason why the sacrifice of suffering conquers 
 everything. 
 
 But our men, and science and art, are made secure and 
 have diplomas, and all the care they have is how to make 
 themselves more secure still, that is, how to make im- 
 possible the ministration to men. 
 
 True science and true art have two undoubted signs, 
 — the first, an inward sign, is this, that the servant of 
 science and of art will carry out his calHng not for his 
 advantage, but with self-renunciation, and the second, an 
 external one, is this, that its productions are comprehen- 
 sible to all men whose good he has in view. 
 
 No matter in what men may take their purpose and 
 good to lie, science will be the teaching of this purpose
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 287 
 
 and good, and art — the expression of this teaching. The 
 laws of Solon and of Confucius are science ; the teaching 
 of Moses and of Christ are science; the buildings in 
 Athens, David's psalms, the masses, are art ; but the study 
 of the bodies in the fourth dimension and of the tables of 
 chemical combinations, and so forth, has never been and 
 never will be science. The place of true science and of 
 the arts is in modern times taken by theology and the 
 juridical sciences ; the place of true art is taken by eccle- 
 siastic and governmental ceremonies, in which all alike 
 do not believe, and on which all alike fail to look seri- 
 ously ; but that which with us is called science and art is 
 the product of an idle mind and of idle feehug, having for 
 its aim the tickling of just such idle minds and feelings, 
 incomprehensible and meaningless for the masses, because 
 it has not their good in view. 
 
 As far back as we know the life of men, we always and 
 everywhere find the reigning teaching, which falsely calls 
 itself science and which does not disclose the meaning of 
 life to men, but obscures it. Thus it was with the Egyp- 
 tians, with the Hindoos, with the Chinese, and partly with 
 the Greeks (sophists), then with the mystics, gnostics, 
 Cabalists ; in the Middle Ages with the theologians, 
 scholastics, alchemists, and so on up to our time. 
 
 What a special piece of fortune it is for us to be living 
 in such a particular time when that mental activity which 
 calls itself science is not only not in error, but also, as we 
 are assured, in an unusually flourishing state ! Is not 
 this special piece of good fortune due to this, that man 
 cannot and does not wish to see his monstrousness ? Why 
 is there nothing left of the sciences of the theologians 
 and Cabalists but words, while we are so fortunate ? 
 
 The signs are certainly the same : there is the same 
 self-contentment and blind assurance that we, and nobody 
 else, are on the right path, and that the real thing begins 
 with us only. There is the same expectation that very,
 
 288 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 very shortly we shall discover something unusual, and the 
 same chief sign which betrays our error, — our whole 
 wisdom is left with us, and the masses do not understand, 
 nor receive, nor need it. Our situation is very hard, but 
 why should we not look straight at it ? 
 
 It is time to bethink and overhaul ourselves. 
 
 We are certainly nothing but scribes and Pharisees, 
 who have seated ourselves on Moses' seat, and who have 
 taken the keys from the kingdom of heaven, and who 
 ourselves do not enter and do not admit others. We, the 
 priests of science and of art, are the most wretched de- 
 ceivers, who have a great deal less right to our situation 
 than the most cunning and corrupt of priests. We have 
 not the slightest justification for our privileged condition : 
 we have seized this place through rascahty, and we hold 
 it through deception. 
 
 The priests, the clergy, ours or the Catholic, no matter 
 how corrupt they have been, have had a right to their 
 position, — they have been saying that they teach men 
 life and salvation. But we have undermined the clergy 
 and have proved to people that it deceives them, and 
 have taken its place ; we do not teach hfe to men, 
 and even recognize that there is no need of learning this ; 
 we suck up the juices of the masses and for this we teach 
 our children the same Talmud, — Greek and Latin gram- 
 mar, — in order that they may be able to continue the 
 same life of a parasite which we are leading. 
 
 We say that there used to be castes, but that there are 
 none now. But what does this mean, that some people 
 and their children work, while other people and their 
 children do not work ? Take a Hindoo, who does not 
 know our language, and show him the life of several 
 generations in Europe and in Eussia, and he will recog- 
 nize the same two chief, distinct castes of workers and 
 non-workers which he has in his own country. As in his 
 country, the right not to work is given to us by a special
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 289 
 
 sanctification which we call science and art, or, in general, 
 education. 
 
 It is this education and all the perversion of the mind, 
 which is connected with it, that has brought us to that 
 remarkable madness in consequence of which we do not 
 see what is so clear and unquestionable. 
 
 We devour the human lives of our brothers and con- 
 sider ourselves Christian, humane, cultured, and perfectly 
 righteous men.
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 So what is to be done ? What shall we do then ? 
 
 This question, which includes the recognition that our 
 life is bad and irregular, and, at the same time, as it were, 
 the assertion that it is impossible to change all this, I 
 have heard on all sides, and so I have chosen this ques- 
 tion for the title of this whole writing. 
 
 I have described my sufferings, my searchings, and my 
 solutions of tiiis question. I am the same kind of a man 
 as all the rest, and if I in any way differ from the 
 average man of our circle, I differ mainly in this, that I 
 have more than the average man served the false teach- 
 ing of the world and have been in collusion with it, have 
 received more applause from the people of the reigning 
 teaching, and so have more than others become corrupted 
 and strayed from my path. 
 
 And so I think that the solution of the question which 
 I have found for mvself will also be good for all sincere 
 people who put the same question to themselves. First 
 of all, in reply to the question, " What to do ? " I an- 
 swered myself : " iSTot to lie to others, nor to oneself ; 
 not to be afraid of the truth, no matter where it may 
 take us." We all know what it means to lie to people, 
 and yet we never stop lying from morning until night : 
 " Not at home," when I am at home ; " Very glad," when 
 I am not at all glad ; " Most respectfully," when I do not 
 at all respect ; " I have no money," when I have it, and 
 so forth. We consider a lie to people, especially a lie of 
 a certain kind, a bad thing, but we are not afraid of lying 
 
 to ourselves ; and yet the worst, most direct, most decep- 
 
 290
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 291 
 
 tive lie to other people is nothing in its consequences in 
 comparison with the lie to ourselves, on which we build 
 our life. 
 
 It is this lie which we must not tell, in order that we 
 may be able to answer the question, " What to do ? " 
 
 How can I answer this question, when everything I 
 do, my whole life, is based on a lie, and I carefully give 
 out this lie to others and to myself as the truth ? Not to 
 lie in this sense means not to be afraid of the truth, not 
 to invent any subterfuges, and not to accept those invented 
 by others for the purpose of concealing from ourselves the 
 deductions of reason and of conscience ; not to be afraid 
 of disagreeing from ail those around us, and to remain all 
 alone with reason and conscience ; not to be afraid of the 
 proposition to which truth will lead us, being fully con- 
 vinced that the proposition to which truth and conscience 
 will lead as, no matter how strange it may be, cannot be 
 worse than the one which is based on the lie. Not to lie 
 in our condition of privileged people of the mental labour 
 means not to be afraid of squaring up accounts. " May 
 be I am so much in arrears that I shall never balance my 
 accounts ; " but, no matter how much it may be, it is 
 better than not to cast the accounts at all ; no matter 
 how far we may have strayed on the false path, it is 
 better for us than to continue to walk on the false path. 
 Lying to others is only inexpedient. 
 
 Every affair is more directly and more briefly solved by 
 truth than by lies. Lying to others only complicates 
 matters and delays the solution ; but a lie to oneself, 
 given out as a truth, ruins a man's whole life. 
 
 If a man, having strayed on a false path, recognizes it 
 as the true one, every step of his on his path removes 
 him from his goal ; if a man, v/ho for a long time walks 
 on this false path, di\'ines himself or is told that this is a 
 false path, and is frightened at the idea of how far he has 
 strayed to one side, and tries to assure himself that he
 
 292 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 will in some way come out on the road, he certainly 
 never will. If a man is awed by truth and, seeing it, 
 does not acknowledge it, accepts the he as truth, he will 
 never know what he has to do. 
 
 We, not only the rich, but also the privileged, the 
 so-called cultured men, have strayed so far on the false 
 path that we need great determination or very great 
 suffering on the false path in order to regain our senses 
 and recognize the lie by which we live. 
 
 I saw the lie of our life, thanks to those sufferings to 
 which the false path brought me ; and having recognized 
 the falseness of the path on which I was standing, I 
 had the courage, at first only mentally, to go whither 
 reason and conscience took me, without reflection as to 
 where they would take me to. I was rewarded for this 
 courage. All the complex, dissociated, confused, mean- 
 ingless phenomena of life which surrounded me suddenly 
 became clear to me, and my position amidst these phe- 
 nomena, strange and oppressive to me before, suddenly 
 became natural and light. And in this new position my 
 activity was quite precisely defined : it was by no means 
 the one which had presented itself to me before, but a 
 new, much calmer, more lovable, and more joyous activity. 
 What formerly frightened me now began to attract me. 
 
 And so I think that he who sincerely asks himself, 
 " What to do ? " and, answering this question, does not 
 lie to himself, but proceeds whither his reason will lead 
 him, has already solved the question. If only he shall 
 not lie to himseK, he will find where, how, and what to 
 do. The one thing that can keep him from finding a way 
 out is the false high opinion which he has of his con- 
 dition. So it was with me, and so another answer to 
 the question, " What to do ? " resulting from the first, con- 
 sisted for me in repenting in the full sense of the word, 
 that is, in completely changing the valuation of my con- 
 dition and of my activity ; in recognizing, instead of the
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 293 
 
 usefulness and seriousness of my activity, its harm and 
 triviality ; in recognizing, instead of my education, my 
 ignorance; in recognizing, instead of my goodness and 
 morality, my immorality and cruelty ; in recognizing, 
 instead of my exaltation, my baseness. 
 
 I say that, iu addition to not lying to myself, I had to 
 repent iu particular because, although one thing results 
 from another, the false conception of my high significance 
 was so welded with me that so long as I did not sincerely 
 repent, and did not renounce the false valuation which I 
 had made of myself, I did not see the greater part of the 
 lie which I was telling to myself. Only when I repented, 
 that is, stopped looking upon myself as a special man, 
 and considered myself as a man like anybody else, my 
 path became clear to me. 
 
 Before that I had been uuable to answer the question, 
 " What to do ? " because I put the question itself incor- 
 rectly. So long as I did not repent, I put the question 
 like this : " What activity shall be chosen by me, a man 
 in possession of the culture and of the talents which I 
 have acquired ? How can I with this culture and these 
 talents repay what I have been takiug from the masses ? " 
 
 This question was incorrectly put, because it included 
 the false representation that I was not just such a man, 
 but a special kind of a man, called to serve the masses 
 with those talents and that culture which I had acquired 
 in a practice of forty years. I used to put the ques- 
 tion to myself, but in reality answered it by determining 
 in advance the kind of agreeable activity with which I 
 was called to serve men. What I really asked myself was 
 this : " How can I, such a fine author, who have acquired 
 so much knowledge and so many talents, use them for 
 the benefit of men ? " But the question ought to have 
 been put as it stood for a learned rabbi who had finished 
 his course in the Talmud and had studied the number of 
 letters in all the sacred writings and all the intricacies
 
 294 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 of his science. The question, as for the rabbi, so also for 
 me ought to have stood as follows : What must I, who, 
 through the misfortune of my conditions, have passed 
 my best years of study in acquiring the French language, 
 the playing of the piano, grammar, geography, juridical 
 sciences, verses, novels, philosophical theories, and mili- 
 tary exercises, instead of becoming accustomed to work, — 
 what must I, who have passed the best years of my life 
 in idle occupations which corrupt the soul, do, in spite of 
 these unfortunate conditions of the past, in order to pay 
 back to those people who have fed and clothed me and 
 even now continue to feed and clothe me ? If the ques- 
 tion had stood before me as it now stands before me, 
 after I have repented, namely, what I, such a corrupt 
 man, must do, the answer would have been easy : I must 
 first of all try to earn an honest living, that is, to learn 
 how not to hve by sitting on the backs of others and, 
 while learning it and having learned it, upon every occa- 
 sion to be useful to people with my hands, and feet, and 
 brain, and heart, and with all that to which the masses 
 lay any claim. 
 
 And so I say that for a man of our circle it is not 
 enough to refrain from lying to others and to himself : he 
 must also repent, — scrape off the pride which is ingrained 
 in us through our education, refinement, and talents, 
 — and recognize himself not as a benefactor of the 
 masses, a representative man who does not refuse to share 
 his useful acquisitions with the masses, but as an abso- 
 lutely guilty, spoilt, and useless man who desires to mend 
 and not exactly to benefit the masses, but to stop offend- 
 ing and insulting them. 
 
 I frequently hear the questions of good young men who 
 sympathize with the negative part of my writings and ask : 
 " Well, so what must I do ? What must I do, having 
 graduated from the university or from another institution, 
 in order that I may be useful ? "
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 295 
 
 The young people ask this question, but in the depth 
 of their hearts they have long ago decided that the educa- 
 tion which they have received is their great superiority, 
 and that they wish to serve the masses even by their su- 
 periority ; and so there is one thing which they certainly 
 will not do, and that is, sincerely, honestly, and critically 
 inspect that which they call their education, and ask 
 themselves whether that which they call education repre- 
 sents good or bad qualities. If they do that, they will 
 inevitably be led to the necessity of renouncing their 
 education, and to the necessity of beginning to study 
 anew, and that is the one necessary thing. 
 
 They are absolutely unable to solve the question as to 
 what to do, because it is not put as it ought to be put. 
 
 The question ought to stand like this : " How must I, 
 a helpless, useless man, who, through the misfortune of 
 my conditions, have wasted the best years of study in the 
 acquisition of the scientific Talmud, which corrupts body 
 and soul, correct this error and learn to serve people ? " 
 But it stands with them like this : " How can I, a man 
 who has acquired so many fine sciences, be useful to men 
 by means of these fine sciences ? " And so a man will 
 never answer the question, " What to do ? " until he stops 
 lying to himself, and repents. And the repentance is not 
 terrible, just as truth is not terrible, and it is just as joy- 
 ous and as fruitful. One needs only to accept truth 
 as a whole and repent in full, in order to comprehend that 
 no one has, nor can have, any rights, pri\41eges, and pre- 
 rogatives in matters of life, and that there is no end and 
 no limit to duties, and that man's first unquestionable 
 duty is to take part in the struggle with Nature for his 
 own life and for that of other men. 
 
 It is this consciousness of man's duty which constitutes 
 the essence of the third answer to the question, " What 
 to do ? " 
 
 I tried not to lie to myself ; I tried to boil away what
 
 296 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 there was left of the false opiniou as regards my educa- 
 tiou and talents, and to repent ; but a new ditiiculty arose 
 on the path of the solution of the question, " What to 
 do ? " There were so many things that it was necessary 
 to have pointed out what it is that I ought to do. And 
 the answer to this question was given to me by the sin- 
 cere repentance of the evil in which I was living. " What 
 to do ? What indeed is to be done ? " all ask, and I, too, 
 asked myself so long as I, under the influence of the 
 high opinion of my calling, did not see that it was my 
 foremost and most unquestionable business to feed, clothe, 
 warm myself, and tend on myself, and in the same things 
 to serve others, because ever since the world has existed 
 this has been the first and most unquestionable duty of 
 every man. 
 
 In this one affair man receives, if he shares it, a full 
 gratification of the bodily and the spiritual demands of 
 his nature : to feed, clothe, guard oneself and one's 
 family is a gratification of a bodily demand, and to do 
 the same for other people is a gratification of a spiritual 
 demand. 
 
 Every other activity of man is lawful only when this 
 foremost necessity is satisfied. 
 
 No matter in what a man may think his calling to lie, 
 whether in governing people, or in defending his com- 
 patriots, or in celebrating divine services, or in teaching 
 others, or in inventing means for the increase of the 
 pleasures of life, or in discovering new laws of the uni- 
 verse, or in incarnating eternal truths in artistic forms, — 
 a sensible man will always find his first and most un- 
 questionable duty to lie in his participation in the struggle 
 with Nature, for the purpose of supporting his own life 
 and that of other men. This duty will always be the 
 first, if for no other reason because people need their life 
 most, and so, in order to defend and instruct men and 
 make their lives most agreeable, it is necessary to pre-
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 297 
 
 serve life itself, whereas my non-participation in the 
 struggle, the absorption of other men's labours, is a 
 destruction of other men's lives. 
 
 And so it is impossible and irrational to serve the lives 
 of men by destroying them. 
 
 The duty of the struggle with Nature for the purpose 
 of obtaining the means of subsistence will always be the 
 first and most unquestionable of all duties, because it is 
 a law of life, a departure from which draws after it an 
 inevitable punishment, — the destruction of either the 
 bodily or the rational hfe of man. If a man, living alone, 
 frees himself from the duty of the struggle with Nature, 
 he at once inflicts a punishment on liimself in that his 
 body perishes. But if a man frees himself from this 
 duty, causing others to fulfil it, while he ruins their lives, 
 he at once inflicts upon himself a punishment by destroy- 
 ing his rational life, that is, the hfe which has a rational 
 meaning. 
 
 I was so corrupted by my past life, and this first and 
 unquestionable law of God, or of Nature, has been so 
 concealed in our society, that the execution of this law 
 seemed strange, terrible, and even shameful to me, as 
 though the execution of an eternal, unquestionable law, 
 and not a departure from it, can be strange, terrible, and 
 shameful. At first it appeared to me that for the per- 
 formance of this matter there was needed some kind of 
 an appliance, arrangement, cooperation of those who 
 share my view, consent of family, life in the country ; 
 then it appeared rather awkward for me to speak openly 
 to people and to do such an extraordinary thing in our 
 manner of life as manual labour, and I did not know how 
 to go about it. 
 
 But I needed only to comprehend that it was not some 
 exclusive activity, such as had to be thought out and 
 arranged, but only a return from a false state, in which I 
 was, to one that was natural, that it was only a correc-
 
 298 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 tiou of a lie iu which I was living, — I needed only to 
 become conscious of tliis, in order that all these difficulties 
 should be removed. 
 
 It was never necessary to arrange, adapt, and await the 
 consent of others, because, no matter in what condition I 
 was, there were always men who fed, clothed, and kept 
 warm not only themselves, but also me, and under all 
 conditions 1 could do that for myself and for them, if I 
 had enough time and strength for it. 
 
 Nor could I experience any false shame in my occupa- 
 tion with a matter which was unaccustomed and surpris- 
 ing to people, because, in not doing it, I experienced no 
 longer any false, but real shame. When I arrived at the 
 consciousness of this and at the practical deduction from 
 it, I was fully rewarded for not having lost my courage 
 in the presence of the deductions of reason and for having 
 gone v/hither they led me. 
 
 When I arrived at this practical deduction, I was 
 startled by the ease and simplicity of the solution of all 
 those questions which before had seemed so difficult and 
 so complicated. 
 
 To the question what to do there appeared a most 
 indubitable answer : " First of all what I myself need, — 
 my samovar, my stove, my water, my raiment, — every- 
 thing which I could do myself." 
 
 In reply to the question as to whether this would not 
 seem strange to the people that did that, it appeared that 
 the strangeness lasted only a week, after which time it 
 would have been strange if I had returned to my former 
 conditions. 
 
 In reply to the question whether it was necessary to 
 organize this physical labour, by establishing a coopera- 
 tion in the country on the land, it turned out that this 
 was not necessary, that labour, if it has for its aim not 
 the obtaining of the possibility of being idle and exploit- 
 ing the labour of others, such as is the labour of those
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 299 
 
 who acquire wealth, but the gratification of needs, 
 naturally draws one from the city to the country, to 
 the land, where this labour is most fruitful and most 
 joyous. 
 
 There was no need of establishing any cooperative 
 society, because a labouring man naturally joins the 
 existing cooperation of working people. 
 
 To the question as to whether this labour would not 
 absorb all my time and deprive me of the possibility of 
 that mental activity which I love, to w*hich I am used, 
 and which, in moments of doubt, I consider not useless, I 
 received a most unexpected answer. The energy of the 
 mental activity was strengthened and evenly strength- 
 ened, freeing itself from everything superfluous, in pro- 
 portion of the bodily tension. 
 
 It turned out that, by giving eight hours to physical 
 labour, — that half of the day which before I had passed 
 in grievous efforts at struggling with ennui, — I had still 
 eight hours left, of which I, according to the conditions, 
 needed only five for mental labour ; it turned out that if 
 I, a very prolific writer, who for nearly forty years had 
 done nothing but write, and who had written three 
 hundred printed sheets [of sixteen pages each], had all 
 these forty years done manual labour with all the work- 
 ing people, and had read and studied for five hours each 
 day, excluding winter evenings and holidays, and had 
 written only on hohdays at the rate of two pages a day 
 (whereas I had written as much as a printed sheet a day), 
 I should have written the same three hundred sheets in 
 fourteen years. 
 
 What turned out was most astonishing, — it was a 
 very simple calculation, which a boy of seven years may 
 do, and which I had heretofore been unable to do. In a 
 day there are twenty-four hours ; we sleep eight, so there 
 are sixteen left. If a man of any mental activity should 
 devote five hours each day to his activity, he would do
 
 300 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 
 
 an enormous amount, so what becomes of tlie remaining 
 eleven hours ? 
 
 It turned out that physical labour not only does not 
 exclude the possibility of a mental activity, not only 
 improves its quality, but improves the activity itself and 
 encourages it. 
 
 As to the question whether this physical labour would 
 not deprive me of many harmless pleasures which are 
 proper to man, such as the enjoyments of the arts, the 
 acquisition of knowledge, the communion with men, and 
 in general the happiness of life, the very opposite turned 
 out to be the case : the tenser the work was, the more it 
 approached what is considered rough agricultural labour, 
 the more enjoyments and knowledge did 1 acquire, and the 
 closer and more amicable was my communion with men, 
 and the more happiness of life did I obtain. 
 
 To the question (so frequently heard by me from not 
 very sincere people) as to what result there may be frou' 
 such an insignificant drop in the ocean, — the participa- 
 tion of my personal physical labour in the ocean of labour 
 absorbed by me, — the same astonishing and unexpected 
 answer was received. 
 
 It turned out that I needed only to make physical 
 labour a habitual condition of my life, in order that the 
 majority of my false and expensive habits and needs dur- 
 ing my physical idleness should without the least effort 
 on my part naturally fall away from me. To say nothing 
 of my habit of changing day into night and vice versa, 
 and not to mention the bed, the garments, the conven- 
 tional cleanliness, which with the physical labour are 
 simply impossible and embarrassing, the food, the need of 
 the quality of the food, was completely changed. Instead 
 of sweet, fat, refined, complicated, seasoned food, for which 
 I had had a hankering before, I began to feel the need of 
 the simplest kind of food, which I enjoyed most, such as 
 cabbage soup, porridge, black bread, unsweetened tea.
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 301 
 
 Thus, not to speak of the simple example of those 
 labouring men with whom I came into contact and who 
 were contented with little, the needs themselves imper- 
 ceptibly changed in consequence of the life of labour, so 
 that my drop of physical labour, in proportion as I became 
 accustomed to it and acquired the methods of work, be- 
 came more perceptible ; in proportion as my labour became 
 more fruitful, my demands of other people's labour be- 
 came less and less, and life naturally, without effort and 
 without privations, approached that simple hfe of which 
 I could not even have dreamed without fulfilling the law 
 of labour. It turned out that my most expensive demands 
 on life, namely, the demands of vanity and of diversion 
 from ennui, were directly due to an idle life. 
 
 With physical labour there was no room for vanity, 
 and there was no need of di versions, since my time was 
 pleasantly occupied, and, after fatigue, a simple rest at 
 the tea, over a book, in a conversation Vith my family, 
 was incomparably more agreeable to me than the theatre, 
 cards, a concert, grand society, — all of them things that 
 cost a great deal. 
 
 As to the question whether this unaccustomed work 
 would not destroy the health which is necessary in order 
 to be able to serve men, it turned out that, in spite of the 
 positive assertions of famous physicians that tense physi- 
 cal labour, especially in my years, may have deleterious 
 results (in what way do they give us something better in 
 Swedish gymnastics, massage, and so forth, — appliances 
 which are to take the place of the natural conditions of 
 man's life ?), it turned out that the tenser the labour, the 
 stronger, fresher, happier, and better did I feel myself. 
 So it turned out to be indisputable that, just as all these 
 cunning devices of the human mind, new^spapers, theatres, 
 concerts, visits, balls, cards, periodicals, novels, are nothing 
 but a means for supporting man's spiritual life outside its 
 natural conditions of labour for others, so also all the hygi-
 
 302 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 enic and medical devices of the human mind for the ap- 
 pliances for food, drink, domicile, ventilation, heating, 
 clothing, medicines, water, massage, gymnastics, electrical 
 and all other kinds of cures, — that all these clever devices 
 were nothing but means for supporting man's bodily life 
 which is exempted from all its natural conditions of labour, 
 • — that all this was nothing but an arrangement in a her- 
 metically closed room, by means of chemical apparatus, 
 for evaporating water, and supplying the plants with the 
 best air for breathing, whereas it is enough to open a win- 
 dow and do that which is proper not only for man, but 
 also for the animal, — to let out and discharge the absorp- 
 tion of food and surplus of energy by means of muscular 
 labour. 
 
 The profound propositions of medicine and of hygiene 
 for men of our circle are hke what a mechanician might 
 invent in order, by firing a badly working engine and 
 stopping up all the valves, to keep the engine from burst- 
 ing. 
 
 When I clearly comprehended all this, I felt funny. 
 By a whole series of doubts and searchings and by a long 
 train of thought I had arrived at the extraordinary truth 
 that, if a man has eyes, he has them in order to look 
 with them, and ears to hear, and legs to walk, and hands 
 and a back to work with them, and that if a man shall 
 not employ these members for what they were intended, 
 he will fare badly. 
 
 I came to the conclusion that with us privileged people 
 the same happened as with the stallions of my acquaint- 
 ance. The clerk, who did not care for horses and did not 
 know anything about them, having received his master's 
 order to take the best stallions to the horse mart, picked 
 them out of the herd and put them into stalls ; and he 
 fed them and gave them to drink ; but, as he was anxious 
 about the expensive horses, he could not make up his 
 mind to leave them in anybody else's charge, and so did
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 303 
 
 not drive them or even let them out. The horses became 
 stiff- jointed and worthless. 
 
 The same has happened with us, but with this differ- 
 ence, that it is impossible in any way to deceive the 
 horses and that, not to let them out, they were kept in 
 one spot by means of a halter, whereas we are kept in just 
 such an unnatural and ruinous condition by means of 
 temptations vv'hich have enmeshed us and hold us as if 
 with chains. We have arranged our life contrary to the 
 moral and the physical nature of man, and we strain all 
 the forces of our mind in order to assure man that this 
 is the true life. Everything which we call culture, our 
 sciences and our arts, the improvements of the comforts 
 of life, are attempts to deceive man's moral, natural needs. 
 Everything which we call hygiene and medicine is an 
 attempt to deceive the natural physical demands of human 
 nature. But these deceptions have their limits, and we 
 have reached them. 
 
 If such is man's real life, it is better not to live at all, 
 says the reigning, most modern philosophy of Schopen- 
 hauer and of Hartmann. If such is life, it is better not 
 to live, says the increasing number of suicides among 
 the privileged classes. If such is life, it is better for the 
 future generations not to live, says medicine, in collusion 
 with science, and the devices invented by it for the de- 
 struction of female fertility. 
 
 In the Bible it says that, as man's law, in the sweat of 
 thy face shalt thou eat bread and in sorrow shalt thou 
 bring forth children. 
 
 Peasant Bondarev, who has written an article on this 
 subject, has enlightened me as to the wisdom of this 
 utterance. (In my whole life two Eussian thinkers have 
 had a great moral effect upon me and have made my 
 world conception clear to me. These men are not Russian 
 poets, scholars, preachers, but two even now living remark- 
 able men, both of them peasants, Syutaev and Bondarev."*
 
 304 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 But — nous avons change tout ga, as the character in 
 Molifere said when he ranted about medicine and asserted 
 that the liver was on the left side. Nous avons change 
 tout fa : men do not need to work in order to support 
 themselves, — all that will be done by machines, — and 
 women need not bear children. Science will teach us 
 other means, and there are too many people as it is. 
 
 A tattered peasant makes the round of Krapivensk 
 County. During the war he was a purchaser of grain 
 with an official of the commissary department. While 
 cultivating the acquaintance of the official, the peasant, as 
 they say, lost his mind, his fixed idea being that, hke any 
 gentleman, he does not need to work, but can receive the 
 maintenance due to him from his Majesty the emperor. 
 This peasant now calls himself liis Most Serene Military 
 Prince Blokhin, purveyor of military stores of all con- 
 ditions. He says of himself that he has gone through 
 all the ranks and that, after becoming an emeritus mili- 
 tary man, he would receive from his Majesty the emperor 
 an open bank, garments, uniforms, horses, carriages, tea, 
 peas, servants, and every other supply. 
 
 To the question whether he does not want to work 
 a little, he always replies proudly : " Much obliged, — all 
 that will be attended to by the peasants." 
 
 When you tell him that the peasants, too, will not wish 
 to work, he answers : " For the peasants this is not diffi- 
 cult in the performance." (He generally speaks in high 
 style and is fond of verbal nouns.) 
 
 " Now there is an invention of machines for the allevi- 
 ation of the peasants," he says. " For them there is no 
 embarrassment." 
 
 When he is asked what he lives for, he replies : " For 
 the passing of the time." 
 
 I always look at this man as into a mirror. I see 
 myself and all our class of people in him. To end with 
 a rank, in order to hve for the passing of the time and
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 305 
 
 receive an open bank, while the peasants, for whom it is no 
 embarrassment on account of the invention of machines, 
 manage all these matters, — this is a complete formulation 
 of the senseless faith of the people of our circle. 
 
 When we ask what it is we have to do, we do not ask 
 anything, but only affirm, only not with such openness 
 as the Most Serene Military Prince Blokhin, who has 
 gone through all the ranks and has lost his reason, that 
 we do not want to do anything. 
 
 He who comes to his senses cannot ask this, because 
 on the one hand everything he uses has been made by 
 men's hands, and, on the other, the moment a healthy 
 man wakes up and eats his breakfast, he has the need to 
 work with his legs, and hands, and brain. In order 
 to find work and to work, he must only not hold himself 
 back ; only he who considers it a disgrace to work, like 
 the lady who begs her guest not to trouble herself to 
 open the door, but to wait until she calls a servant, — 
 only he can put to himself the question what he is 
 to do. 
 
 The question is not to invent some work to do, — a 
 man will never succeed in doing all the work for himself 
 and for others, — but to get rid of that criminal view of 
 life that I eat and sleep for my pleasure, and to acquire 
 that simple and true view, with which a labouring man 
 grows up and lives, that a man is above everything else 
 a machine which is charged by food, and that, therefore, 
 to support himself, it is a shame, and hard, and impossible 
 for him to eat and not to work ; that- to eat and not to 
 work is an exceedingly perilous condition, something like 
 a conflagration. 
 
 Let this consciousness exist, and there will be work, 
 and the work will always be joyous and it will satisfy the 
 spiritual and the physical demands. The matter presented 
 itself to me as follows : the day of every man is by his 
 meals themselves divided into four parts, or four ploughing
 
 306 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 
 
 periods, as the peasants say : (1) before breakfast, (2) 
 from breakfast until dinner, (3) from dinner until supper, 
 and (4) from supper until evening. Man's activity, which 
 draws him to itself, is divided into four kinds: (1) the 
 activity of the muscular force, — the work of hands, feet, 
 shoulder, — hard labour which makes one sweat; (2) the 
 activity of the fingers and the wrist, — the activity of 
 dexterity of workmanship ; (3) the activity of the mind 
 and of the imagination ; (4) the activity of communion 
 with other men. Those benefits which man enjoys may 
 also be divided into four parts. Every man makes use, 
 in the first place, of the products of hard labour, — of the 
 grain, cattle, buildings, wells, ponds, etc. ; in the second 
 place, of the activity of artisan labour, — of garments, 
 boots, utensils, etc. ; in the third place, of the products of 
 mental activity, — of the sciences, of the arts, and, in the 
 fourth place, of the institution of the communion with 
 men, — of acquaintanceship, etc. And it appeared to me 
 that it would be best so to rotate the occupations of the 
 day as to bring into play all four human faculties, and to 
 repeat all four kinds of products, of which one makes use, 
 in such a way that the four ploughing periods may be 
 devoted : the first — to hard labour, the second — to men- 
 tal labour, the third — to artisan labour, and the fourth — 
 to communion with men. It is well if one can arrange 
 his labour in such a manner, but if that is impossible, one 
 thing is important, and that is, to have the consciousness 
 of a duty toward labour, a duty properly to employ every 
 period. 
 
 It seemed to me that only then would there be destroyed 
 that false division of labour which exists in our society, 
 and would be established that just division of labour 
 which does not impair man's happiness. 
 
 For example, I had busied myself all my life with 
 mental labour. I said to myself that I had so divided 
 the labour that writing, that is, mental labour, was my
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 307 
 
 special occupation, and all the other necessary occupations 
 I left to others (or compelled others) to do. This appar- 
 ently most convenient arrangement for mental labour, to 
 say nothing of its injustice, was after all disadvantageous 
 for mental labour. 
 
 My whole life, my food, my sleep, my distractions, I 
 had arranged in view of these hours of special labour, and 
 outside this labour I had done nothing. From this it 
 followed, in the first place, that 1 had narrowed down my 
 circle of observation and knowledge and frequently had 
 no subject for study, and, having set myself the problem 
 to describe the lives of men (the lives of men are the 
 perpetual problem of every mental activity), I frequently 
 felt my ignorance and was obhged to study and to ask 
 about things which are known to every man who is not 
 occupied with any special labour ; in the second place, it 
 turned out that I sat down to write when I had no inner 
 calling to write, and no one demanded of me my writing 
 as a writing, that is, my thoughts, but only v/anted my 
 name for magazine purposes. I tried to squeeze out of 
 me whatever I could : at times I did not squeeze out 
 anything, and at others something bad, and I experienced 
 dissatisfaction and pining. Thus frequently passed days 
 and weeks when I ate, drank, slept, warmed myself, and 
 did nothing, or did that which no one needed, that is, I 
 committed the most unquestionable and most abominable 
 crime, which is so rarely, hardly ever, committed by a 
 man from the labouring masses. Now, when I came to 
 recognize the necessity of physical, coarse, and artisan 
 labour, something entirely different resulted from it : my 
 time was occupied, no matter how modestly, yet beyond 
 doubt usefully, and joyfully, and instructively for me. 
 For this reason I tore myself away for my specialty from 
 this unquestionably useful and joyous occupation only 
 when I felt au inner need and saw directly expressed 
 demands for my author labour ; and these demands con-
 
 308 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 ditioned a good quality, and so a usefulness and joyousness 
 for my special labour. 
 
 Thus it turned out that my occupation with those 
 physical labours which are indispensable for me, as for 
 any other man, not only did not interfere with my special 
 activity, but were also a necessary condition of usefulness, 
 good quality, and joyousness of this activity. 
 
 A bird is so built that it must fly, walk, pick, reflect, 
 and when it does all that, it is satisfied and happy, — then, 
 to be more brief, it is a bird. The same is true of a man : 
 only when he walks, turns, lifts, drags, works with his 
 fingers, eyes, ears, tongue, brain, he is satisfied, he is a 
 man. 
 
 A man who has come to recognize his labour calling 
 will naturally strive for that change of labour which is 
 proper for him for the satisfaction of his external and his 
 internal needs, and will never change this order except 
 when he feels in himself an insuperable calling for some 
 exclusive work and there will present themselves other 
 people's demands for this labour. 
 
 The quality of labour is such that the gratification of 
 all of man's needs wants the same rotation of all kinds 
 of labour, which makes work not a burden, but a joy. 
 Only the false belief that work is a curse could have 
 brought men to that emancipation from certain kinds of 
 labour, that is, to the seizure of other men's labour, which 
 demands a forced occupation with a special labour of other 
 men, which they call division of labour. 
 
 We have become so accustomed to our false conception 
 about the arrangement of labour that it seems to us that 
 it will be better for a shoemaker, a machinist, a writer, or 
 a musician, if he shall exempt himself from labour which 
 is proper for every man. 
 
 Where there will be no violence exerted against another 
 man's labour, and no false faith in the joyousness of idle- 
 ness, not one man will, in order to busy himself with any
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 309 
 
 special labour, free himself from physical work, which is 
 necessary for the gratification of his needs, because the 
 special occupation is no prerogative, but a sacrifice which 
 a man brings to his infatuation and to his brothers. 
 
 A shoemaker in the country, who tears himself away 
 from the joyful field labour and takes up his work in 
 order to mend or make boots for his ueighbours, deprives 
 himself of the ever joyful and useful labour in the field 
 for others, only because he is fond of making boots and 
 knows that no one can do this as well as he, and that 
 people will be thankful to him for it. But he cannot 
 even dream of a desu-e to deprive himself for life of the 
 joyful rotation of labour. The same is true of an elder, a 
 machinist, a writer, a scholar. To us, with our corrupted 
 conceptions, it seems that if a master degrades his clerk 
 by sending him back to the country, or if a minister is 
 sent to an exile colony, that he has been punished, that 
 some evil has been done to him. In reahty, a benefit 
 has been conferred to him, that is, his special, oppressive 
 labour has been abandoned in favour of the joyful rotation 
 of labour. 
 
 In natural society all this is quite different. I know a 
 Commune where the people supported themselves. One 
 member of this society was more educated than the rest, 
 and he was required to read, so that he had to prepare 
 himself in daytime, to be able to read in the evening. 
 He did so joyfully, feeling that he was useful to others 
 and was doing a good deed. But he was worn out by the 
 exclusively mental labour, and his health grew worse. 
 The members of the Commune pitied him and asked him 
 to go to work with them in the field. 
 
 For people who look upon labour as the essence and 
 joy of hfe, the background, the foundation of life will 
 always be the struggle with nature, namely, agricultural, 
 mechanical, and mental labour, and the establishment of 
 communion among men.
 
 310 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 The departure from one or many of these kinds of 
 labour and the special work will exist only when the 
 man of the special work, loving this work and knowing 
 that he is doing it better than any one else, sacrifices his 
 advantage for the gratification of demands directly made 
 on him. Only with such a view of labour and of the 
 resulting natural division of labour there is destroyed 
 the curse which in our imagination is imposed upon 
 labour, and every labour always becomes a joy, because 
 a man will do an unquestionably useful and joyous, unop- 
 pressive work, or he will have the consciousness of sacri- 
 fice in the performance of a more difficult, exclusive work, 
 but which is such as he does for the good of others. 
 
 But the division of labour is more advantageous. More 
 advantageous for whom ? 
 
 It is more advantageous to make as many boots and 
 cottons as possible. But who will make these boots 
 and cottons ? 
 
 There are men who for generations have been making 
 nothing but pin-heads. How can this be more advan- 
 tageous for people ? 
 
 If the question is to make as many cottons and pins 
 as possible, that is so ; but the question is in the people, 
 in their good. Now the good of men is in life, and life is 
 in work. How, then, can the necessity of an agonizing, 
 oppressive work be more advantageous for men ? 
 
 If the question is only the advantage for some people 
 without considering the good of all men, it is most 
 advantageous for one set of men to eat others. They say 
 that human flesh tastes good. What is most advan- 
 tageous for all men — the one thing which I wish for 
 myself — is the greatest good and the gratification of all 
 needs, of body and soul, of conscience, of reason, which 
 are implanted in me. Now I found in my case that for 
 my good and for the gratification of these needs of mine 
 I need only cure myself from that madness in which I
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 311 
 
 had lived with that Krapivensk madman, and which con- 
 sisted in this : that gentlemen are not supposed to work, 
 and that others must attend to that and, without invent- 
 ing anything, do only what is proper to man, while grati- 
 fying his needs. When I found this, I convinced myself 
 that this labour for the gratification of one's needs natu- 
 rally divided itseK into different kinds of labour, each of 
 which has its charm and not only forms no burden, but 
 also serves as a rest from another kind of labour. 
 
 In a coarse way (by no means insisting on the correct- 
 ness of such a division) I divided this labour according to 
 those demands which I make on life into four parts, 
 to correspond to the four periods of work of which the 
 day is composed, and I try to satisfy these demands. 
 
 So these are the answers which I found for myself in 
 reply to the question what we shall do. 
 
 The first : not to lie to myself ; no matter how distant 
 my patli of life may be from that true path which reason 
 opens to me, not to be afraid of the truth. 
 
 The second : to renounce the consciousness of my 
 righteousness, my prerogatives, my privileges in compari- 
 son with other men, and to recognize myself guilty. 
 
 The third: to fulfil that eternal, indisputable law of 
 man, — with the labour of my whole being to struggle 
 with Nature for the purpose of supporting my own life 
 and that of other men.
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 I HAVE finished, for I have said everything which con- 
 cerned me, but I cannot refrain from the desire to tell also 
 that which concerns everybody : to verify those deduc- 
 tions at which I have arrived by general considerations. 
 
 What I wish to talk about is why it seems to me that 
 very many people of our circle must arrive at the same 
 thing at which I have arrived, and also what wiU happen 
 if even a few people will arrive at the same. 
 
 I think that many people will arrive at the same con- 
 clusions at which I have arrived, because if men of our 
 circle, of our caste, will take a serious look at themselves, 
 young people, who are in search of their personal happi- 
 ness, will be terrified at the ever increasing inanity of 
 their life, which clearly draws them to their perdition ; 
 conscientious people will be terrified at the cruelty and 
 the illegality of their life ; and timid people wiU be terri- 
 fied at the perilousness of their life. 
 
 The misfortune of our life : no matter how much we, 
 the rich, with the aid of science and of art, mend and 
 support this our false life, this life with every year be- 
 comes weaker, and more morbid, and more painful ; with 
 every year there is an increase in the number of suicides 
 and in the refraining from childbirth ; with every year the 
 new generations of men of this class become weaker and 
 weaker ; with every year we feel the increasing gloom of 
 this hfe. 
 
 It is obvious that on this road of the increase of the 
 comforts and pleasures of life, of cures and artificial teeth, 
 hair, breathing, massages, and so forth, there can be no 
 
 312
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 313 
 
 salvation ; this truth has become such a truism that in 
 the newspapers they print advertisements about stomachic 
 powders for the rich under the title, " Blessings for the 
 poor," where it says that only the poor have a good diges- 
 tion, but that the rich need assistance, and with it these 
 powders. 
 
 This cannot be mended by any amusements, comforts, 
 powders, — this can be corrected only by a change of 
 life. 
 
 Tlie disagreement of otir life ivith our conscience : no 
 matter how much we may try to justify to ourselves our 
 unfaithfulness to humanity, all our justifications scatter 
 to the winds before that which is obvious : around us 
 people die from work above their strength and from want ; 
 we ruin the food, the garments, the labour of men, in 
 order to find diversion and change. And so the conscience 
 of a man of our circle, if there is but a small residue of it 
 left in him, cannot fall asleep, and it poisons all those 
 comforts and pleasures of life which are furnished to us 
 by our suffering brothers who perish in labour. 
 
 Not only does every conscientious man feel this, he 
 would be glad to forget it, but he cannot do so in our 
 time, — the whole better part of science and of art, the 
 one in which the meaning of its calling is left, reminds us 
 constantly of our cruelty and of our illegal situation. The 
 old, firm justifications are all destroyed ; the new, ephem- 
 eral justifications of progress of science for science' sake, 
 and of art for art's sake, do not bear the light of simple 
 common sense. 
 
 The conscience of men cannot be put at rest with new 
 inventions, but only with a change of life, with which 
 there will be no need and no cause for any justification. 
 
 TJie pcrilousncss of onr life : no matter how we try 
 to conceal from ourselves the simple, most obvious 
 danger of the exhaustion of the patience of those men 
 whom we choke ; no matter how much we try to coun-
 
 314 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 teract this danger by all kinds of deceptions, acts of 
 violence, and propitiations, this danger is growing with 
 every day and with every hour, and has been threatening 
 us for a long time, and even now it has matured so much 
 that we with difficulty hold ourselves in our boat over 
 the agitated sea, which is about to swamp us and angrily 
 to swallow and devour us. The labouring revolution, 
 with the terrors of destructions and murders, has not only 
 been threatening us, but we have been living on it for 
 thirty years, and so far we have with all kinds of cunning 
 devices managed for a time to postpone its eruption. 
 Such is the state of Europe; such is the state with us, 
 and it is even worse with us, because it has no safety- 
 valves. The classes v/hich oppress the masses, except the 
 Tsar, now have no justification in the eyes of the masses ; 
 they all hold themselves in their position by nothing but 
 violence, cunning, and opportunism, that is, by agihty, 
 but the hatred in the best representatives of the masses 
 and the contempt for us among the best are growing 
 with every hour. 
 
 Among our masses there has in the last three or four 
 years come into general use a new, significant word ; this 
 word, which I had never heard before, they now use 
 opprobriously in the streets and define us as " drones." 
 
 The hatred and contempt of the oppressed masses are 
 growing, and the physical and moral forces of the wealthy 
 classes are weakening ; the deception, by means of which 
 everything is holding itself, is being w^orn out, and the 
 wealthy classes can no longer console themselves by 
 anything in this mortal peril. 
 
 It is impossible to return to the old conditions ; it is 
 impossible to renew the destroyed prestige : there is but 
 one thing left to do for those who do not wish to change 
 their lives, and that is, to hope that things will suffice 
 for their life, and afterward let it be as it may. 
 
 Even so does the blind crowd of the wealthy classes
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 315 
 
 do ; but the peril is growing all the time, and the terrible 
 catastrophe is coming nearer. 
 
 Three causes show to the men of the wealthy classes 
 the necessity for a change of their life : the need for a 
 personal good for themselves and for their nearest friends, 
 which is not satisfied on the path on wdiich the rich are 
 standing ; the necessity of satisfying the voice of con- 
 science, the impossibility of which is obvious on the pres- 
 ent path, and the menacing and ever gi'owing danger of 
 life, which is not removed by any external means ; all 
 three causes taken together must lead the men of the 
 wealthy classes to a change of their lives, to a change 
 which would satisfy their good and also their consciences, 
 and would remove the danger. 
 
 There is but one such a change : to stop cheating, to 
 repent, and to recognize labour not as a curse, but as a 
 joyous affair of life. 
 
 But what of it that I shall work ten, eight, or five 
 hours at physical labour, which thousands of peasants 
 will gladly do for the money which I have, I am asked. 
 
 The first thing and the simplest and most indubitable 
 thing will be this, that you will be merrier, healthier, 
 more cheerful, and better, and you will know what the 
 real hfe is, from which you have been hiding yourself, or 
 which has been concealed from you. 
 
 The second thing will be this, that if you have a con- 
 science, it will not only not suffer, as it does now, looking 
 at the work of men (the meaning of which we, who do 
 not know it, always magnify or minimize), but you will 
 all the time experience a joyous consciousness of the fact 
 that with every day you more and more satisfy the 
 demand of your conscience and get away from that ter- 
 rible position of such an accumulation of evil in our life 
 that there is no possibility of doing any good to people ; 
 you will feel a joy at living freely with the possibility of 
 the good ; you will knock a window, an opening of light.
 
 316 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 into the sphere of the moral world, which was hidden 
 from you. What will happen will be this : instead of the 
 eternal fear of retribution for your evil you will feel that 
 you are saving others from this retribution, and, above 
 all, that you are saving the oppressed from the grievous 
 sensation of malice and of revenge. 
 
 " But it is ridiculous," they say, " for the men of our 
 society, with the profound questions before us, — philo- 
 sophical, scientific, political, artistic, ecclesiastical, social 
 questions, — for us ministers, senators, academicians, pro- 
 fessors, artists, singers, for us, one-fourth of whose time is 
 so highly appreciated by men, to waste our time, — on 
 what ? — on cleaning our boots, washing our shirts, dig- 
 ging, setting out potatoes, or feeding our chickens and 
 our cows, and so forth, — on those things which are 
 gladly done for us, not only by our janitor and our cook, 
 but also by thousands of men who highly value our 
 time." 
 
 But why do we dress, wash, scratch ourselves (excuse 
 the details), why do we hold our vessel, why do we walk 
 ourselves, hand a chair to a lady and to guests, open and 
 close doors, help people into a carriage, and do hundreds 
 of similar things, which formerly slaves used to do for 
 us? 
 
 Because we consider this proper, because so demands 
 human dignity, that is man's duty, man's obligation. 
 
 The same is true of physical labour. 
 
 Man's dignity, liis sacred duty and obligation, is to 
 make use of the hands and feet given him for the purpose 
 for which they are given to him, and to use the devoured 
 food for work which is productive of this food, and not to 
 let them become atrophied, not wash and clean them and 
 use them only for the purpose of shoving food, drink, 
 and cigarettes into the mouth. 
 
 Such is the significance which the occupation with 
 physical labour has for each man in any society ; but in
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 317 
 
 our society, where the deviation from this law of Nature 
 has become the misfortune of the wh(jle circle of men, 
 the occupation with physical lab(jur receives also another 
 significance, — that of a sermon and of an activity which 
 removes the terrible calamities which threaten humanity. 
 To say that for a cultured man the occupation with 
 physical labour is insignificant is the same as saying in 
 the building of a temple : " What importance can there 
 be in placing one stone evenly in its place ? " 
 
 Every great work is, indeed, done under conditions of 
 iraperceptibility, modesty, simplicity : it is impossible to 
 plough, to build, to graze cattle, or even to think under 
 an illumination, under roar of cannon, and in uniforms. 
 The illumination, the roar of cannon, music, uniforms, 
 cleanliness, splendour, with which we are accustomed to 
 combine the idea of the importance of an occupation, on 
 the contrary, always serve as signs that the matter is 
 lacking importance. 
 
 Great, true acts are always simple and modest. 
 
 And such is the very great work which is before us, — 
 the solution of those terrible contradictions in which we 
 live. 
 
 The acts which solve these contradictions are these 
 modest, imperceptible, apparently ridiculous acts ; minis- 
 tering to ourselves, physical labour for ourselves and, if 
 possible, for others. They are incumbent on us, the rich, 
 if we comprehend the misfortune, unscrupulousness, and 
 danger of the situation, into which we have fallen. 
 
 What will come of it if I and two or three dozen men 
 will not disdain work and will consider it necessarv for 
 our happiness, peace of mind, and security ? Wliat will 
 happen will be this : A dozen, two, three dozen men 
 will, without coming into conflict with any one, without 
 any governmental or revolutionary violence, solve for 
 themselves the apparently insoluble question which is 
 standing before the whole world, and will solve it in such
 
 318 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 a way that they will live better, that their consciences 
 will become calmer, and that the evil of oppression will 
 no longer be terrible to them ; other people will see that 
 the good, for which they are searching everywhere, is 
 here close to them, that the apparently insoluble contra- 
 dictions of conscience and of the structure of the universe 
 are solved in the easiest and most joyous manner possible, 
 aud that, instead of being afraid of men who surround 
 them, it is necessary to come nearer to them and love 
 them. 
 
 The apparently insoluble economic and social question 
 is the question of Kryldv's box : it opens in a simple 
 manner. 
 
 But it will not open itself so long as people will not 
 simply do the first and most simple thing, — so long as 
 they do not open it. 
 
 The apparently insoluble question is the ancient ques- 
 tion of the exploitation of other people's labour ; this 
 question has in our day found its expression in property. 
 
 In our day property is the root of every evil, — of the 
 sufferings of men who have it or who are deprived of it, 
 and of bites of conscience of those who misuse it, and of 
 the danger of conflicts between those who have an abun- 
 dance of it and those who are deprived of it. Property is 
 the root of evil, and at the same time it is that tov/ard 
 which all the activity of modern society is directed, that 
 which guides the activity of our whole world. 
 
 Governments and states intrigue and fight for the pos- 
 session of the banks of the Rhine, of land in Africa, in 
 China, on the Balkan peninsula. Bankers, merchants, 
 manufacturers, agriculturists, labour, devise, suffer, and 
 cause others to suffer for the sake of possessions ; offi- 
 cials, artisans, struggle, deceive, oppress, suffer for the sake 
 of possessions ; courts, the police, guard property ; hard 
 labour, prisons, — all the terrors of so-called punishments, 
 — are all on account of property.
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 319 
 
 Property is the root of all evil ; and the whole world is 
 busy dividing and protecting property. 
 
 What, then, is property ? 
 
 People are accustomed to think that ownership is 
 something which actually belongs to man. This is the 
 reason why they have called it ownership. We say of a 
 house and of a hand alike : " My own hand," and " My 
 own house." 
 
 But this is obviously a delusion and a superstition. 
 
 We know, and if we do not know, we can easily see, 
 that ownership is only a means for using the labour of 
 others ; but the labour of others can in no way be my 
 own. It even has nothing in common with the concept 
 of ownership, which is very exact and precise. A man 
 has always called, and always will call, his own what is 
 subject to his will and is connected with his conscious- 
 ness, — his body. The moment a man calls that his own 
 which is not his body, but which he wishes should be 
 subjected to his will, like his body, he makes a mistake 
 and lays up disappointments and sufferings for himself 
 and subjects himself to the necessity of making others 
 suffer. 
 
 A man calls his wife, his children, his slaves, his chat- 
 tels his property, but reality always shows him his mis- 
 take, and he is obliged to renounce this superstition or to 
 suffer and cause others to suffer. 
 
 At the present time we, nominally rejecting the owner- 
 ship of men, thanks to the money and the exaction of the 
 money by the government, proclaim our property rights 
 to money, that is, to the labour of others. 
 
 But as the property right to one's wife, son, slave, or 
 horse is a fiction, which is destroyed by reahty and only 
 causes him to suffer who beheves in it, because my wife, 
 my son, will never submit to my will, like my body, 
 and my true property will still be in my body, so also the 
 ownership of money will never be an ownership, but only
 
 320 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 a self-deception and source of sufferings, while my prop- 
 erty will still consist in my body, in that which always 
 submits to my will and is connected with my conscious- 
 ness. 
 
 It is only to us, who have become accustomed to call 
 that which is not our body our property, that it can 
 appear that such a wild superstition may be useful to us 
 and remain without any harmful consequences to us ; but 
 we need only reflect on the essence of the matter in order 
 to see that this superstition, like any other, brings with it 
 the most terrible consequences. 
 
 Let us take the simplest example. 
 
 I consider myself my own property and another man 
 my property. 
 
 I must know how to prepare a dinner. If I did not 
 have the superstition about the ownership of another 
 man, I should have taught this art, like any other I may 
 need, to my property, that is to my body ; but instead I 
 teach it to my imaginary property, and the result is this, 
 that my cook does not obey me, does not wish to please 
 me, and even runs away from me, or dies, and I am left 
 with the ungratitied, excited necessity of gratifying my- 
 self and with the lost habit of studying, and with the 
 consciousness that I have lost as much time in my worries 
 with this cook as would suffice for me to have learned 
 the art myself. The same is true of the ownership of 
 buildings, garments, utensils, land, and money. Every 
 imaginary property evokes in me non-corresponding, not 
 always gratifiable, needs, and deprives me of the possibility 
 of acquiring for my true and unquestionable property, for 
 my body, that knowledge, that skill, those habits, those 
 perfections, which I could have acquired. 
 
 The result is always this, that I have vainly lost my 
 strength for myself, for my true property, and sometimes 
 even my life without a residue for what never has been, 
 and never could be, my property.
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 321 
 
 I provide myself with what I imagine to be my own 
 library, my own picture-gallery, my own apartments, my 
 own garments, obtain my own money with which to buy 
 what I need, and the end of it is that, w^hile busying 
 myself with this imaginary property as though it were 
 real, I completely lose the consciousness of the distinction 
 between that which is my real property, over which I 
 actually can work, which can serve me, and which will 
 always remain in my power, and that which is not, and 
 cannot be, my property, no matter how I may call it, 
 and which cannot be the subject of my activity. 
 
 Words have always a clear meaning so long as we do 
 not intentionally give them a false significance. 
 
 What does property mean ? It means that which is 
 given and belongs to me exclusively, that which I can 
 always employ in any manner I may wish, which no one 
 can ever take away from me, which remains mine to 
 the end of my life, and that which I must use, increase, 
 improve. 
 
 Such a subject of ownership for each man is only he 
 himself. 
 
 And yet it is in this very sense that the imaginary 
 ownership of men is taken, the one in the name of which 
 (to do the impossible, — to make this imaginary property 
 real) all the terrible evil in the world takes place, — the 
 wars and executions, and courts, and prisons, and luxury, 
 and debauch, and murder, and the ruin of men. 
 
 What, then, will happen if a dozen men will plough, 
 chop wood, make boots, not from necessity, but from the 
 consciousness that a man must work and that the more 
 he works the better it will be for him ? What will hap- 
 pen will be this, that a dozen men, or even one man, will, 
 both in cognition and in fact, show men that that terri])le 
 evil from which they suffer is not a law of fate, the will of 
 God, or some historical necessity, but a superstition, wliich, 
 far from being strong and terrible, is weak and insignifi-
 
 322 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 cant, and which one must stop believing in, as in idols, in 
 order to be freed from it and to destroy it, like a frail 
 cobweb. 
 
 Men who will begin to work in order to fulfil the joy- 
 ous law of life, that is, who labour for the fulfilment of the 
 law of work, will free themselves from the superstition of 
 personal ownership, which is pregnant with calamities ; 
 and all the institutions of the world, which exist for the 
 support of this putative property outside of one's body, 
 will appear to them not only useless, but even embarrass- 
 ing ; and it will become clear to all that all these institu- 
 tions are not indispensable, but injurious, imaginary, and 
 false conditions of life. 
 
 For a man who regards labour not as a curse, but as a 
 joy, the property outside of his body, that is, the right or 
 the possibihty of using the labour of others, will be not 
 only useless, but even embarrassing. 
 
 If I am fond and in the habit of preparing my own 
 dinner, the fact that another man will do this for me 
 will deprive me of my customary occupation and will not 
 satisfy me so much as I used to satisfy myself ; besides, 
 the acquisition of imaginary property will be useless for 
 such a man : a man who regards labour as life itself fills 
 liis hfe with it, and so is less and less in the need of the 
 labour of others, that is, in property for the occupation of 
 his idle time, for the pleasures and adornment of his life. 
 
 If a man's life is filled with labour, he needs no rooms, 
 no furniture, no varied beautiful garments ; he needs less 
 of expensive food, no means for transportation, no dis- 
 tractions. 
 
 But above all else, a man who regards work as the 
 business and joy of his life will not seek any alleviation 
 of his labour which can be given to him through the work 
 of others. 
 
 A man who retrards hfe as work will have for his 
 aim, in proportion as he acquires skill, agility, and endur-
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 323 
 
 ance, more and more work, which fills his life more and 
 more. 
 
 For such a man, who assumes the meaning of his hfe 
 to lie in labour, and not in its results, not in the acqui- 
 sition of property, that is, in the labour of others, there 
 cannot even be any question about instruments of 
 labour. 
 
 Though such a man will always choose the most 
 productive instruments of labour, he will get the same 
 satisfaction from work even if he works with the least 
 productive tools. 
 
 If there is a steam plough, he will plough with it ; if 
 there is none, he will plough with a horse plough ; and 
 if he has not that, he will use a wooden plough ; and if 
 not that, he will dig with a spade, and under all con- 
 ditions will he equally attain his aim, which is to pass his 
 hfe in work useful to men, and so he will derive from it 
 his full satisfaction. 
 
 The condition of such a man, both from external and 
 internal conditions, \vill be happier than his who puts his 
 hfe in the acquisition of property.^ 
 
 From external conditions such a man will never be in 
 want, because men, seeing his desire to work, as in the 
 water-power to which a mill is attached, will always try 
 to make his labour most productive, and, to have it as 
 productive as possible, they will make his material exist- 
 ence secure, which they do not do for men who strive 
 after possessions. But the security of material conditions 
 is all a man needs. 
 
 From internal conditions such a man will always be 
 happier than he who seeks possessions, because the latter 
 will never obtain what he is striving after, while the first 
 will always get it in accordance with his strength: the 
 feeble, the old, the dying, as the proverb says, with a 
 crowbar in their hands, will receive full satisfaction and 
 the love and sympathy of men.
 
 324 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 So that is what will happen if a few crazy, odd people 
 will plough, make boots, and so forth, instead of smoking 
 cigarettes, playing vint, and travelling everywhere, taking 
 with them their ennui during the ten hours of the day 
 which every mental worker has free ! 
 
 What will happen will be this, that these crazy people 
 will show in fact that the imaginary property, which is 
 the cause of suffering and making others suffer, is un- 
 necessary for happiness and embarrassing, and that it is 
 only a superstition, — that ownership, true ownership, 
 is vested only in one's head, hands, and feet, and that, in 
 order actually to exploit this property to good advantage 
 and with joy, it is necessary to reject the false conception 
 of property outside of one's body, on which we waste the 
 best forces of our life. What will happen will be this, 
 that these men will show that only when man stops 
 believing in the imaginary property he properly works 
 his real property, his ability, his body, so that they will 
 give him returns a hundredfold and happiness of which 
 we have no conception, and he will be such a useful, 
 strong, and good man that, no matter where he may be 
 thrown, he will always alight on his feet, will every- 
 where always be a brother to all, and will be known and 
 needed and dear to all. And people, looking at one, at a 
 dozen such crazy men, will comprehend what they must 
 all do in order to untie that terrible knot into which they 
 have been drawn by the superstition of ownership, in 
 order to free themselves from the unfortunate position 
 from which they all groan in one voice, not knowing a 
 way out from it. 
 
 But what will one man do in a crowd which does not 
 agree with him ? 
 
 There is no reflection which more obviously shows the 
 unrighteousness of those who employ it. 
 
 The tow-men tow a boat against the stream. Is it pos- 
 sible there will be found such a stupid tow-man who will
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 325 
 
 refuse to do his pulling, because he is not able by himself 
 to tow the boat up the river ? 
 
 He who in addition to his rights of an animal life, such 
 as to eat and to sleep, recognizes any human duty, knows 
 full well wherein this duty consists, as well as the tow- 
 man knows, who shoulders the tow-rope. The tow-man 
 knows very well that all he has to do is to pull the rope 
 and walk in a well-trod direction. He will be looking 
 for something to do and how to do it, only when he has 
 thrown ofi" his rope. And what is true of the tow^-men 
 and of all other men who do a common work is also true of 
 the work of all humanity ; each man must not take off the 
 tow-rope, but musi pull at it in the direction indicated by 
 the master and opposite to the current. For this the 
 same intellect has been given to men that the direction 
 might be ahvays one and the same. 
 
 This direction is given so obviously, so indubitably, in 
 the whole life of all men about us, and in the conscience 
 of every individual man, and in the whole expression of 
 men's wisdom, that only he who does not want to work 
 can say that he does not see it. 
 
 So what will come of it ? 
 
 This, that one or two men wiU pull ; looking at them, 
 a third man will join them, and so the best men will join 
 them until the matter wiU advance and go as though 
 pushing and inviting those who do not understand what 
 is being done and for what purpose. 
 
 The men who consciously work for the fulfilment of 
 the law of God will at first be joined by men who semi- 
 consciously, taking things half on faith, recognize the 
 same thing ; then they will be joined by a large number 
 of men who recognize the same through their faith in the 
 representative men, and, finally, the majority of men will 
 recognize the same, and then all men will stop ruining 
 themselves and will find happiness. That will be (and it 
 will be very soon) when the men of our circle, and after
 
 326 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 them the vast majority of the labourers, will not consider 
 it a shame to clean privies, and yet not a shame to till 
 them and let people, their brothers, clean them ; a shame 
 to call on people in their personal boots, and yet not a 
 shame to pass in galoshes by men who have no foot- 
 gear ; a shame not to know French or the latest news, and 
 not a shame to eat bread and yet not to know how to set 
 it ; a shame not to have a starched shirt and clean dresses, 
 and not a shame to wear clean garments, in order to point 
 out their idleness ; a shame to have dirty hands, and not 
 a shame not to have callous hands. 
 
 All that will happen when public opinion will demand 
 it. But public opinion will demand it when in the minds 
 of men will be destroyed the offences which concealed 
 the truth from them. Within my memory great changes 
 have taken place in this sense. And these changes have 
 taken place only because public opinion changed. Within 
 my memory it was considered a shame for rich people not 
 to drive out with four horses and two lackeys, and not to 
 have a lackey or chambermaid to dress and wash them 
 and hold the vessel for them, and so forth ; and now it 
 has suddenly become a shame not to dress oneself and 
 to drive out with lackeys. All these changes were pro- 
 duced by public opinion. 
 
 Can we not clearly see the changes which are being 
 wrought in public opinion ? It was enough for the 
 offence which justified the serf right to be destroyed 
 twenty-five years ago, in order that public opinion should 
 change in regard to what is praiseworthy and what 
 shameful, and for life to become changed. The offence 
 which justifies the power of money over men need be 
 destroyed, and pubhc opinion will change as to what is 
 praiseworthy and what disgraceful, and life will change 
 with it. 
 
 But the destruction of the offence of the justification of 
 the money power and change of public opinion in this
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 327 
 
 respect are rapidly taking place. This offence is trans- 
 parent now, and barely veils the truth. We need but 
 take a close look in order to see clearly that change of 
 public opinion which not only umst take place, but which 
 has already taken place, though it is still unconscious and 
 has not been given a name. Let an ever so little educated 
 man of our time reflect on what results from those views 
 of the world which he professes, in order that he may 
 convince himself that that valuation of what is good and 
 what bad, what praiseworthy and what disgraceful, by 
 which he is guided in life from inertia, directly contra- 
 dicts his whole world conception. 
 
 A man of our time need but for a minute, renouncing 
 his life which goes on from inertia, look at it from one 
 side and subject it to the valuation which flows from his 
 whole world conception, in order to become frightened at 
 that determination of his whole life which results from 
 his world conception. 
 
 Let us take as an example a young man (in young men 
 the energy of life is stronger and self-consciousness more 
 hazy) from the rich classes, professing any views what- 
 ever. Every good young man considers it a shame not to 
 help an old man, a child, a woman ; he considers it a 
 shame in a common affair to subject to danger the life 
 or health of another man, and himself to avoid it. Every- 
 body considers it a shame and monstrous to do what 
 Schuyler tells the Kirgizes do in time of a storm, to send 
 the women, both young and old, out into the storm to 
 hold the corners of the tent, while they themselves 
 remain sitting in the tent and drinking kumys ; every- 
 body considers it a shame to compel a feeble man to 
 work for him ; a still greater shame during a danger, 
 on a burning ship for example, for the strongest to push 
 aside the weaker and, leaving them in danger, to be the 
 first to climb into a life-saving boat, and so forth. All 
 this they consider shameful and they will never do that in
 
 328 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 certain exclusive conditions ; but in every-day life just 
 such acts and even much worse acts are hidden from 
 them by the offence, and they continue to do them. 
 
 They need but stop and think, in order that they may 
 see and be horrified. 
 
 The young man puts on a fresh shirt every day. Who 
 washes it at the river ? A woman, no matter in what 
 position she may be, who is old enough to be the young 
 man's grandmother or mother, and who often is sick. 
 What does this young man himself call him who, from 
 mere wantonness to change his shirt, which is clean as it 
 is, sends it to be washed by a woman who is old enough 
 to be his mother ? 
 
 The young man keeps horses for the sake of foppish- 
 ness, and they are trained in at the risk of his life by a 
 man who is old enough to be his father or grandfather, 
 while the young man mounts them only when all danger 
 is past. What will this young man call him who, get- 
 ting himself out of the way, puts another man in a 
 dangerous position and makes use of this risk for his own 
 pleasure ? 
 
 But the whole hfe of the wealthy classes is composed 
 of a series of such acts. Unenduringly hard work of old 
 men, children, and women, and acts performed by others 
 at the peril of their lives, not that we may be able to 
 work, l)ut for our lust, fill our whole Hfe. A fisherman 
 is drowned v/hile catching fish for us ; laundresses catch 
 colds and die ; blacksmiths grow blind ; factory hands get 
 sick and are ruined by the machinery ; woodehoppers are 
 crushed by trees ; thatchers fall down from roofs and are 
 killed ; seamstresses become consumptive. All real work 
 is done with the loss and peril of life. It is impossible 
 to conceal and not see this. There is one salvation in 
 this situation, one way out from it, and this is, for a man 
 of our time, in accordance with his own conception of the 
 world, not to call himself a rascal and a coward, who
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN ? 329 
 
 shoulders the labour and the peril of life upon others, — 
 to take from people only what is necessary for life and 
 for himself to bear the real labour with the loss and peril 
 of his life. 
 
 The time will soon come, and it is already at hand, 
 when it will be a disgrace and a shame to eat not only 
 a dinner of five courses, served by lackeys, but also one 
 that is not cooked by the hosts themselves ; when it will 
 be a shame to drive fast horses and even in a hack, so 
 long as one has legs ; in week-days to put on garments, 
 shoes, and gloves in which it is impossiljle to work ; to 
 play on a piano costing twelve hundred roubles, or even 
 fifty roubles, when others, strangers, are working for me ; 
 to feed milk and white bread to the dogs, when there are 
 people who have no bread and no milk ; to burn lamps 
 and candles at which people do not work, to make fires 
 in stoves, in which they do not cook food, when there are 
 people who have no illumination and no fuel. We are 
 inevitably and rapidly marching to such a view. We 
 are already standing on the borderland of this new life, 
 and the establishment of this new view of life is a matter 
 of public opinion. The public opinion which confirms 
 such a view on life is being rapidly worked out. 
 
 Women make public opinion, and women are in our 
 time particularly strong.
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 As it says in the Bible, man is given the law of labour, 
 and woman the law of childbirth ; although we, accord- 
 ing to our science, avons change tout ga, the law has 
 remained as unchanged for man and for woman as the 
 liver is in its old place, and a departure from it is as 
 much as ever punished by inevitable death. 
 
 The only difference is this, that for man, for all in gen- 
 eral, the departure from the law is punished by death in 
 such a near future that it may be called the present, 
 while for woman the departure from the law is punished 
 in a more remote future. The common departure from 
 the law by men destroys men at once ; the departure of 
 all women destroys the men of the next generation, but 
 the departure of some men and women does not destroy 
 the human race, but deprives only those who have 
 departed of man's rational nature. 
 
 Men's departure from the law began long ago in those 
 classes which could exert violence on others and, spread- 
 ing all the time, has lasted down to our own time and in 
 our time has reached a point of madness, of an ideal 
 which consists in the departure from the law, an ideal 
 expressed by Prince Blokhin and shared by Pienan and 
 all the cultured world, — that machines will do the work, 
 and men will be enjoying bundles of nerves. 
 
 There has hardly existed any women's departure from 
 the law. It found its expression in prostitution and in 
 the frequent crimes of the killing of the foetus. The 
 women of the circle of wealthy men fulfilled their law, 
 when the men did not fulfil theirs, and so the women 
 
 S30
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 331 
 
 became stronger and continue to rule, and must rule, the 
 men who have departed from the law, and, therefore, 
 have lost their reason. 
 
 They generally say that woman (the Parisian woman, 
 generally the childless woman) has become so fascinating, 
 by making use of all the means of civilization, that she 
 has by means of this fascination taken possession of man. 
 That is not only untrue, but the very opposite is the fact. 
 It is not the childless woman who has taken possession 
 of the man, but the mother who has fulfilled her law, 
 while man did not fulfil his. 
 
 But the woman who becomes artificially childless and 
 fascinates man with her shoulders and looks is not the 
 woman who rules man, but a woman debauched by man, 
 who has descended to the level of the debauched man, a 
 woman who, like him, has departed from the law, and so, 
 like him, loses every meaning of life. 
 
 From this mistake results that remarkable stupidity 
 which is called women's rights. 
 
 The formula of these women's rights is like this : " Oh, 
 you man," says the woman, " have departed from your 
 law of real work, and you want us to bear the brunt of 
 the real work. Yes, if that is so, we shall know how like 
 you to do that semblance of work which you do in banks, 
 ministries, universities, academies, studies, and we want, 
 like you, under the form of the division of labour, to 
 make use of the labour of others and live gratifying our 
 whims only." 
 
 This they say, and they show in fact that they know 
 as well, if not better, than the men how to do this sem- 
 blance of work. 
 
 The so-called woman question arose, and could have 
 arisen only among men who have departed from the law 
 of true work. 
 
 We need only to return to it, and this question will 
 not exist.
 
 332 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 Having her own, unquestionable, inevitable work, 
 woman can never demand the superfluous, false work of 
 the men of the rich classes. Not one woman of a real 
 workman will demand the right to participate m his 
 labour, whether in the mines or in the field. She could 
 demand a participation in the imaginary labour alone of 
 the men of wealthy classes. 
 
 The woman of our circle has been stronger than man, 
 and even now is stronger, not by her fascination, not by 
 her agility to do the same Pharisaical semblance of work 
 as men, but because she has not come out from under 
 the law, because she has, at the peril of her life, with the 
 tension of her uttermost strength, borne that real, true 
 labour from which the man of the wealthy classes has 
 emancipated himself. 
 
 But within my memory there began a woman's de- 
 parture from the law, that is, her fall, and within my 
 memory it has been growing more and more. 
 
 Having lost the law, woman has come to believe that 
 her strength lies in the fascination of her charms, or in 
 the agility of the Pharisaical semblance of mental la- 
 bour. 
 
 Children interfere with either. And so, with the aid 
 of science (science is always prepared for everything 
 abominable), it has happened within my memory that 
 among the wealthy classes there have appeared dozens 
 of means for the destruction of the foetus, and instruments 
 for the destruction of childbirth have become a usual 
 appurtenance of the toilet ; and so the women-mothers of 
 the wealthy classes, who had held the power in their 
 hands, are letting it out in order not to fall behind the 
 street-walkers and to become like them. 
 
 The evil has become widely disseminated, and with 
 every day spreads farther and farther, and soon it will 
 embrace all the women of the wealthy classes, and then 
 they will be equal with the men, and with them will lose
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 33 
 
 o 
 
 the rational meaning of life, and then there will no longer 
 be any return for that class. But there is still time. 
 
 However, there are still more women than men who 
 fulfil their law, and so there still are among them rational 
 beings, and so the possibility of salvation is stiU in the 
 hands of a few women of our circle. 
 
 Oh, if these women comprehended their significance 
 and their strength, and used it in the work of saving 
 their husbands, brothers, and children, in saving all men ! 
 
 Women, mothers, of the wealthy classes ! The salva- 
 tion of the men of our class from the evils they suffer 
 from is only in your hands ! Not the women who are 
 busy with their waists, bustles, hair-dressing, and fasci- 
 nation for men, and against their will, by oversight, in 
 despair bring forth children and turn them over to wet- 
 nurses, nor those who attend all kinds of lectures and 
 talk of psychomotor centres and differentiation, and also 
 try to free themselves from bearing children, in order not 
 to have any obstacle in their dulling of sensibilities, 
 which they call development, but those in whose hands, 
 more than in those of anybody else, lies the salvation of 
 the men of our class from the calamities which are 
 overwhelming them. You, women and mothers, who 
 consciously submit to the law of God, you alone in our 
 unfortunate, monstrous circle, which has lost the human 
 semblance, know the whole real meaning of life according 
 to God's will. You alone can by your example show to 
 men that happiness of life in the submission to the will 
 of God, of which they deprive themselves. You alone 
 know those raptures and joys which take hold of your 
 whole being, and that bliss which is predetermined for 
 man who does not depart from the law of God. You 
 know the happiness of love for your husbands, a happi- 
 ness which does not come to an end, nor break off, like 
 all others, but forms the beginning of a new happiness of 
 love for the babe. You alone know, when you are simple
 
 334 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEK ? 
 
 and submissive to the will of God, not that playful, parade 
 work in uniforms and illuminated halls, which the men 
 of your circle call work, but that true work which God 
 has intended for men, and you know the true rewards for 
 it and the bliss which it gives. 
 
 You know this, when after the joys of love you with 
 agitation, fear, and hope wait for that agonizing state of 
 pregnancy, which will make you sick for nine months, 
 and will bring you to the brink of death and to in- 
 tolerable sufferings and pains ; you know the conditions 
 of true labour, when with joy you await the approach 
 and intensification of the most terrible agonies, after 
 which there comes bliss which is known to you alone. 
 
 You know this, when immediately after these pains 
 you without rest, without interruption, pass over to 
 another series of labour and of sufferings, to nursing, 
 when you at once reject and submit to your duty, 
 to your feeling, the strongest human necessity, that of 
 sleep (which, according to the proverb, is dearer than 
 father and mother), and for months and years at a time 
 do not sleep through a single night, and frequently stay 
 awake whole nights and with benumbed arms walk about 
 and rock your sick babe, who is tearing your heart 
 asunder. 
 
 And when you do all this, unapproved and unseen by 
 any one, expecting no praise and no reward from any one, 
 when you do this not as an exploit, but as the servant of 
 the gospel parable who comes back from the field, think- 
 ing that you have but done what is right, you know 
 what is the false parade work for people and what the 
 real work for the fulfilment of God's will, the indications 
 of which you feel in your heart. 
 
 You know that, if you are a real mother, it is not 
 enough that no one has seen your labour and has praised 
 you for it, and all have merely found that that was the 
 way it ought to have been, but that those for whom
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 335 
 
 you have laboured will not only fail to thank you, but 
 also frequently torment and reproach you, — and with the 
 next baby you do the same again : again you suffer, again 
 you endure the unseen, terrible labour, and again you do 
 not await any reward from any one, and feel the same 
 satisfaction. 
 
 In your hands, if you are such a woman, must be the 
 power over men, and in your hands is salvation. With 
 every day your number is diminishing : some are busy 
 fascinating men and becoming street-walkers ; others are 
 busy competing with men in their false, trilling affairs ; 
 others again, even before becoming untrue to their calling, 
 in their consciousness already renounce it : they perform 
 all the exploits of the woman as mother, but they do so 
 by accident, with murmurs, with envy toward the free 
 women who do not bear children, and they deprive them- 
 selves of the only reward for them, — of the inner 
 consciousness of the fulfilment of God's will, — and, in- 
 stead of satisfaction, suffer from that which forms their 
 happiness. 
 
 We are enmeshed in our false life, we the men of 
 our circle, we have all of us, to a person, so lost the 
 meaning of life that there is no distinction between us. 
 Having rolled the whole burden, the whole danger of 
 life, on the necks of others, we are unable to call our- 
 selves by our real name, which befits people who cause 
 others to perish in our place for the purpose of earning a 
 living, — scoundrels, cowards. 
 
 But among women there still exists a distinction. 
 There are women who are human beings, women who 
 represent the highest manifestation of man, and women 
 who are whores. This distinction will be made by 
 future generations, and we cannot help making it our- 
 selves. 
 
 Every woman, no matter how she may be dressed, 
 what she may call herself, or how refined she may be, is
 
 336 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 a whore if she does not abstain from sexual intercourse, 
 and yet abstains from childbirth. 
 
 And no matter how fallen a woman may be, if she 
 consciously abandons herself to bearing children, she per- 
 forms the best, the highest act of life, in that she is doing 
 God's will, and she has no one above her. 
 
 If you are such, you will not say after two, nor after 
 twenty children, that it is enough to bear children, just as 
 a labourer of fifty years will not say that it is enough for 
 him to work, so loug as he continues to eat and sleep, 
 and his muscles demand for work ; if you are such, you 
 will not throw your care of nursing and' tending on the 
 children on another ruother, just as a labourer will not 
 permit a stranger to finish his work which he has begun 
 and has almost finished, because into this work you place 
 your whole hfe, and so your life is fuller and happier in 
 proportion as your work is greater. 
 
 When you are such, — and there are such, luckily for 
 men, — the same law of the fulfilment of God's will, by 
 which you are guided in your life, will be applied by you 
 to the life of your husband, and your children, and your 
 near relatives. 
 
 If you are such a woman and know from your own 
 case that only a self-sacrificing, invisible, unrewarded 
 labour at the peril of life and to the last limits of tension, 
 for the lives of others, is that calling of man which gives 
 him satisfaction and strength, then you will make the 
 same demands on others, encourage your husband to 
 the same work, measure and esteem the worth of men 
 by the same work, and prepare your children to do the 
 same work. 
 
 Only that mother who looks upon childbirth as a dis- 
 agreeable incident, and upon her pleasures of love, com- 
 forts of life, of culture, of society as upon the meaning of 
 life, will bring up her children to have as much pleasure 
 as possible and to enjoy them as much as possible, and
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 337 
 
 will feed them on sweet things, will dress and artificially 
 amuse them, and will teach them, not what would make 
 them capable of self-sacrificing man's and woman's work, 
 which is connected with peril of life and the uttermost ten- 
 sion, but what will free them from this labour, — everything 
 which will give them diplomas and the possibility to keep 
 away from work. Only such a woman, who has lost the 
 meaning of Kfe, will sympathize with that deceptive, false 
 male labour which enables her husband, who has freed 
 himself from human duties, to enjoy with her the labours 
 of others. Only such a woman will choose the same 
 kind of a husband for her daughter and will value peo- 
 ple not for what they are in themselves, but for what 
 is connected with them, for their position, money, and 
 knowledge how to make use of the labours of others. 
 
 But a real mother, who in fact knows the will of God, 
 will prepare her children to do this will also. For such 
 a mother it will be a suffering to see her overfed, pam- 
 pered, dressed-up baby, because all this, she knows, 
 makes harder the fulfilment of God's will, as it is known 
 to her. 
 
 Such a mother will not teach her children what will give 
 them the possibihty of the offence of freeing themselves 
 from labour, but what will help them to bear the work 
 of hfe. She will not have to ask what to teach them, for 
 what to prepare them : she knows what the calling of 
 men consists in, and so she knows what to teach her 
 children and for what to prepare them. Such a woman 
 will not only refrain from encouraging her husband in 
 his deceptive, false work, which has for its aim nothing 
 but the exploitation of the labour of others, but will also 
 look with disgust and horror upon such an activity, which 
 serves as a double offence for her children. Such a 
 woman will not choose a husband for her daughter on 
 account of the whiteness of his hands and refinement 
 of his manners, but, knowing full well what work and
 
 338 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 what deception are, will, beginning with her husband, 
 always and at all times respect and appreciate in men 
 and demand of them true work with loss and peril, and 
 will despise that false, parade work, which has for its aim 
 the freeing of oneself from true work. 
 
 Let not the woman, who, renouncing woman's calling, 
 wants to enjoy her rights, say that such a view of life is 
 impossible for a mother, that a mother is too closely con- 
 nected by love with her children to be able to refuse 
 them sweetmeats, amusements, dresses; not to be afraid 
 for her unprovided children, if her husband has no fortune 
 or no secure position, and not to be afraid for the fate of 
 the marriageable daughters and sons, if they have received 
 no education. 
 
 All this is an untruth, a most glaring untruth ! 
 
 The true mother will never say that. You cannot 
 refrain from the desire to give your children candy, and 
 toys, and taking them to the circus ? But you do not 
 give them spurge-laurel, do not allow them to get into a 
 l)oat by themselves, and do not take them to a caf^ 
 chantant. Why can you refrain yourself there, and 
 cannot do so here ? 
 
 Because you are telling an untruth. 
 
 You say that you love your children so much that you 
 are afraid for their lives, that you are afraid of hunger 
 and cold, and so value highly the security which is fur- 
 nished you by your husband's position, which you recog- 
 nize as irregular. 
 
 You are so much afraid of those future accidents and 
 calamities for your children, which are still far removed 
 and doubtful, that you encourage your husband in what 
 you do not recognize the justice of; but what are you 
 doing now in the present conditions of your life to save 
 your "children from the unfortunate accidents of your 
 present life ? 
 
 Do you pass a large part of the day with your cliil-
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 339 
 
 dren ? You do well if you give them one-tenth of your 
 time. 
 
 The remaining time they are in the hands of hired 
 strangers who are frequently taken from the street, or in 
 institutions, abandoned to the perils of physical and moral 
 infections. 
 
 Your children eat and receive nourishment. Who 
 prepares the dinner, and out of what is it prepared ? As 
 a rule you do not know. By whom are moral concepts 
 instilled in them ? You do not know this, either. So do 
 not say that you are suffering evil for the good of your 
 children, — that is untrue. You are doing wrong, because 
 you love it. 
 
 A true mother, who sees in childbirth and the bringing 
 up of her children her self-sacrificing calling of hfe and 
 fulfilment of God's will, ^\ill not say so. 
 
 She will not say so, because she knows that it is not 
 her business to make of her children what she or the 
 reigning tendency may wish, that the children, that is, 
 the future generations, are the greatest and holiest thing 
 which is given men to see in reality, and that her minis- • 
 tration with her whole being to this holiness is her life. 
 
 She knows herself, being constantly between hfe and 
 death, and hving a barely glimmering life, that life 
 and death are not her busiuess, that her business is to 
 minister to life, and so she will not seek any distant 
 paths of this ministration, but will only keep from de- 
 parting from those that are near. 
 
 Such a mother will herself bear children and nurse 
 them, will above all else herself feed her children and 
 prepare food for them, and sew, and wash, and teach her 
 children, and sleep and talk with them, because in this 
 she assumes her work of life to consist. She knows that 
 the security of any hfe is in work and in the ability to 
 do it, and so will not seek for her children's security in 
 her husband's money, and in the diplomas of her children,
 
 340 WHAT SHALL WE DO THEN? 
 
 but will educate in them the same self-sacrificing fulfil- 
 ment of God's will which she knows in herself, — the 
 ability to endure labour with the loss and the peril of 
 life. Such a mother will not ask others what she has 
 to do ; she will know everything and will not be afraid 
 of anything, and she will always be calm, because she 
 will know that she has fulfilled everything which she is 
 called to do. 
 
 If there can be any doubt for a man and for a childless 
 woman as to the path on which is to be the fulfilment of 
 God's will, for a mother this path is firmly and clearly 
 defined, and if she has humbly fulfilled it in the sim- 
 phcity of her soul, she stands on the highest point of 
 perfection which a human being can reach, and becomes 
 for all men that complete sample of the fulfilment of 
 God's will, toward which all men strive at all times. 
 
 Only a mother can before her death calmly say to 
 Him who has sent her into the world, and to Him whom 
 she has served by bringing forth and educating her chil- 
 dren, whom she loves more than herself, after she has 
 done her appointed task in serving Him : " To-day dost 
 Thou release Thy slave." But this is that highest per- 
 fection toward wliich, as toward the highest good, all men 
 strive. 
 
 It is such women, who have fulfilled their woman's 
 calling, that rule the ruhng men and serve as a guiding 
 star to men; such women establish public opinion and 
 prepare new generations of men; and so these women 
 have in their hands the highest power, the power of 
 saving people from the existing and menacing evils of our 
 time. 
 
 Yes, women and mothers, in your hands, more than in 
 any other, is the salvation of the world. 
 
 February 14, 1886.
 
 ON THE MOSCOW CENSUS 
 
 1882
 
 ON THE MOSCOW CENSUS 
 
 The census has a scientific purpose. The census is a 
 sociological investigation. But the aim of sociology is 
 men's happiness. This science and its method ditfers 
 markedly from all the other sciences. 
 
 Its peculiarity consists in this, that the sociological 
 investigations are not carried on by the learned in their 
 cabinets, observatories, and laboratories, but by two thou- 
 sand people from society. Another peculiarity of it is 
 this, that the investigations of other sciences are not 
 carried on on hving men, while here they are. A third 
 peculiarity of it is this, that the aim of any other science 
 is knowledge, wliile here it is the good of men. The 
 nebular spots may be investigated by one man, but here 
 two thousand people are needed. The purpose of the 
 investigation of the nebular spots is to find out everything 
 about the nebular spots ; the aim of the investigation of 
 the population is to deduce laws of sociology and on the 
 basis of these laws better to establish the lives of men. 
 It makes no difference to the nebular spots whether they 
 are investigated or not, and they are in no hurry and will 
 be in no hurry for a long time to come ; but it is not all 
 the same for the inhabitants of Moscow, especially for 
 those unfortunates who form the most interesting subject 
 of the science of sociology. 
 
 The census-taker comes to a lodging-house, and he finds 
 
 343
 
 344 ON THE MOSCOW CENSUS 
 
 in the basement a man who is dying of insufficient nour- 
 ishment, and asks him pohtely for his calhng, name, 
 patronymic, and kind of occupation, and, after some hesi- 
 tation as to whether he should enter him in his hst as 
 living, he enters him and goes on. 
 
 Thus will two thousand young men walk about. That 
 is not good. 
 
 Science does its work, and society, which in the persons 
 of the two thousand men is called to cooperate with 
 science, must do its work. The statistician, who makes 
 his inferences from figures, may be indifferent to people, 
 but we, the census-takers, who see these people and have 
 no scientific infatuation, cannot help but have a human 
 interest in them. Science does its work, and, as regards 
 its aims in the distant future, does a work which is useful 
 and necessary for us. 
 
 For the men of science it is possible to say calmly that 
 in the year 1882 there are so many paupers, so many 
 prostitutes, so many children without attention. It may 
 say so calmly and proudly, because it knows that the 
 assertion of this fact leads to the elucidation of socio- 
 logical laws, and that the elucidation of sociological laws 
 leads to the improved state of society. But how would 
 it be, if we, the laymen, should say : " You are perishing 
 in debauchery, you are starving, you are wasting away, 
 you are killing one another ; but let not that grieve you : 
 when all of you shall have perished and hundreds of 
 thousands like you, then, perhaps, science will arrange 
 everything beautifully." For the man of science the 
 census has its interest : for us it has an entirely different 
 interest. For society the interest and significance of the 
 census consists in this, that it gives it a mirror in which, 
 willy nilly, society and each of us can see himself. 
 
 The figures and the deductions will be the mirror. It 
 is possible not to read them, just as it is possible to turn 
 away from a mirror. It is possible to cast a passing
 
 ON THE MOSCOW CENSUS 345 
 
 glance into the mirror, or to look into it from near by. 
 To take the census, as a thousand men are doing now, is 
 to take a close look into the mirror. 
 
 What is the census which is taking place now for us 
 Muscovites who are not men of science ? It is two things. 
 In the first place, that we shall certainly find out that 
 among us, among tens of thousands of men spending tens 
 of thousands of roubles, there live tens of thousands of 
 men without bread, clothing, or shelter; in the second 
 place, that our brothers and sons will go to see this and 
 calmly record in columns how many there are that are 
 dying from hunger and cold. 
 
 Both things are very bad. 
 
 All cry about the flimsiness of our social structure, 
 about its exclusive condition, about its revolutionary 
 mood. AVhere is the root of everything ? To what do 
 the revolutionists point ? To the poverty, the unequal 
 distribution of wealth. To what do the conservatives 
 point ? To the decay of moral foundations. If the opin- 
 ion of the revolutionists is correct, what must we do ? 
 Diminish poverty and the unequal distribution of wealth. 
 If the opinion of the conservatives is correct, that all the 
 evil is due to the decay of moral principles, what can be 
 more immoral and corrupt than the consciously indiffer- 
 ent contemplation of human misfortunes with the mere 
 purpose of recording them ? What must we do, then ? 
 We must add to the census the work of a brotherly com- 
 munion of the rich, the leisurely, and the enlightened with 
 the poor, the oppressed, and the ignorant. 
 
 Science is doing its work, — let us do our work. This 
 is what we will do. In the first place, we, who are busy 
 with the census, the managers, census-takers, will form 
 for ourselves a clear idea of what we are doing, — we will 
 gain a clear idea as to why and over what we are making 
 the investigations : over men, and that men may be happy. 
 No matter how a man may look at life, he will agree that
 
 346 ON THE MOSCOW CENSUS 
 
 there is nothing more important than human life, and 
 that there is no more important business than the removal 
 of obstacles in the way of the development of hfe, than 
 aiding it. 
 
 In the Gospel we find expressed, with striking boldness, 
 but with definiteness and clearness for all, the thought 
 that the relations of men to poverty, to human sufferings, 
 is the root, the foundation of everything. 
 
 He who clothes the naked, feeds the hungry, and visits 
 the prisoners has clothed me, fed me, visited me, that is, 
 has done work for what is most important in the 
 world. 
 
 No matter how a man may look at things, everybody 
 knows that this is the most important business in the 
 world. 
 
 And we must not forget this, and permit any other 
 considerations to veil from us the most important busi- 
 ness of our life. We will record and take the census, but 
 we will not forget that, if we meet a naked and hungry 
 man, it is more important to help him than to attend to 
 the most important investigations and discoveries of all the 
 possible sciences, that, if the question arose whether we 
 should busy ourselves with an old woman who had not 
 had anything to eat for two days, or ruin the whole work 
 of the census, we should let the census go to perdition, 
 if only we can feed the old woman. The census-taking 
 will be longer and harder, but in the quarters of the poor 
 we cannot pass by people and merely record them, without 
 caring for them or trying to help them according to our 
 strength and moral sensitiveness. So much in the first 
 place. 
 
 In the second place, this is what we ought to do ; we, 
 who are not taking part in the census, let us not be angry 
 at being disturbed ; let us understand that this census is 
 very useful for us ; that, if it is not a cure, it is at least 
 an attempt at investigating a disease, for which we ought
 
 ON THE MOSCOW CENSUS 347 
 
 to be thankful, and which ought to serve us as an occasion 
 for tiyiug to cure ourselves a httle bit. Let us all, who 
 are being recorded, try and make use of the only oppor- 
 tunity ofi'ered us in ten years for cleauiug up a little : let 
 us not counteract the census, but help it, namely, in the 
 sense of giving it not the cruel character of a probing of 
 a hopeless patient, but that of a cure and convalescence. 
 Indeed, here is a singular chance : eighty energetic, cul- 
 tured men, having in hand two thousand young men of 
 the same character, are making the round of the whole 
 of Moscow, and will not leave out a single man in Mos- 
 cow, without entering into personal relations with him. 
 All the sores of society, all the sores of poverty, debauch- 
 ery, ignorance, — all of them will be laid bare. Well, 
 shall we stop at this ? 
 
 The census-takers will make the round of Moscow, will 
 indiscriminately enter into their lists the overweening, 
 the satisfied, and the calm, the perishing and the ruined, 
 and the curtain will fall. The census-takers, — our 
 brothers and sons, — the youths, will see all this. They 
 will say, " Yes, our life is very detestable and incurable," 
 and with this consciousness will continue to Hve with us, 
 expecting a remedy of the evil from this or that external 
 force. But the ruined will continue to die in their ruin, 
 and the perishing will continue to perish. Xo, we had 
 better understand that science has its business, and we, 
 on the occasion of the census, our own business, and let 
 us not cover ourselves with the raised curtain, but let us 
 make use of the opportunity, in order to remove the 
 greatest evil of the dissociation between us and the poor, 
 and let us establish a communion and the business of 
 mending the evil, the misfortunes, the poverty, and the 
 ignorance, and the still greater misfortune, our own, of 
 the indifference and aimlessness of our life. 
 
 I already hear the habitual remark : " All this is very 
 nice, all this is ranting j but tell us what to do and how
 
 348 ON THE MOSCOW CENSUS 
 
 to do it." Before telling what to do, I must say what 
 not to do. Above all, if something sensible is to come of 
 all this activity of society, it is, in my opinion, necessary 
 that no society be formed, that there be no publicity, 
 no collections of funds by means of balls, bazars, and 
 theatres ; that there be no announcements : " Prince A. 
 has contributed one thousand roubles, and Honorary Citi- 
 zen B., three thousand roubles ; " that there be no assem- 
 blies, no reports, and no writing, especially no writing ; 
 that there be not even a shadow of any institution, either 
 governmental or philanthropic. 
 
 In my opinion, this is what we ought to do at once : 
 first, all those who agree with me ought to go to the man- 
 agers, ask them to point out the poorest districts in their 
 wards, the poorest tenements, and go with the census- 
 takers, on the twenty-third, the twenty-fourth, and the 
 twenty-fifth, through these districts, enter into relations 
 with those who live in them, and retain these rela- 
 tions with the people who are in want of aid, and work 
 with them. 
 
 Secondly : the managers and census-takers are to pay 
 attention to the denizens who demand assistance, and 
 work for them, and point them out to those who want 
 to work for them. But I shall be asked what is meant 
 by working for them. I shall answer : Doing good to 
 them. Not giving them money, but domg them good. 
 By the words " to do good " people generally understand 
 giving money. But, according to my opinion, to do good 
 and give money not only are not the same, but are two 
 entirely different, and generally opposite, things. Money 
 is in itself an evil, and so he who gives money gives an 
 evil. The delusion that giving money means doing good 
 is due to this, that for the most part a man who does 
 good rids himself of the evil and at the same time of his 
 money. And so giving money is only a sign that man is 
 beginning to rid himself of evil. To do good means to
 
 ON THE MOSCOW CENSUS ^149 
 
 do what is good for man. To find out what is good for 
 man, we must get into human, that is, amicable, relations 
 with him. And so, to do good it is not money that is 
 needed, but, first of all, the ability at least for a time to 
 renounce the conventionalities of our hfe, not to be afraid 
 to soil our boots and garments, nor to be afraid of bed- 
 bugs and lice, nor of typhoid, diphtheria, or smallpox ; we 
 must be able to sit down on the cot of a ragged fellow 
 and talk with him so intimately that he will feel that the 
 talker respects and loves him, and is not acting and ad- 
 miring himself. That this may be possible, a man must 
 look for the meaning of life outside himself. This is 
 what is needed that there should be the good, and this 
 it is difficult to find. 
 
 Wlien the thought came to me of helping in the census, 
 I talked with a few of the rich about it, and I saw how 
 glad the rich were of the opportunity of getting rid of 
 their money, of those alien sins which they shelter in their 
 hearts. " Do take, if you please," they would say to me, 
 " three hundred roubles, or five hundred roubles, but I 
 myself cannot go to those purlieus." There is no want 
 of money. Think of Zacchseus, the chief of the publicans, 
 of whom the Gospel speaks. Eemember how he, being 
 small, climbed a tree in order to see Christ, and how he, 
 when Christ announced that he was going to his house, 
 understood only this, that the master did not extol 
 wealth, and tumbled down from the tree and started 
 home on a run, in order to prepare a reception for Christ. 
 And, when Christ entered, the first thing Zaccheeus an- 
 nounced was that he had given half his fortune to the 
 poor, and that to those whom he had offended he would 
 give fourfold. And remember how we, reading the 
 Gospel, hold this Zacchseus in little esteem, and with 
 involuntary contempt look at this half of his fortune and 
 fourfold remuneration. And our feeling is right. Upon 
 reflection, Zacchseus, it seems, did a great thing ; but our
 
 350 ON THE MOSCOW CENSUS 
 
 feeliug is correct. He had not yet begun to do good : he 
 only began to cleanse himself a little from evil. Christ 
 told him so. All he told him was, This day is salvation 
 come to this house. 
 
 Suppose the Moscow Zacchseuses should do the same. 
 There would be more than a billion gathered together. 
 Well, what would become of it ? Nothing. There would 
 be even more sin, if they proposed to distribute it among 
 the poor. It is not money that is needed. What is 
 needed is an activity of self-renunciation and men who 
 would be willing to do good, not by giving other people's 
 sins, money, but their own labour, themselves, their life. 
 Where are these people ? Here they are, they are walk- 
 ing about Moscow. They are those student census-takers. 
 I have seen them write their cards. They write in a doss- 
 house, on a sick man's bunk. " What is your disease ? " 
 " Smallpox." And such a student does not even frown, 
 but continues writing. And this he does for the sake of 
 some doubtful science. What would he do, if he did this 
 for his undoubted personal good and for the good of all 
 people ? 
 
 Just as children in a happy mood want to laugh and, 
 unable to discover a cause for laughter, laugh without 
 any cause, simply because they feel happy, so these dear 
 youths sacrifice themselves. They have not yet had time 
 to find a pretext for sacrificing themselves, and yet sacri- 
 fice their attention, labour, and life, in order to write the 
 cards, which may lead to something, or not. What 
 would happen, if there were something w'orth while ? 
 This something exists and has existed, and it is a 
 business for which it is worth while to lay down the 
 whole life which there is in man. This business is 
 the brotherly communion of people with people, and the 
 breaking down of those obstacles which people have 
 raised between themselves, in order that the merriment 
 of the rich man may not be impaired by the wild
 
 ON THE MOSCOW CENSUS 351 
 
 lamentations of bestialized men and by the groans of 
 helpless hunger, cold, and diseases. 
 
 The census brings out before the eyes of us, the well- 
 to-do and so-called cultured men, all that misery and 
 oppression which nestles in all the nooks of Moscow. 
 Two thousand people of our class, who stand on the 
 highest round of the ladder, will face thousands of 
 people who stand on the lowest round of society. Let 
 us not miss the opportunity for this communion. Let us 
 preserve this communion through these two thousand 
 people, and let us use it for the purpose of saving our- 
 selves from the aimlessness and monstrosity of our life, 
 and of freeing the wronged from those calamities and mis- 
 fortunes which do not permit us sensitive people calmly 
 to enjoy our joys. 
 
 This is what I propose: (1) all of. us, managers and 
 takers of the census, shall to the business of the census 
 add the business of assistance, — of work for the good of 
 such men as we meet, who, in our opinion, demand aid ; 
 (2) all of us, managers and takers of the census, shall, 
 not by the appointment from the City Council's com- 
 mittee, but by the prompting of our hearts, remain in our 
 places, that is, in relations with the inhabitants who 
 demand aid, and shall, after the conclusion of the work 
 of the census, continue our work of assistance. If I 
 have been able to express but a small part of what I feel, 
 I am sure that only impossibility will compel the man- 
 agers and the takers of the census to abandon this work, 
 and that others will appear in place of those who give 
 up the work ; (3) all those inhabitants of Moscow who 
 feel themselves able to work for the needy shall join the 
 various wards and, by the indications of the census- 
 takers and managers, begin their activity at once and 
 continue it in the future ; (4) all those who, on account 
 of old age, feebleness, or other causes, cannot work them- 
 selves amidst the needy, shall entrust their work to their
 
 352 ON THE MOSCOW CENSUS 
 
 young, strong, willing neighbours. (The good is not the 
 giving of money, — it is a brotherly relation of roen. It 
 alone is needed.) 
 
 No matter v/hat may come of it, it is better than what 
 is going on at present. 
 
 Let the least work be this, that we, the takers and the 
 managers of the census, shall distribute a hundred twenty- 
 kopek pieces among those who have had nothing to eat ; 
 that will not be a trifle, not so much because the starving 
 will have something to eat, as because the takers and the 
 managers of the census will be in a humane relation to a 
 hundred poor people. How are we to figure out what 
 consequences will be produced in the general moral bal- 
 ance by the fact that, instead of the feeling of annoyance, 
 malice, envy, which we shall provoke, as we count up the 
 hungry, we shall a .hundred times evoke a good sentiment, 
 which will be reflected on a second, a third man, and will 
 in an endless wave pour forth among the people ? That is 
 a great deal. 
 
 Let there be only this much, that those of the two 
 thousand census-takers who did not understand this be- 
 fore will come to understand that amidst misery it is not 
 right to say, " This is very interesting," that a man's mis- 
 fortune must not merely represent some interest to a man. 
 Even that will be good. Let there be only this much, 
 that aid will be furnished to all those unfortunates, of 
 whom there are not so many in Moscow as I used to 
 think, who can easily be aided with money alone. Let 
 there be this, that those labourers who have strayed into 
 Moscow and have sold their clothes to buy food, and who 
 are unable to return to the country, will be sent home ; 
 that neglected orphans will be looked after; that en- 
 feebled old paupers, who are living on the charity of 
 fellow paupers, will be spared a death from semi-starva- 
 tion. (That is very possible. There are not very many 
 of them.) Even that will be very, very much.
 
 ON THE MOSCOW CENSUS 353 
 
 But why shall we not think and hope that more, much 
 more will be done ? Why shall we not hope that we 
 shall partially do or begin that real work, which is no 
 longer done with money, but with labour, — that we 
 shall save enfeebled drunkards, uncaught thieves, and 
 prostitutes for whom salvation is possible ? Even if not 
 all evil shall be remedied, there will be its recognition, 
 and we shall struggle against it not with police measures, 
 but with inner measures, — with the brotherly communion 
 of men who see the evil against men who do not see 
 it, because they are in it. 
 
 No matter what may be done, it will be much. But 
 why shall we not hope that everything will be done ? 
 Why can we not hope that we shall succeed in accom- 
 phshing this, that in Moscow there will not be a single 
 man without clothes, nor one who is hungry, nor one 
 unfortunate man who is crushed by fate, without know- 
 ing that he may have brotherly assistance ? What is 
 remarkable is not that this should be, but that it exists 
 side by side- with our excess of leisure and wealth, and 
 that we can live calmly, knowing that it exists. Let us 
 forget that in large cities and in London there is a prole- 
 tariat, and let us not say that it must be so. It must not 
 be, because it is contrary to our reason and to our heart, 
 and it is impossible, if we are living men. 
 
 WTiy can we not hope that we shall understand that 
 we have not a single obligation, to say nothing of a per- 
 sonal obHgation, for our own sake, not any domestic, nor 
 public, nor political, nor scientific obligation, which is 
 more important than this ? Why can we not hope that 
 we shall finally comprehend it ? Is it because this would 
 be too great a happiness ? Why can we not think that 
 some day men will wake up and comprehend that every- 
 thing else is offensive, and this alone is the business of 
 life ? And why can this " some day " not be now, in 
 Moscow ? AVliy can we not hope that the same will
 
 354 ON THE MOSCOW CENSUS 
 
 happen with society, with humanity, that happens with 
 the aihng organism, when suddenly there arrives a mo- 
 ment of convalescence ? The organism is diseased ; this 
 means that the cells stop doing their mysterious work : 
 some die, others are born, others again remain indifferent, 
 working for themselves. Suddenly there arrives a mo- 
 ment when every living cell begins its independent vital 
 work : it pushes out the dead cells, with a living barrier 
 excludes those that are infected, communicates life to 
 those that live, and the body rises from the dead and 
 lives a full life. 
 
 Why can we not think and hope that the cells of our 
 society will revive, and will bring the organism to hfe ? 
 We do not know in whose power the cells are, but we 
 know that hfe is in our power. We can manifest the 
 light which is in us, or we may put it out. 
 
 Let a man come at the end of the day to the Lyapinski 
 night lodging-house, when one thousand insufficiently clad 
 and hungry people are waiting in the cold to be let into 
 the house, and let this one man try to help them, — his 
 heart will bleed, and he will with despair and resentment 
 at men run away from there ; but let one thousand people 
 come to those one thousand people with the desire to help 
 them, and the work will appear easy and pleasant. Let 
 the mechanics invent a machine with which to lift the 
 burden which is choking us, — that is good ; but while 
 they have not yet invented it, let us in foolish, peasant, 
 Christian fashion heave in a mass, — maybe we can hft it. 
 Heave, friends, all together !
 
 INTRODUCTION TO THE 
 COLLECTED ARTICLES 
 
 "WHAT IS THE TRUTH IN ART? 
 
 1887 
 
 it
 
 INTRODUCTION TO THE 
 COLLECTED ARTICLES 
 
 "WHAT IS THE TRUTH IN ART?" 
 
 O generation of vipers, how can ye, being evil, speak good 
 things ? for out of the abundance of the heart the mouth 
 speaketh. A good man out of the good treasure of the heart 
 bringeth forth good things : and an evil man out of the evil 
 treasure bringeth forth evil things. But I say unto you, 
 That every idle word that men shall speak, they shall give 
 account thereof in the day of judgment. For by thy words 
 thou shalt be justified, and by thy words thou shalt be 
 condemned. (Matt. xii. 34-37.) 
 
 In this volume there are collected, in addition to stories 
 which describe real occurrences, stories, traditions, saws, 
 legends, fables, fairy-tales, such as have been composed 
 and written for the good of children. 
 
 We have chosen such as we regard as conforming with 
 Christ's teaching, and so regard as good and true. 
 
 Many people, and especially children, reading a history, 
 fairy-tale, legend, fable, ask first of all : " Is what they 
 say true ? " And frequently, when they see that what is 
 described could not have happened, they say, " This is an 
 idle invention and untrue." 
 
 People who judge thus judge incorrectly. 
 
 The truth is learned not by him who learns only what 
 
 has been and what happens, but by him who learns what 
 
 ought to be by God's will. 
 
 357
 
 358 WHAT IS THE TRUTH IN ART? 
 
 The truth will be written not by him who describes 
 only what has happened and what this man and that man 
 did, but by him who will show what people do well, that 
 is, in accordance with God's will, and what badly, that is, 
 contrary to God's will. 
 
 The truth is a path. Christ has said, I am the way and 
 the truth and the Hfe. 
 
 And so the truth is not known by him who looks at 
 his feet, but by him who knows by the sun whither to go. 
 
 All Hterary productions are good and necessary, not 
 when they describe what has been, but when they show 
 what ought to be ; not when they tell what men did, 
 but when they estimate what is good and what bad, — 
 when they show to men the narrow path of God's will, 
 which leads to life. 
 
 In order to show this path, it is impossible to describe 
 only what happens in the world. The world abides in 
 evil and in offences. If you are going to describe the 
 world as it is, you will describe many lies, and in your 
 words there will be no truth. In order that there may be 
 any truth in what you describe, you must not write what 
 is, but what ought to be, — to describe the truth, not of 
 what exists, but of the kingdom of God, which is coming 
 nearer to us, but is not yet. For this reason there are 
 mountains of books, in which we are told of just what 
 has happened, or what might have happened, but these 
 books are all lies, if those who write them do not them- 
 selves know what is good and what bad, and do not know 
 and do not point out the one path which leads men to the 
 kingdom of God. And there are fairy-tales, parables, 
 fables, legends, in which something miraculous is de- 
 scribed, something which has never happened and never 
 could have happened, and these legends, fairy-tales, fables, 
 are true, because tbey show wherein the will of God has 
 alwavs been, wherein is the righteousness of the kingdom 
 of God.
 
 WHAT IS THE TRUTH IN ART? 359 
 
 There may be a book, — and there are many, many 
 such novels and stories in which is described how a man 
 lives for his passions, suffers, torments others, undergoes 
 dangers and want, and shows cunning ; struggles with 
 others, escapes poverty, and finally unites with the object 
 of his love, and becomes famous, rich, and happy. Such 
 a book, even though everything described in it is as it has 
 happened, and though there may be nothing improbable in 
 it, will none the less be a lie and untruth, because a man 
 who lives for himself and his passions, no matter what 
 beautiful wife he may have, and how famous and rich he 
 may be, cannot be happy. 
 
 And there may be a legend about how Christ and His 
 apostles walked over the earth and went to see a rich man, 
 and the rich man did not let Him in, and how He went to 
 a poor widow, and she let Him in. And then He ordered 
 a barrel full of gold to be rolled up to the rich man, and 
 sent a wolf to the poor widow to eat up her last calf, 
 and the widow was well off, and the rich man fared 
 badly. 
 
 Such a story is all improbable, because nothing of what 
 is described has happened, or could have happened ; but 
 it is all true, because it shows what always must be, in 
 what the good is, and in what the bad, and what a man 
 must strive after in order to do the will of God. 
 
 Xo matter what miracles may be described, or what 
 animals may speak in human fashion, or how self-flying 
 carpets may carry people from place to place, — the leg- 
 ends, and parables, and fables will be true, if in them 
 there be the righteousness of the kingdom of God. And 
 if there be not that truth, let everything described be 
 attested by whomsoever you please, — it will all be a lie, 
 because it has not the righteousness of the kingdom of 
 God. Christ Himself spoke in parables, :^nd His parables 
 have remained eternal truths. He only added. Observe 
 as you hear.
 
 TO THE DEAR YOUTH 
 
 1887
 
 TO THE DEAR YOUTH 
 
 Your letter is, not in spite, but in consequence, of 
 your youth so heartfelt and so serious that, no matter 
 how difficult and how inconvenient it is for me to answer 
 it in a short letter, I shall none the less try to do so. 
 
 Y^ou write that you do not need any defence of the 
 necessity of faith, that you recoguize this necessity. That 
 is nice ! Thank God for this. You have that which no 
 one can give. As Christ has said : " No man can come 
 to me except the Father draws him." 
 
 But you say : " What shall I believe in ? " You say : 
 " Christianity, but which ? " 
 
 There may be two conceptions : Christ God, the son of 
 God, who came down from heaven, in order to save and 
 enlighten men, and Christ the man, one of those in whom 
 there is the highest divine wisdom, who lived eighteen 
 hundred years ago, and who founded a teaching which 
 has taken possession of humanity, and has transformed it. 
 
 Let us at first admit the second supposition, which I 
 have never fully admitted, and which, I assume, is also 
 unpleasant for you to admit. Let us admit it. Christ 
 is a great sage and teacher, not only in words, but also in 
 his life and death. Is there any possibihty of perverting 
 the teaching of such a man ? How, for example, can we 
 pervert Socrates' teaching ? Let them pervert and distort 
 
 363
 
 oc 
 
 64 TO THE DEAR YOUTH 
 
 him as much as they please. He who understands the 
 spirit of Socrates' teaching will without any effort and 
 without any labour reject the perversions, and leave 
 what forms the essence of the teaching. 
 
 A great teacher is great for this very reason, that he is 
 clear, unambiguous, and unsubjected to perversions, just 
 as a diamond cannot be ground by anything weaker than 
 it itself is. 
 
 For the same reason there can be no different interpre- 
 tations of the great teacher. He is great for the very 
 reason that he has unified everything which was scattered 
 and dispersed. How can his teaching break up into dif- 
 ferent sects ? If the great teaching breaks up into differ- 
 ent sects, this means that something false is falling to 
 pieces, something which is called by the name of a great 
 teaching, but not the teaching itself. 
 
 If the great teaching (the one which I recognize as 
 great) should present itself to me as corrupted or break- 
 ing up into a multitude of sects, what else could I do but 
 take the teaching itself, the one which is nearest to the 
 teacher, in which there are most of his utterances, 
 and begin to read it, trying to penetrate its meaning. If 
 the teaching is distorted and has broken up into a multi- 
 tude of sects, one of two things is true : either the teach- 
 ing itself is insignificant, or I do not know the great 
 teaching. 
 
 And so, in the case of the second assumption, that 
 Christ is a wise man, it is necessary quite freely to read 
 the gospels of the four evangelists, and without self-satis- 
 faction and without false joy to read this book, as we read 
 the books of the sages. Then there will at once appear 
 the greatness of the teaching, the distortions will fall off 
 at once, and it will become clear that the breaking up 
 into sects does not take place in the teaching itself, but 
 in the artificial sphere which is outside of it. 
 
 The necessity of simply and naively reading the four
 
 TO THE DEAR YOUTH 365 
 
 evangelists, excerpting from them the utterances of Christ 
 Himself, becomes even more obvious in the case of the 
 first assumption. Christ God once during the whole ex- 
 istence of the world descended upon earth in order to 
 reveal to men their salvation. He came down out of love 
 for men. He Hved, and taught, and died, loving men. 
 You and I are men. We suffer and are agonized in our 
 search for salvation, and we do not find it. Why, then, 
 did Christ come down into the world ? There is some- 
 thing wrong here. 
 
 Could God, upon coming down to the world, have for- 
 gotten you and me ? Or was He unable to speak in such 
 a way that we might understand ? But He did speak, 
 and we have His words before us. They are before us in 
 precisely the same form in which they were before those 
 who heard His sermon on the mount. Why did all 
 those understand ? Why did they not say that it was 
 obscure, and why did they not ask Him for explanations ? 
 No, they understood Him, and said that they had never 
 heard anything like it, that He was teaching them as 
 e^ovaCav ex^^v, as one having power. Why is it incom- 
 prehensible to us, and why are we afraid that we shall 
 break up into sects ? Evidently because we do not hear 
 Him, but those who stood in His place. 
 
 Thus, as in the first assumption, there is one thing left 
 to do, and that is, to listen to His words with childish 
 simplicity, as a child listens to his mother, with the full 
 assurance that his mother, loving him, will be able to 
 tell him everything clearly and simply, and that only his 
 mother will tell him the re ,4 truth and everything neces- 
 sary for his good. We need only read in this manner, re- 
 jecting, at least for a time, all considerations about what 
 by others is considered divine, just, lawful, in order that it 
 may become absolutely clear that God has not deceived 
 us, that He has, indeed, given us salvation, and has 
 revealed to us the truth, as indubitably and as compre-
 
 366 TO THE DEAR YOUTH 
 
 liensibly as the mathematical truths are revealed to us, 
 when we learn them. 
 
 With such a reading the spirit of Christ's teaching is 
 revealed to us, that is, that universal principle which 
 permeates everything, and which will guide us in the 
 comprehension or non-comprehension of obscure passages. 
 I say " non-comprehension," because the non-comprehen- 
 sion of obscure passages for a man who is permeated with 
 the spirit of the teaching does not interfere with the 
 clear, full comprehension of clear passages. To a man 
 who is permeated with the spirit of the teaching an 
 obscure passage means only this, that the writing on paper 
 is the work of human hands and is subject to errors, but 
 in no way can lead him into error as to the meaning of 
 the clear passages. 
 
 Only he who seeks the letter, and not the spirit, can 
 ascribe an arbitrary meaning, which is frequently contrary 
 to the spirit of the teaching, to the obscure passages. The 
 obscure passages cannot interfere with the understanding 
 of the teaching. There are too many passages which are 
 clear, divine, subject to no varying interpretations, all 
 of them united among themselves by one principle and by 
 the immediate and ecstatic consciousness of the truth, 
 passages which echo in the hearts of all men, in order 
 that the obscure passages should interfere with the com- 
 prehension. What interferes with the comprehension is 
 something else, that of which the gospel says : " They 
 did not walk toward the light, for their works were evil." 
 
 What interferes with the comprehension of Christ's 
 teaching is this, that the w' rks of the world amidst 
 which we have grown up and live, of the world which 
 has the impudence to call itself Christian, are evil, and 
 we do not want to see what arraigns us, that what is de- 
 manded of us is a renunciation of what we have become 
 fond of, and the cross, which Christ recognizes as a neces- 
 sary condition of the life of His disciple.
 
 TO THE DEAR YOUTH 367 
 
 Christ's teaching is as simple, clear, and indubitable as 
 the fact that all right angles are equAl, but I have seen a 
 man build a crooked house, and so deny this truth. In 
 order that I may understand Christ's teaching, I must 
 first of all say to myself that what I am studying is the 
 highest law, the law of God, and that, therefore, I with 
 this law measure all the other laws which I know, and 
 not vice versa, look in God's law for what confirms the 
 human laws, but in advance recognize it as holy. Only 
 he will understand Christ's teaching who, before studying 
 it, will clearly establish in his soul the meaning of what 
 he is seeking, — he who recognizes as holy nothing but 
 his soul, as a human soul, and its relation to God. 
 
 We have been taught that we can be Christians, without 
 effort, ever since our baptism, that is, almost since our 
 birth, without any labour, without any self-renunciation. 
 
 Christ has said (Luke xiv. 33): "Who forsaketh not 
 all that he hath cannot be my disciple." But there have 
 been no such Christians, and there can be none. The 
 kingdom of God is always taken by force, and it cannot 
 be otherwise. It is impossible to serve God and mam- 
 mon, — it is impossible to be a little bit a Christian, 
 to hold on to Christianity for the sake of pleasure, of 
 decency, of consolation in the heavy moments of life. 
 Christianity is the teaching of the true life. 
 
 Christ says : " He that believeth on me hath life, and 
 he that believeth not hath not life." And so the faith 
 in Christ changes a man's whole life and imposes on him 
 what he calls the cross. 
 
 I do not know whether I have said anything of im- 
 portance to you. L am afraid not, though I should like 
 to very much, for I have come to love you from your 
 letter. I think that you will get some of my writings on 
 religious questions, and then you will probably see clearly 
 what now is not comprehensible to you. Seek and you 
 will find. That is so simple. All the needs which are
 
 368 TO THE DEAR YOUTH 
 
 stored in man receive their satisfaction ; how, then, is it 
 possible that the highest need of faith should not have 
 it ? All that is necessary is to reject the false concep- 
 tions. 
 1886.
 
 WHAT A CHRISTIAN MAY 
 DO, AND WHAT NOT 
 
 1887
 
 WHAT A CHRISTIAN MAY 
 DO, AND WHAT NOT 
 
 One thousand eight hundred and eighty years ago a 
 new law was revealed to men by Jesus Christ. By His 
 life and His death Christ showed to men what he who 
 wants to be His disciple, a Christian, may do, and what 
 not. 
 
 According to Christ's teaching, the sons of the Father 
 are free (Matt. xvii. 26), for they know the truth, and the 
 truth shall make them free (John viii. 32). Christ's teach- 
 ing was then, even as it is now, contrary to the teaching 
 of the world. According to the teaching of the world, 
 the powers govern the nations, and, to govern them, com- 
 pel some people to kill, execute, punish others, and to 
 swear that they will in everything do the will of the 
 rulers. According to Christ's teaching, a man not only 
 cannot kill another, but even cannot do violence to him, 
 or resist him with force : he can not do evil to his neigh- 
 bour, nor even to his enemy. 
 
 The teaching of the world and of Christ have always 
 been and always will be opposed to each other. Christ 
 knew this, and said this to His disciples, and predicted to 
 them that He Himself would suffer and that they, too, 
 would be delivered to be afflicted and killed (Matt xxiv. 
 9), and that the world would hate them, because they 
 
 371
 
 372 WHAT A CHKISTIAN MAY DO 
 
 would not be the servants of the world, but of the Father 
 (John XV. 19, 20). 
 
 And every thiug came to pass as Jesus had predicted. 
 The world hated Him and tried to ruin Him. All, the 
 Pharisees, and the Sadducees, and the scribes, and the 
 Herodians, rebuked Him for being an enemy to Caesar, for 
 prohibiting men from paying tribute to him, for disturb- 
 ing and corrupting the world. They said that He was 
 an evildoer, that He made Himself a king, and so was an 
 enemy of Ctesar (John xix. 12). 
 
 Even before He was delivered up to be put to death, 
 they, watching Him, sent cunning men up to Him, to 
 catch Him in some utterance, so as to deliver Him up 
 to the authorities and the power of the ruler. And they 
 asked Him: 
 
 Master, we know that Thou art true, and teachest the 
 way of God in truth, neither carest Thou for any man : 
 for Thou regardest not the person of men. Tell us there- 
 fore, What thiukest Thou ? Is it lawful to give tribute 
 unto Cassar, or not ? But Jesus perceived their wicked- 
 ness, and said, Why tempt ye me, ye hypocrites ? Shew 
 me the tribute money. And they brought unto Him a 
 penny. And He saith unto them. Whose is this image 
 and superscription ? They say unto Him, Caesar's. Then 
 saith He unto them. Render therefore unto Caesar the 
 things which are Caesar's ; and unto God the things that 
 are God's. When they had heard these words, they mar- 
 velled at His answer, and grew silent. 
 
 They had expected Him to say, either that it is lawful 
 and necessary to pay tribute to Caesar, and that thus He 
 would destroy His whole teaching about the sons being 
 free, about a man being obliged to hve like the birds of 
 the air, not caring for the morrow, and many similar 
 things ; or that He would say that it is not lawful to pay 
 tribute to Caesar, and that thus He would show Himself to 
 be an enemy to Caesar. But Christ said, Unto Caesar the
 
 WHAT A CHRISTIAN MAT DO 373 
 
 things which are Caesar's, and unto God the things which 
 are God's. He said more than they had expected of Him. 
 He defined everything, dividing everything a man has 
 into two parts, — into the human and the divine, and 
 said that what is man's may be given to man, and what 
 is God's cannot be given to man, but only to God ; and 
 what both God and Caesar claim ought to be given to 
 God. 
 
 With these words He told them that if a man believes 
 in the law of God, he can fulfil Caesar's law only when 
 it is not contrary to God's. For the Pharisees, who did 
 not know the truth, there still existed a law of God 
 which they would not have transgressed, even if Caesar's 
 law demanded it of them. They would not have de- 
 parted from circumcision, from the observance of the 
 Sabbath, from fasting and from many other things. If 
 Caesar had demanded of them work on a Sabbath, they 
 would have said : " To Caesar belong all days, but not the 
 Sabbath." The same is true of circumcision and of other 
 things. 
 
 Christ showed them with His answer that God's law 
 stood higher than Caesar's, and that a man can give to 
 Caesar only what is not contrary to God's law. 
 
 Now, what is for Christ and for His disciples Caesar's, 
 and what God's ? 
 
 One is horrified to think of the answer to this question, 
 which one may hear from Christians of our time ! God's, 
 in the opinion of our Christians, never interferes with 
 Caesar's, and Caesar's is always in agreement with God's. 
 The whole life is given up to the service of Caesar, and 
 only what does not interfere with Caesar is turned over to 
 God. Not so did Christ understand it. 
 
 For Christ the whole life is God's business, and what 
 is not God's may be given to Caesar. 
 
 " Unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's, and unto 
 God the things which are God's."
 
 374 WHAT A CHRISTIAN MAT DO 
 
 What is Csesar's? The coin, — what is carnal, — not 
 yours. 
 
 Give, then, everything carnal to him who will take it ; 
 but your life, which you have received from God, is all 
 God's. This cannot be given to any one but God, because 
 man's life, according to Christ's teaching, is the service of 
 God (Matt. iv. 10), and one cannot serve two masters 
 (Matt. vi. 24). 
 
 Everything carnal a man must give to somebody, and 
 so may give also to Ciaesar ; but he cannot serve anybody 
 but God. 
 
 If men believed in Christ's teaching, in the teaching of 
 love, they could not lose all the divine laws revealed by 
 Christ, in order to fuliil the laws of Ceesar. 
 
 1887.
 
 LETTER TO N. N, 
 
 (To Engelhard) 
 1887
 
 LETTER TO N. N. 
 
 (To Engelhard) 
 
 My dear N. N. : — I write to you " dear," not because 
 people usually write this way, but because since the 
 receipt of your first, but especially of your second, letter, 
 I feel that you are very near to me, and I love you very 
 much. 
 
 In the sentiment which I experience there is much 
 which is egoistical. You probably do not think so, but 
 you cannot imagine to what extent I am lonely, to what 
 extent that which is my real ego is despised by all who 
 surround me. 
 
 I know that he who suffers until the end shall be 
 saved ; I know that it is only in trifles that a man is 
 given the right to enjoy the fruits of his labour, or at 
 least to see this fruit, but that in matters of divine truth, 
 which is eternal, it caonot be given to man to see the fruit 
 of his work, especially in the short period of his brief life ; 
 I know all that, and yet frequently lose courage, and so 
 the meeting with you and the hope, almost the assurance, 
 of finding in you a man who is sincerely walking with 
 me on the road and tending toward the same goal is a 
 great joy to me. 
 
 Well, now I will answer everything in order. 
 
 Your letters to Aksakov have pleased me, especially 
 the last. Your proofs are incontestable, but they do not 
 
 377
 
 378 ' LETTER TO N. N. 
 
 exist for him. Everything he says has long been known 
 to me. It is all repeated in life, in literature, in conver- 
 sations : it is all one and the same. It is this : " I see 
 that this is true, and this false, for such and such reasons ; 
 that this is good, and this bad, because it is so and so." 
 
 Aksakov and his like see that it is true ; even before 
 you have told it to them, they know that it is true. But 
 they abide in the lie, and in order that a man, like any 
 other with a heart which loves the good and despises the 
 evil, and with a reason which has this one purpose of dis- 
 tinguishing the lie from the truth, may be able to live 
 in the lie and the evil, and serve them, he had to close 
 his eyes against the truth even before this, and to continue 
 to do the favourite evil. 
 
 They have all the same shield : the historical concep- 
 tion, the objective view, the care for others, and the re- 
 moval of the question as to their relation to the good and 
 to truth. 
 
 Aksakov does this, and so does Solov^v, and so have 
 done all the theologians, and all the statesmen, the politi- 
 cal economists, and all who live contrary to the truth and 
 to goodness, and who have to justify themselves before 
 themselves. 
 
 This cannot be said any more clearly than it has been 
 said in John iii. 19-21. 
 
 From this I draw the conclusion that in relation to 
 these people one must not cast the pearls, but must work 
 out a certain relation to them, so as not to waste strength. 
 Disputing with them is not only an idle matter, but even 
 harmful for our purpose. They irritate us with provoca- 
 tions to something superfluous and inexact, and, forgetting 
 all the chief things which you have said, will harass you 
 only about that one thing. 
 
 The relation which I am trying to work out in myself 
 toward them, and which I advise others, too, to work out, 
 is like my relation to a debauched, drunken bully who is
 
 LETTER TO N. N. 379 
 
 trying to draw my sixteen-year-old son into debauch. I 
 am sorry for this debauchee, but I will not try to mend 
 him, for I know that it is impossible : he is beyond any 
 hope, and will only ridicule me in the eyes of my son. 
 Nor will I by force remove my son from him, for my 
 son will inevitably meet him or his like, to-morrow, if not 
 to-day ; I will even not try to disclose his baseness to my 
 son. My son has to find it out for himself. I will try to 
 fill my son's soul with such contents that the temptations 
 of the bully will not corrupt him, or else I shall lose all 
 my strength, of which there is none too much, in casting 
 the pearls, and they will, if not trample upon you and me, 
 and crash us, put out the little flickering light amidst the 
 darkness. 
 
 And with this excursus I have accidentally approached 
 directly the second point in your letter. 
 
 " How are men's eyes to be opened ? How are they to 
 be saved from the temptations of the debauchees, when 
 violence is in the way ? " 
 
 " How is the evangehcal teaching to be reahzed ? " 
 
 " Must I not take the part of men if they ask my aid 
 even though I should have to free them by force, when 
 before my eyes others kill and torture them ? " 
 
 It is not right to free and defend men by force, and it 
 is not right, because it is impossible and also because it is 
 foolish, to attempt doing good by means of violence. 
 
 My dearest, please, for the sake of the God of truth, 
 which you serve, be in no hurry, do not get excited, do 
 not invent proofs of the justice of your opinion before you 
 have thought deeply, not of what I am writing you, but 
 of the Gospel, and not of the Gospel as the word of Christ, 
 or God, and so forth, but of the Gospel as the clearest, 
 simplest, most comprehensible, and practical teaching of 
 how each of us and all men are to live. 
 
 If a mother in my presence thrashes her child, what 
 shall I do ?
 
 380 LETTER TO N. N. 
 
 Consider that the question is what I must do, that is, 
 what is good and rational, and not what my first impulse 
 will be. The first impulse in the case of a personal insult 
 is revenge ; but the question is whether this is rational. 
 
 Precisely such is the question as to whether it is 
 rational to use violence against the mother who is whip- 
 ping her child. If a mother is whipping her child, what 
 is it that pains me, and that I consider evil ? Is it that 
 the child is suffering pain, or that the mother, instead 
 of the joy of love, is experiencing the agony of malice ? 
 I think that in either there is evil. 
 
 One man can do no evil. Evil is the disunion between 
 men. And so, if I want to act, I can do so only for 
 the purpose of destroying the disunion and establishing the 
 union between the mother and the child. What, then, 
 shall I do ? Shall I use violence on the mother ? I shall 
 not destroy her disunion (sin) with the child, but shall only 
 introduce a new sin, — the disunion between her and me. 
 What, then, shall I do ? It is this : take the child's 
 place, and this will not be irrational. 
 
 To what Dostoevski writes, — which has always dis- 
 gusted me, — and what the monks and the metropolitans 
 have told me, — that it is lawful to wage war, for it is a 
 defence (" to lay down one's life for one's brothers "), I 
 have always replied : " To defend with one's breast, to 
 substitute oneself, yes, — but to shoot people with guns, 
 — that is not defending, but killing." 
 
 Ponder on the teaching of the Gospel, and you will see 
 that the very short fourth commandment. Resist not evil 
 with evil, reply not to evil, is, I shall not say, the main, 
 but the binding link of the whole teaching, the one which 
 all the pseudo-Christian teachings have most carefully 
 circumvented, and that proposition the non-recognition of 
 which has served as the foundation of everything which 
 you so justly hate. 
 
 To say nothing of the Niceue Council, which has
 
 LETTER TO X. N. 381 
 
 created so much evil, and which is based on this same 
 lack of comprehension of Christ's teaching, that is, ou 
 violence in the name of the good and of Christ, this vio- 
 lence in the name of the good is to be found in its germ 
 in apostolic times, even in the Acts of Paul, and vitiates 
 the meaning of the teaching. 
 
 Kow often I have felt sad in my conversations v^ith 
 priests and revolutionists, who look upon the evangelical 
 teaching as upon a weapon for obtaining external aims. 
 The men of either extreme poles have with equal virulence 
 denied this fundamental proposition of Christ's teaching. 
 The first must not persecute and crush the heterodox, and 
 bless battles and executions ; the second must not by 
 force destroy the existing monstrous disorder, which is 
 called order. 
 
 Apparently the priests and the authorities cannot even 
 imagine human life without violence. The same is true 
 of the revolutionists. By their fruits do you tell the 
 tree : a good tree cannot bring forth fruits of violence. 
 Christ's teaching can neither serve for killing, nor for 
 temporizing ; and so the men of either class, by pervert- 
 ing the teaching, deprive themselves of the one force 
 which is given by the faith in the truth, in the whole 
 truth, and not in a particle of it. 
 
 " They that take up the sword shall perish by the 
 sword," is not a prediction, but a confirmation of a fact 
 well known to all. 
 
 " If thy light is darkness," if that which thou regard- 
 est as good is not good, but evil, what will the evil of thy 
 life and of thy works be ? 
 
 It is impossible to serve God a little and the devil a 
 little, and the gospel is not such a stupid book as the 
 priests have made it out for us. Every proposition is not 
 given there to the winds, but is organically connected with 
 the whole teaching. Even so the commandment about the 
 non-resistance to evil by means of violence goes through
 
 382 LETTER TO N. N. 
 
 the whole Gospel, and without it the teaching of the Gospel 
 falls to pieces, at least it does so to me. Not only is it 
 many times expressed clearly and directly, so that it can- 
 not be concealed; not only is all the description of life 
 and of Christ's works an application of this command- 
 ment ; but Evangelist John presents Caiaphas as not 
 understanding this truth, and, in consequence of the lack 
 of comprehension, as ruining Christ's hfe in the name of 
 the people's good ; the Gospel shows directly that resist- 
 ance to evil by means of violence is the most terrible and 
 dangerous offence into which Christ's disciples fall, and He 
 Himself comes very near falling into it. 
 
 More than this : it now seems to me that if Christ and 
 His teaching did not exist, I should myself have discovered 
 this truth, — so simple and clear does it appear to me 
 now, and I am convinced it will appear such to you also. 
 
 It is now so clear to me that if I were to admit the 
 slightest violence in the name of correcting a most terrible 
 evil, another, on the basis of this, would permit himself 
 a small act of violence, and a third, a fourth, and milhons 
 of small acts of violence will combine into one terrible 
 evil, which exists even now and crushes us. 
 
 If you have fulfilled my request and have calmly read 
 to the end, refraining from arguments in confirmation of 
 your opinion, and have followed my exposition, then I 
 hope that you will agree with me that there are also 
 strong arguments for the contrary opinion, and I hope 
 that you will still more agree with me when you have 
 read the exposition which I am sending you. 
 
 So far as I can guess, you are now in this position : 
 your reason tells you that I am right, but your heart 
 revolts against such a proposition concerning the non- 
 resistance to evil. 
 
 You say to yourself : " Something is wrong here ; 
 there is here some error of judgment, and I will find it 
 and wiU prove that it is impossible that Christ's teaching.
 
 LETTER TO N. N 383 
 
 the teaching of love for my brother, should lead me to sit 
 with folded arms looking at the evil which is being com- 
 mitted in the world. It is all very well," you say, " for 
 an old man who has lived his day to talk idly and assure 
 all men that we must not resist evil. He does not sufi'er : 
 he has enough to eat, is satisfied, has everything he wants, 
 and has but a short time left to live. The whole fire of 
 life has been used up by him, but I feel without reflection 
 that in me is stored love for what is good and true, and 
 hatred for what is evil and untrue, and not vainly so. 
 I cannot help but express it and live in its name, and 
 every step of my life is a struggle with evil. I am obliged 
 to struggle, and I will struggle with them, using all the 
 means which have already become clear to me and which 
 will become clear to me in the future. What is needed 
 is a propaganda among the people, a closer union with 
 the sectarians, the exertion of an influence on the govern- 
 ment, and so forth." 
 
 The feehng which prompts this is good, and I love you 
 for this, but it is the feeling which prompted Peter to 
 provide himself with a knife and cut off the slave's ear. 
 
 Imagine what would have happened if Jesus had not 
 repressed those feelings : there would have been a fight ; 
 let us suppose that Jesus' men would have been victo- 
 rious and would have conquered the whole of Jerusalem. 
 They would have struck down men, and others would 
 have struck down them. What would have become of 
 the Christian teaching? 
 
 It would not exist now, and we should have nothing 
 to lean on. We should be worse than an Aksakov or 
 Solov^v. 
 
 In order completely to express to you my idea, I will 
 tell you what I take to be the meaning of Christ, a mean- 
 ing which is not hazy and mystical, but clear and vital. 
 
 All say that the meaning of Christianity lies in loving 
 God and our neighbour as ourselves. But what is God ?
 
 384 LETTEK TO N. N. 
 
 What is meant by loving something incomprehensible, — 
 God ? What is a neighbour ? What am I ? 
 
 These words have for me this meaning : To love God 
 means to love truth. 
 
 To love my neighbour as myself means to recognize 
 the unity of my essence, soul, and life with every other 
 human life, with eternal truth, — God. So it is for me. 
 But it is clear to me that these words, which defiue noth- 
 ing, may be understood differently, and that the majority 
 of men are even unable to understand it as I do. The 
 main thing is that these words put no obligations on me, 
 or on auy one else, and define nothing. 
 
 How is this ? I am to love God, whom each under- 
 derstands in his own way, and others do not recognize at 
 all ; and I am to love my neighbour as myself, whereas 
 there is implanted in me the love of self, which does not 
 leave me for a moment, and very frequently just as con- 
 stant a hatred of others. 
 
 This is so obscure and impracticable that it remains an 
 empty phrase. It is my opinion that it is a metaphysical 
 proposition, which is important in itself, but when it is 
 understood as a rule of life, as a law, it is simply stupid. 
 Unfortunately it is frequently understood as such. 
 
 All this I say in order to make clear that the meaning 
 of Christianity, as of any other faith, does not lie in meta- 
 physical principles, — these will always be the same with 
 all humanity (Buddha, Confucius, Socrates), — but in their 
 application to life, in the living representation of that good 
 of every man and of all humanity which is obtained in 
 their application, and in the determination of the rules 
 by means of which they are olitained. 
 
 Even in Deuteronomy it says, " Love God and thy 
 neighbour as thyself ; " but the application of this rule 
 according to Deuteronomy consisted in circumcision, in the 
 Sabbath, and in the criminal law. 
 
 The significance of Christianity consists in the indica-
 
 LETTER TO N. N. 385 
 
 tion of the possibility and the happiness of the execution 
 of the law of love. Christ very clearly defined in the 
 sermon on the mount how this law must and can be car- 
 ried out for His own happiness and for that of all men. 
 In the sermon on the mount, without which there would 
 be no teaching of Christ, — in this all agree, — and in 
 which Christ does not address the sages, but the illiterate 
 and the tawny-handed, and which is hedged in with the 
 introduction, " Whosoever shall break one of these least 
 commandments," and with the conclusion that we must 
 not spealv, but fulfil, — in this sermon everything is said, 
 and five commandments are given as to how to fulfil the 
 teaching. 
 
 In the sermon on tbe mount are expounded the sim- 
 plest, easiest, most comprehensible rules of the application 
 of the love of God and of our neighbours to life, without 
 the recognition or fulfilment of which it is impossible to 
 speak of Christianity. 
 
 And, no matter how strange this may seem, after 
 eighteen hundred years I had to rediscover these rules 
 as something new. And only when I comprehended 
 these rules did I comprehend the meaning of Christ's 
 teaching. 
 
 These rules so marvellously . embrace the whole life 
 of each man and of all humanity that a man need but 
 imagine the fulfilment of these rules on earth in order 
 that the kingdom of righteousness may be upon earth. 
 
 Then analyze all these rules separately, applying them 
 to yourself, and you will see that this incredibly blessed 
 and enormous result is obtained through the fulfilment 
 of the simplest, most natural rules, which are not only 
 easy, but even pleasurable to execute. 
 
 Do you think it is necessary to add anything to these 
 rules in order that the kingdom of righteousness be real- 
 ized ? It is not. 
 
 Do you think that it is possible to reject one of the
 
 386 LETTER TO N. N. 
 
 rules without impairing the kingdom of righteousness ? 
 It is not. 
 
 If I did not know anything of Christ's teaching but 
 the five rules, I should still be as good a Christian as 
 I am now. 
 
 Be not angry. Commit no debauch. Do not swear. 
 Do not judge. Wage no war. In this does the essence 
 of Christ's teaching consist for me. 
 
 This clear expression of Christ's teaching has been 
 concealed from men, and so humanity has always devi- 
 ated from it in two extreme directions. Some, seeing If 
 Christ's teaching the teaching of the salvation of the soul 
 have, for the sake of the grossly conceived eternal life, 
 removed themselves from the world, caring only for this, 
 what to do for themselves, how to perfect themselves 
 individually, — which would be ridiculous, if it were not 
 pitiful. Tremendous forces have been wasted by these 
 people, — and there have been many of them, — on what 
 is impossible and foolish, on doing good for themselves 
 individually, without other men. 
 
 Others, on the contrary, who did not believe in the 
 future life, have Hved, the best of them, only for others, 
 but did not know and did not want to know what was 
 necessary for themselves, and in the name of what they 
 wanted the good for others, or what good they wanted. 
 
 It seems to me that one thing is impossible without 
 the other ; a man cannot do any good to himself, to his 
 soul, without acting for others and with others, as did 
 the religious ascetics and others, — the best of them, — 
 and he cannot do good to men if he does not know what 
 he himself needs, and in the name of what he is acting, 
 as in the case of the public workers who have no faith. 
 
 I love the men of the first order, but with all the forces 
 of my soul do I despise their teaching, and I love very 
 much the men of the second category, though I despise 
 their teaching. Only that teaching has the truth which
 
 LETTER TO N. N. 387 
 
 points out an activity, — life, — which satisfies the de- 
 mands of the soul, and which, at the same time, is a con- 
 stant activity for the good of others. 
 
 Such is the teaching of Christ. It is equally distant 
 from rehgious quietism, from the care for one's soul, 
 and from the revolutionary zeal (the governmental, the 
 priestly activity is revolutionary) of him who wants to 
 benefit others, though, at the same time, he does not 
 know wherein this true, indubitable good consists. 
 
 The Christian life is such that it is impossible to do 
 good to people except by doing good to oneself, to one's 
 rational soul, and impossible to do good to oneself, except 
 by doing good to one's neighbours. The Christian life is 
 equally distant from quietism and from excessive zeal. 
 
 Young people, who are of your turn of mind, are in- 
 clined to confuse the true Christian teaching with the 
 quietism of the superstitious, and it seems to them that 
 it is very convenient and very easy to reject the resistance 
 to evil through violence, and that this causes the Chris- 
 tian work to weaken and lose force. That is not true. 
 You must understand that a Christian renounces vio- 
 lence, not because he does not love the same which you 
 desire ; not because he does not see that violence is the 
 first thing which begs for recognition at the sight of evil ; 
 but because he sees that violence removes him from his 
 aim, and does not bring him nearer to it, and that it is 
 senseless, as it is senseless for a man who wants to get 
 to the water of a spring with a stick to strike the earth 
 which separates him from the spring. For a man who 
 denies violence it is not easier, — on the contrary : it is 
 more difficult to take a spade and dig, than to strike the 
 earth with a pole. But it is easier for him, because he 
 knows full well that by opposing evil, not with violence, 
 but with goodness and truth, he is doing what he can, 
 fulfilling the will of the Father, according to Christ's 
 expression.
 
 388 LETTEK TO N. N. 
 
 It is impossible to put fire out with fire, to dry up water 
 with water, to destroy evil with evil. They have been 
 doing that ever since the beginning of the world, and 
 have reached the state in which we live. 
 
 It is time to give up the old method, and to take hold 
 of the new, the more so since it is more sensible. 
 
 If there is a motion forward, it is so only thanks to 
 those who have paid with good for evil. 
 
 What would happen if only one-milhonth part of those 
 efforts which are employed by people in order to fight 
 evil with violence were employed for the purpose of en- 
 during evil, without taking part in it, and of shedding 
 the light which is given to each ? If it were so simply 
 from the point of view of experiment ! 
 
 Nothing has been gained by the other way, — so why 
 not try this, the more so since it is clear, obvious, and 
 joyful? 
 
 Here is a special example : let us recall Russia for the 
 last twenty years. How much sincere desire of good 
 and readiness for sacrifice has been wasted by our young 
 intellectual classes in order to establish the truth, to do 
 good to men ! And what has been done ? Nothing. 
 Worse than nothing. They have wasted enormous spirit- 
 ual forces. The poles are broken and the earth is beaten 
 down harder than ever, so that the spade does not enter 
 into it. 
 
 Instead of those terrible sacrifices which the youths 
 have brought, instead of shooting, causing explosions, 
 running printing offices, these men need but believe in 
 Christ's teaching, that is, consider that the Christian hfe 
 is the one rational life. What if, instead of that terrible 
 tension of forces, one, two, ten, dozens, hundreds of men 
 should say, in reply w the call to military service, " We 
 cannot serve as murderers, because we believe in Christ's 
 teaching, that teaching which we profess and which for- 
 bids it by a special commandment " ? The same they
 
 LETTER TO N. N. 389 
 
 might say in respect to the oath and to the courts ; the 
 same they might say and do in respect to the violence 
 which asserts private possession. What would happen 
 in this case I do not know ; but I know that it would 
 advance matters. 
 
 I know that there is one truly fruitful way, and that 
 is not to do what is contrary to Christ's teaching, but 
 outright and openly to profess it, not for the purpose of 
 obtaining any external aims, but for one's own inward 
 satisfaction, which consists in not doing any evil to 
 others, as long as I am not yet able to do them good. 
 
 Here is my answer to your questions as to what we 
 should strive after. We should strive to carry out Christ's 
 rules for ourselves and disclose to men the light and the 
 joy of their execution. All this is, however, much better 
 expressed in the Gospel (Matt. v. 13-16). 
 
 I foresee another objection. You will say : " It is not 
 clear how to carry out these rules, and what they will 
 bring us to. How are we according to these rules to 
 bear ourselves in relation to property, to the authorities, 
 to international relations ? 
 
 Do not think that there is anything obscure with 
 Christ. Everything is as clear as daylight. 
 
 The relation to the authorities is expressed in the story 
 of the penny. Money — property — is a non-Christian 
 matter. It comes from the authorities, give it back to 
 the authorities ; but your soul is your own, it is from the 
 God of truth, and so give to no one but God your works, 
 your rational freedom. They can kill you, but they can- 
 not compel you to kill, to do an un-Christian deed. 
 
 According to the Gospel there is no property, and woe 
 to those who have it, that is, they fare badly. In rela- 
 tion to property, a Christian can only refuse to take part 
 in acts of violence which are committed in the name of 
 property, and may explain to others that property is a 
 myth, that there is no property, but that there is a habit-
 
 390 LETTER TO N. N. 
 
 . i 
 
 ual act of violence in relation to the use of things, which 
 people call property, and which is bad. There can be no 
 question of property for a man who will give up his cloak 
 when they want to take his coat from him. 
 
 Nor can there be any question about international 
 relations. All men are brothers, — all are alike ; and if 
 a Zulu comes and wants to roast my children, there is 
 only one thing which I can do, and that is, to impress 
 upon the Zulu that this is not advantageous and good for 
 him, — to impress this upon him, while submitting to 
 his force, — the more so since there is no profit in strug- 
 gling with a Zulu : either he will overcome me and will 
 roast more of my children, or I shall overcome him, and 
 my children will get ill to-morrow and die in worse 
 agonies of disease. 
 
 There is profit in it, because by submitting I certainly 
 do better, while by resisting I do something doubtful. 
 
 So here is my answer : the best that we can do is for 
 us to carry out the whole teaching of Christ. In order to 
 do so, we must be convinced that it is the truth both for 
 humanity at large and for each of us in particular. 
 
 Have you that faith ? 
 
 There are two more objections, or questions, which, I 
 imagine, you will bring forward. The first is this, that 
 if we shall submit, as I say, to a Zulu or a policeman, 
 and shall give to a bad man everything which he may 
 want to take from me ; if we are not to take part in the 
 governmental institution of the courts, of schools, of uni- 
 versities, and are not to recognize our property, — we shall 
 fall to the lowest round of the social ladder, and shall be 
 trampled upon and crushed : we shall be mendicants, 
 tramps, and the light which is in us will be lost in vain, 
 and no one will see it, and so would it not be better to 
 hold ourselves on a certain level of independence from 
 want, of a possibility of education and of communion 
 with as large a ciicle of men as possible (the press) ?
 
 LETTER TO N. N. 391 
 
 Indeed, so it seems, but it only seems so. And it 
 seems so because we value highly our comforts of life, 
 our education, and all those imaginary joys which they 
 furnish us, and we temporize when we say so. It is 
 not true, because, no matter on what level a man may 
 stand, he will always be with men, and so able to do good 
 to them. But whether the professors of a university 
 are better, or the inmates of the night lodging-houses 
 are more important for the work of Christianity, — that 
 is a question which no man can decide. In favour of the 
 poor speaks my own sentiment and Christ's example. 
 Only the poor can preach the Gospel, that is, teach the 
 rational life. I can discuss beautifully and be sincere, 
 but no man will ever believe me, so long as he sees that 
 I, living in a mansion, spend with my family in a day 
 the amount of a year's supply for an indigent family. 
 And as regards our vaunted education, it is time to stop 
 speaking of it as of a good. It will easily spoil ninety-nine 
 of every hundred men, and it will certainly not add 
 anything to one man. You no doubt know about 
 Syutaev. Here is an illiterate peasant, but his influence 
 on people, on our intellectual classes, is greater and more 
 important than that of all the Kussian savants and 
 writers, with all their Pvishkins and Byelinskis taken 
 together, from Tredyakovski until our day. We shall not 
 lose much. And every one that hath forsaken houses, or 
 brethren, or sisters, or father, or mother, or wife, or chil- 
 dren, shall receive a hundred times more houses, and a 
 father here in this world, and also everlasting hfe. Many 
 that are first shall be last (Matt. xix. 29, 30). 
 
 Now another question, which directly, involuntarily 
 results from it : " Well, and you. Lev Nikolaevich ? You 
 preach indeed, but how do you carry it out ? " This is a 
 most natural question which people always put to me 
 and with which they triumphantly close my mouth. 
 
 " You preach, but how do you live ? " And I answer
 
 392 LETTER TO N. N. 
 
 that I do not preach and cannot preach, though I passion- 
 ately wish to do so. 
 
 I could preach by my works, but my works are bad. 
 What I speak is not a preaching, but only a rebuttal of 
 the false understanding of the Christian teaching and the 
 explanation of its real meaning. Its meaning does not 
 consist in reorganizing society in its name through 
 the exercise of force ; its meaning consists in finding the 
 meaning of hfe in this world. 
 
 The fulfilment of the five commandments gives this 
 meaning. 
 
 If you want to be a Christian, you must fulfil these 
 commandments ; and if you do not want to fulfil them, 
 do not speak to me of Christianity, outside of the fulfil- 
 ment of these commandments. 
 
 " But," people say to me, " if you find that outside 
 of the fulfilment of the Christian teaching there is no 
 rational life, and you love this rational life, why do you 
 not fulfil the commandments ? " 
 
 I answer that I am guilty and wretched, and that I 
 deserve contempt for not fulfilling them, but, at the same 
 time, not so much in justification as in explanation of 
 my inconsistency, I say : Look at my former and at my 
 present Ufe, and you will see that I am trying to fulfil. 
 I have not fulfilled one ten -thousandth part, it is true, and 
 I am to blame, but I have not fulfilled it, not because I 
 did not want to, but because I could not. Accuse me, — 
 I do so myself, — but accuse me only, and not the path 
 over which I walk, and which I point out to those who 
 ask me where, in my opinion, the path is. 
 
 If I know the way home and walk on it, drunk, totter- 
 ing from side to side, does it follow from this that the 
 path over which I am travelling is not right ? 
 
 If it is not right, — show me another ; but if I have 
 lost my way and am tottering, help me, hold me on the 
 right path, even as I am prepared to hold you up, and do
 
 LETTER TO N. N. 393 
 
 not push me off, do not rejoice because I have lost my 
 way, do not shout in glee : 
 
 " There he says that he is going home, and yet he is 
 making for the swamp ! " 
 
 Do not rejoice at this, but help me, assist me ! You 
 are not yourselves wills-o'-the-wisp, but men who are 
 making for home ! ^ 
 
 I am one, and I certainly do not wish to go into the 
 swamp. 
 
 Help me ! My heart bursts from despair, because we 
 have all gone astray ; and when I struggle with all my 
 might and main, you, at every deviation of mine, instead 
 of pitying yourself and me, push me into the swamp and 
 shout in delight : 
 
 " See, he is in the swamp with us ! " 
 
 Such is my relation to the teaching and its fulfilment. 
 I try with all my power to fulfil it, and on every failure 
 to fulfil it, I not only repent, but implore aid so as to be 
 able to fulfil, and with joy meet every man who like me 
 seeks the path, and obey him. 
 
 If you read what 1 send you, you will also understand 
 the contents of this letter. 
 
 Write to me. I am very glad to commune with you, 
 and will in agitation await your answer. 
 
 1887.
 
 INTRODUCTION TO T. M. 
 BONDAREV'S TEACHING 
 
 1888
 
 INTRODUCTION TO T. M. 
 BONDAREV'S TEACHING 
 
 This work is offered here precisely in the form in 
 which it was written. The only difference from the 
 original is this, that for its peculiar orthography is substi- 
 tuted the one which is generally used in books, and also 
 this, that the whole work is divided into two parts, the 
 exposition and the supplement. In the supplement I 
 have separated what to me appeared as repetition or 
 departure from the exposition of the subject itself. 
 
 This work seems to me very remarkable on account of 
 its power, and clearness, and beauty of language, and 
 power of sincerity of conviction, which may be seen in 
 every line, and, above all, on account of the importance, 
 correctness, and profundity of the fundamental idea. 
 
 The fundamental idea of this work is this : 
 
 In all the affairs of life it is not important to know 
 what it is that is good and necessary, but what of all 
 good and necessary things or acts is of the very first im- 
 portance, what of a second, what of a third importance, 
 and so forth. If this is true in affairs of life, it is still 
 more true in matters of faith, which defines the duties of 
 man. 
 
 Tatian, a teacher of the first times of the church, says 
 that the misfortune of men is due not so much to the 
 fact that men do not know God as to the fact that they 
 
 397
 
 398 BONDAEEV'S TEACHING 
 
 recognize a false God — that they recognize as a god 
 what is not God. 
 
 The same may be said of the doctrine of men's obHgations. 
 
 Men's misfortune and evil is not due so much to the 
 fact that men do not know their duties, as to the fact 
 that they recognize false duties ; that they recognize as 
 their duty what is not their duty, and do not recognize 
 as their duty what is their chief duty. 
 
 Bondar^v asserts that men's misfortunes and evil are 
 due to this, that they have recognized as their religious 
 duties many idle and harmful decrees, and have forgotten 
 and concealed from themselves and others their chief, 
 first, indubitable duty, which is expressed in the first 
 chapter of Holy Scripture : In the sweat of thy face shalt 
 thou eat bread. 
 
 For people who believe in the sacredness and infallibil- 
 ity of God's word, as expressed in the Bible, this com- 
 mandment, given by God Himself, and nowhere abolished, 
 is a sufficient proof of its truth. 
 
 But for people who do not acknowledge Holy Scripture 
 the meaning and truth of this proposition, if we will only 
 view it without prejudice, as a simple and not super- 
 natural expression of human wisdom, is proved by the 
 analysis of the conditions of human hfe, as Bondar^v 
 proves it in this work of his. 
 
 An obstacle to such an analysis is unfortunately found 
 in this, that many of us have become so accustomed to 
 the perverse and senseless interpretations by the theo- 
 logians of the words of Holy Scripture, that the mere 
 mention that a certain proposition coincides with Holy 
 Scripture serves as a cause for looking with contempt on 
 such a proposition. 
 
 " What does Holy Scripture mean to me ? "We know 
 that anything you please may be based on it, and that 
 everything in it is a lie." 
 
 But that is not true. It is certainly not the fault of
 
 BONDAREV'S TEACHING 399 
 
 Holy Scripture if people have interpreted it wrongly, and 
 a man who tells a truth is not to blame, because he 
 expressed a truth which has been given before, and espe- 
 cially in Holy Scripture. We must not forget that if we 
 admit that what is called Holy Scripture is not the 
 product of God, but of men, there must be some good 
 reason why this human production, and not any other, 
 has been accepted by men as the writing of God Himself. 
 This reason is clear. 
 
 This Scripture is by superstitious persons called divine, 
 because it is higher than anything which men knew, and 
 also because this Scripture, despite the fact that men 
 have all the time denied it, has come down to us and con- 
 tinues to be considered divine. It is called divine and 
 has come down to us, only because in it is contained the 
 highest human intelhgence. And such is in many places 
 the writing which is called the Bible. And such is the 
 forgotten and omitted utterance, which is not understood 
 in its real meaning, and which Bondarev explains and 
 puts in his .corner-stone chapter. 
 
 This utterance and the whole world of the life in Para- 
 dise is generally comprehended in its direct meaning, 
 namely, that all actually happened as described, whereas 
 the significance of the whole passage is this, that in a 
 figurative form it presents those as it were contradictory 
 tendencies which are found in human nature. 
 
 Man is afraid of death and is subject to it ; a man who 
 does not know good and evil seems to be happy, but he 
 irrepressibly tends to this knowledge : man loves idleness 
 and the gratification of passions without suffering, and 
 yet it is only labour and suffering that give life to him 
 and to his race. 
 
 This utterance is not important because it was pre- 
 sumably made by God to Adam himself, but because it 
 is true and confirms one of the unquestionable laws of 
 human life.
 
 400 BONDAREV'S TEACHING 
 
 The law of gravity is not true because it was enun- 
 ciated by Newton, but I know Newton and am thankful 
 to him because he discovered for me the eternal law 
 which gave me an answer to a whole series of phenomena. 
 
 The same is true of the law, In the sweat of thy face 
 shalt thou eat bread. 
 
 It is a law which elucidates to me a whole series of 
 phenomena. And, having once come to understand it, I 
 can no louger forget it, and am thankful to him who has 
 revealed it to me. This law seems very simple and long 
 known ; but it only seems so, and to convince ourselves 
 of the opposite, we need but look around us. Men not 
 only fail to recognize this law, but even recognize the 
 very opposite. In conformity with their faith, all men — 
 from the king to the beggar — do not strive to fulfil this 
 law, but to avoid fulfilling it. This work of Bondart^v is 
 devoted to the elucidation of the eternity and uuchange- 
 ableness of this law and the inevitableness of the calamities 
 arising from a departure from it. 
 
 Bondar^v calls this law an original law and chief of all 
 other laws. Bondart^v proves that sin (that is, error, false 
 act) is due only to a departure from this law. Of all the 
 positive duties of man, Bondar^v regards it as the chief, 
 first, and invariable duty of each man to earn his bread 
 with his own hands (meaning by bread every hard, manual 
 labour, necessary for man's salvation from starvation and 
 cold, that is, his food, and drink, and raiment, and house, 
 and fuel). 
 
 Bondar^v's fundamental idea is that this law (that a 
 man must work in order to live), which heretofore has 
 been acknowledged as a necessity, must be recognized as 
 a good and invariable law of human life. 
 
 This law must be recognized like any rehgious law, like 
 the observance of the Sabbath, the circumcision among the 
 Jews, the fulfilment of the sacraments, the fasts of the ec- 
 clesiastic Christians, the fivefold prayer and fasting among
 
 BONDAREV'S TEACHING 401 
 
 the Mohammedans. Bondar^v says in one place that if 
 people recognize the bread work as their rehgious obliga- 
 tion, no private, special occupations can interfere with the 
 execution of this work, just as no special occupations can 
 keep the people of the church from executing the idleness 
 of their holidays. 
 
 In all, more than eighty holidays are counted, and to 
 do the bread work only forty days are needed according 
 to Bon dare v's calculation. No matter how strange it may 
 at first appear that such a simple, all-intelligible, artless 
 means might Sorve as a salvation from the endless exist- 
 ing evils of humanity, it is still more strange, when we 
 come to think of it, how we, by leaving it, may seek 
 a cure for our evils in various devices and conceits. But 
 reflect on the matter, and you will see that it is so. 
 
 A man ought not to put a bottom into a vat and ought 
 to invent some more cunning means for retaining the 
 water. Such are all our cares about the cure of existing 
 evils. Indeed, whence comes all the misery of men, if we 
 exclude from the number of miseries those which men 
 have directly inflicted upon each other by means of mur- 
 ders, executions, prisons, frights, and all kinds of cruelties, 
 in which they err by not abstaining from violence ? 
 
 All the misery of men, with the exception of direct 
 violence, is due to hunger, to all kinds of privations, to 
 despair in work, and, by the side of these, to excesses, idle- 
 ness, and vices caused by them. 
 
 What more sacred duty can man have than cooperating 
 in the abolition of this inequality, these calamities, this 
 need of some, and this temptation in others ? And how 
 can a man cooperate in the abolition of these calamities, if 
 not by a participation in labour which meets men's needs, 
 and by removing from oneself all superabundance and 
 idleness, which are productive of vices and temptations, 
 that is, if not by doing bread work, by supporting oneself 
 with one's own hands, as Bondardv says ?
 
 402 BONDAR^V'S TEACHING 
 
 We are so entangled by having created for ourselves so 
 many laws, religious, and social, and domestic, so many 
 rules, as Isaiah says, ''Eule upon rule, here a rule, and 
 there a rule," that we have entirely lost the meaning of 
 what is good and what bad. 
 
 A man celebrates mass, a second collects an army or 
 taxes for himself, a third judges, a fourth learns out of 
 books, a fifth cures, a sixth teaches people, and under 
 these pretexts they free themselves from bread work and 
 impose it upon others, forgetting that people die from 
 exertion, labour, and hunger, and that, to have men 
 celebrate mass, defend us by means of an army, sit in 
 judgment, cure, and teach, it is necessary above all else 
 that men should not starve. We forget that there may be 
 many duties, but that among them there is one that is first 
 and one that is last, and that it is not possible to fulfil 
 the last without having fulfilled the first, just as it is im- 
 possible to harrow before ploughing. 
 
 It is to this first indubitable duty in the sphere of 
 practical activity that Bondar^v's teaching takes us. Bon- 
 dar^v shows that the execution of this duty does not 
 interfere with anything, presents no obstacles, and at the 
 same time saves men from misery, want, and temptations. 
 The fulfilment of this duty first of all destroys that 
 strange division into two classes who hate each other and 
 with flattery conceal their mutual hatred. Bread labour, 
 says Bondar^v, equalizes all and will chp the wings of 
 luxury and of lust. 
 
 It is impossible to plough and dig wells in costly gar- 
 ments and with clean hands, and while living on dainty 
 food. The occupation with the holy work which is com- 
 mon to all men will bring them together. Bread labour, 
 says Bondar^v, is a remedy which saves humanity. If 
 men recognized this original law as a divine and un- 
 changeable law ; if each man recognized bread labour, 
 that is, his support by means of his own labour, as his
 
 BONDAREV'S TEACHING 403 
 
 unalterable duty, — all men would unite in the faith of 
 the one God, in the love of one another, and would des- 
 troy the calamities which crush men. 
 
 We are so accustomed to the order of things which rec- 
 ognizes the very opposite, namely, that wealth — the 
 means for not doing bread labour — is either a divioe 
 blessing or a higher social position, that, without analyzing 
 this position, we feel like recognizing it as narrow, one- 
 sided, idle, stupid. 
 
 But we must give the matter a serious consideration 
 and analyze this position, to see w^hether it is just. We 
 analyze all kinds of rehgious and political theories, and 
 we will also analyze Bondarev's theory as a theory. We 
 shall see what will happen, if, according to Bondarev's 
 idea, the rehgious propaganda will direct its forces to the 
 elucidation of this law, and all men will recognize as 
 holy the original law of labour. What will happen 
 then? 
 
 All will work and eat the bread of their labours, and 
 bread and objects of prime necessity will not be objects 
 of purchase and sale. What will happen then ? What 
 will happen will be this, that there will be no people who 
 perish from want. If one man does not earn enough for 
 his own food and for that of his family, another man will 
 give it to him. He will give it to him, because he can 
 do nothing else with the bread, since it cannot be sold. 
 What will happen will be tliis, that man will not have 
 the temptation, the necessity of acquiring bread by means 
 of cunning or violence, because he is not otherwise pro- 
 vided for. And not having this temptation, he will not 
 employ violence or cunning. That will not be necessary, 
 as it is now. 
 
 If he shall use cunning or violence, he will use them 
 only because he likes cunning and violence, and not be- 
 cause he has to, as is the case now. 
 
 Nor will the feeble, who for some reason are unable to
 
 404 BONDAREV'S TEACHING 
 
 earn their bread, or who for some reason have lost it, need 
 to sell themselves, their labour, and sometimes their souls, 
 for the sake of earning bread. 
 
 There will not exist the present tendency of all to free 
 themselves from bread labour and to impose it upon others, 
 a tendency to crush the feeble with labour and to free the 
 strong from all work. 
 
 There will not be that mood of human thought which 
 directs all the efforts of the mind, not on alleviating the 
 labour of the labouring, but on alleviating and adorning 
 the idleness of the idle. 
 
 The participation of all in bread labour and the recog- 
 nition of the same as the chief of all human affairs pro- 
 duces the same effect that a man would produce with a 
 cart which some fooHsh people have been drawing with 
 the wheels up, when he turns it down and puts it on its 
 wheels, and does not break the cart, but makes it go 
 easily. But our hfe, with the contempt for bread labour 
 and its rejection, and our corrections of this false life, is a 
 cart which we are dragging with its wheels up. All our 
 corrections of the matter are of no avail, so long as we do 
 not turn the cart over and place it properly. 
 
 Such is Bondar^v's idea, which I share in full. 
 
 His idea presents itself to me also in this manner. 
 
 There was a time when men ate one another. The 
 consciousness of the unity of all men was developed to 
 such an extent that this became impossible to men, and 
 they stopped eating one another. Then there was a time 
 when people took the labour of others by force and 
 turned men into slavery. Men's consciousness developed 
 to such an extent that this became impossible. This 
 form of violence, though surreptitiously retained, has 
 been destroyed in its gross manifestations : man no 
 longer openly takes possession of another man's labour. 
 In our day there exists that form of violence by which 
 men, exploiting the want of others, subject them to them-
 
 BONDAKEV'S TEACHING 405 
 
 selves. According to Bondar^v's idea there is now arriv- 
 ing the time of that consciousness of the unity of men, 
 when it will become impossible for men, to exploit the 
 want, that is, the hunger and the cold, of others, in order 
 to subject them to themselves, and when men, by thus 
 recognizing as obligatory the law of bread labour for each, 
 will recognize as their duty unconditionally, without the 
 sale of bread (articles of prime necessity), to feed, and 
 clothe, and warm one another. 
 
 From still another side I look upon this work of 
 Boudarev's like this. We frequently have occasion to 
 hear judgments of the insufficiency of mere negative 
 laws or commandments, that is, of rules as to what not 
 to do. People say : " We must have positive laws or 
 commandments, we need rules as to what we should do. ' 
 They say that the five commandments of Christ, — (1) not 
 to regard any one as insignificant or senseless, and not to 
 be angry with any one, (2) not to look upon cohabitation 
 as a subject of enjoyment, not to abandon the mate with 
 whom one has come together once, (3) not to swear to 
 any one in anything, not to bind one's will, (4) to endure 
 offences and not resist them by means of violence, and 
 (5) not to consider any men enemies, and to love the 
 enemies like our neighbours, — they say that all men 
 ascribe to these five commandments of Christ a meaning 
 about what ought not to be done, and that there is no 
 commandment or law which prescribes what ought to be 
 done. 
 
 Indeed, it may appear strange why there are in Christ's 
 teaching no definite commandments as to what ought to 
 be done. But this may appear strange only to him who 
 does not beheve in Christ's teaching itself, which is not 
 contained in the five commandments, but in the teaching 
 of the truth itself. 
 
 The teaching of the truth, as expressed by Christ, is 
 not to be found in the laws about the commandments, —
 
 406 BONDAREV S TEACHING 
 
 it is to be found in this alone, — in the meaning which 
 is ascribed to hfe. 
 
 The meaning of this teaching is in this alone, that hfe 
 and the good of hfe are not to be found in personal hap- 
 piness, as some people think, but in serving God and 
 men. This proposition is not a prescription which is to 
 be carried out in order to obtain rewards for its fulfil- 
 ment ; it is not a mystical expression of something mys- 
 terious, but the disclosure of a formerly concealed law of 
 life; it is an indication of this, that life can be a good 
 only with such a comprehension of life. And so all the 
 positive teaching of Christ is expressed in this, Love God 
 and thy neighbour as thyself. There can be no elucida- 
 tions of this proposition. It is one, because it is all ! 
 
 Christ's laws and commandments, like the Jewish and 
 Buddhist laws and commandments, are only indications of 
 those conditions in which the temptations of the world 
 take men away from the true comprehension of life. 
 And so there can be mauv laws and commandments ; but 
 there can be but one positive teaching about life, about 
 what ought to be done. 
 
 The life of each man is a motion somewhere ; whether 
 a man wants to or not, he moves, he lives. Christ shows 
 man his path, and at the same time shows those devia- 
 tions from the true path which may lead him on the 
 false road ; of such indications there may be many, they 
 are the commandments. Christ gives five such command- 
 ments, and those which He gives are such that until now 
 it has been impossible to add one, or detract one from 
 them. But there is given but one indication of the direc- 
 tion of the road, just as there can be but one straight line 
 which indicates direction. 
 
 Consequently the idea that in Christ's teaching there 
 are only negative commandments, and none that are posi- 
 tive is correct for those only who do not know or do not 
 beheve in the teaching of the truth itself, in the direction
 
 BONDAREV'S TEACHING 407 
 
 itself of the true path of life, as pointed out by Christ. 
 But the people who believe in the truth of the path of 
 life, as pointed out by Christ, cannot look for positive 
 commandments in His teaching. 
 
 The whole positive activity, the most varied, which 
 results from the teaching of the true path of life, is clear 
 and always indisputably determined for them. Men who 
 believe in the path of life are, according to Christ's utter- 
 ance, like a spring of living water, that is, Hke a spring 
 welhng up from the ground. Their whole activity resem- 
 bles the flowing of water which runs everywhere in spite 
 of the obstacles which detain it. A man who believes in 
 Christ's teaching can as little ask what he is positively 
 to do, as the spring of water can, which is welling up 
 from the earth. It flows, watering the earth, grass, trees, 
 birds, animals, men. The same does a man who beheves 
 in Christ's teaching about life. 
 
 A man who believes in Christ's teaching will not ask 
 what to do. Love, which will become the power of his 
 life, will show him correctly and indubitably when and 
 what to do first, and what last. 
 
 To say nothing of those indications with which Christ's 
 teaching and our heart are filled, that the first and most 
 exacting work of love consists in giving food to the hun- 
 gry and drink to the thirsty, clothing the naked, helping 
 the poor and the imprisoned, — the whole of Christ's 
 teaching, and reason, and conscience, and feeling, every- 
 thing urges us, before all other works of love toward the 
 Hving, to support this hfe of our brothers, — to free them 
 from sufi'ering and death, which overcome them in their 
 unequal struggle with Nature, — that is, it urges us on to 
 the most necessary work for the hfe of men, — to the 
 simplest, foremost, gross, hard labour on the land. 
 
 As the spring of water cannot ask whither to send its 
 water, whether to spurt the water upward on the grass 
 and the leaves of the trees, or to pour forth downward to
 
 408 BONDAKEV's TEACHING 
 
 the roots of the grass and the trees, even so man who 
 believes in the teaching of the truth cannot ask what he 
 must do first, whether to instruct the people, to defend 
 them, to give them the pleasures of life, or to support 
 them who are perishing from want. And just as the 
 spring flows on the surface and fills the ponds and gives 
 the animals and men to drink only after it has watered 
 the earth, so a man who beheves in the teaching of the 
 truth can cooperate with the less pressing demands of 
 men only after he has satisfied the first demand, that is, 
 after he has contributed to their support, to their libera- 
 tion from ruin, in consequence of a struggle with want. 
 A man who professes the teaching of truth and of love 
 not in words, but in deeds, cannot be mistaken as to where 
 he must first of all direct his activity. A man who posits 
 the meaning of life in the service of others can never 
 make the mistake of beginning to serve a hungry and 
 freezing man by writing resolutions, casting cannon, man- 
 ufacturing elegant articles, or playing the violin or the 
 piano. 
 
 Love cannot be foolish ! 
 
 Just as love of man does not permit one to read novels 
 to a hungry man, or to warm up a freezing person by 
 putting on him earrings and bracelets, even so love of 
 man does not permit the ministration to them to consist 
 in cheering the satiated, abandoning the hungry and the 
 freezing to fate. 
 
 Love that is true, not in words but in deeds, cannot be 
 foolish ; it is only love which gives penetration and 
 wisdom, and so a man who is permeated by love will 
 make no mistake and will always do that first which his 
 love of men demands, — what supports the life of the 
 hungry, the naked, the oppressed ; and what supports 
 the life of the hungry, the freezing, and the oppressed is 
 the struggle, the direct struggle with Nature. 
 
 Only he who wants to deceive himself and others can,
 
 BONDAREV'S TEACHING 409 
 
 in moments of danger and of men's struggle with want, 
 evade bringing aid, increase men's want, and assure him- 
 self and those who are perishing in his sight that he is 
 busy finding or inventing means for their salvation. 
 
 Not one sincere man, who puts his life into the minis- 
 tration to others, will say this. And if he says it, he will 
 never find in Ms conscience a confirmation of his decep- 
 tion ; he will find it only in the tricky devihsh teaching 
 about the division of labour. But in all the expressions 
 of human wisdom, from Confucius to Mohammed, he will 
 find one thing only ; he wiU find it with particular force 
 in the Gospel ; he will find the demand for serving men 
 not according to the theory of the division of labour, but 
 in the simplest, most natural, and only necessary means ; 
 he will find the demand for serving the sick, the impris- 
 oned, the hungry, and the freezing. But it is impossible 
 to offer aid to the sick, the imprisoned, the hungry, and 
 the freezing in any other way than by means of one's im- 
 mediate, present labour, because the sick, the hungry, and 
 the freezing do not wait, but die of hunger and of cold. 
 
 To a man who professes the teaching of the truth, his 
 life itself, which consists in serving others, will point out 
 that original law which is expressed in the first book of 
 Genesis, In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, 
 which Bondar^v calls the original law and proves to be 
 positive. 
 
 This law is indeed such for men who do not acknowl- 
 edge the meaning of life which is revealed to men by 
 Christ, and such it was for men before Christ, and such 
 it will remain for men who do not acknowledge Christ's 
 teaching. It demands that each should live on his labour 
 according to the will of God, as expressed in the Bible 
 and in reason. This law is positive. Such is this law 
 until the meaning of Hfe has been revealed to men in the 
 teaching of the truth. 
 
 But with the higher consciousness of the meaning of
 
 410 BONDAREV'S TEACniNG 
 
 life, revealed by Christ, the law of bread labour, remain- 
 ing as true as ever, becomes only a part of the one positive 
 teaching of Christ about serving men, and receives the 
 significance, not of a positive, but of a negative law. This 
 law, with a Christian consciousness, points only to an old 
 temptation of men, to what men must not do in order 
 that they may not deviate from the path of true life. 
 
 ¥oT a believer in the Old Testament, who does not 
 acknowledge the teaching, this law has the following 
 meaning : " Earn your bread with your own hands." But 
 for a Christian it has a negative significance. This law 
 says : " Do not assume it as possible to serve people by 
 swallowing up the labours of others and by not earning 
 your own sustenance by your hands." 
 
 This law is for a Christian an indication of one of the 
 most ancient offences from which people sufi'er. Against 
 this offence, terrible in its consequences and so old that 
 we can with difficulty recognize it as a deception, and 
 not as a natural human property, this teaching of Bonda- 
 r^v is directed : it is equally binding on him who beheves 
 in the Old Testament, and on the Christian who believes in 
 the Holy Scripture, and on him who does not beheve in the 
 Scripture, but follows reason alone, and on him who recog- 
 nizes the teaching of the truth. 
 
 Reader and dear brother, whoever you may be, I love 
 you, and not only do not wish to grieve and offend you, 
 to bring evil into your life, but want this much, — to 
 serve you. 
 
 I could write a great deal, and I feel like doing so, in 
 order to prove the truth of this proposition and overthrow 
 the arguments which I hear against it. But no matter 
 how much I may write, how well I may write, how logi- 
 cally right I may be, I shall not convince you, if you 
 struggle with your reason against mine, and your heart 
 will remain cold. 
 
 I am afraid of that ; I am afraid of harming you with
 
 BONDAREV'S TEACHING 411 
 
 the pride of my reason, with my coldness. All I ask you 
 is not to dispute, not to prove, but to ask your heart. 
 
 Whoever you may be, no matter how talented you may 
 be, or how good, or in what condition you may be, can 
 you be calm at your tea, your dinner, at your business of 
 state, of art, of learning, of medicine, or teaching, when 
 you hear or see at your porch a hungry, freezing, sick, 
 weary man ? No, you cannot ! But they are always 
 there, if not at the porch, they are ten sazhens, ten versts 
 away. They are there, and you know it. 
 
 You cannot be calm, you cannot have joys which are 
 not poisoned by them. In order that you may not see 
 them at the porch, you must bar them from you, keep them 
 from you by your coldness, or go somewhere where they 
 are not to be found. But they are everywhere ! And even 
 if a place were found where you would not see them, you 
 will nowhere get away from the consciousness of the 
 truth. What is to be done ? 
 
 You know yourself, and this whole book tells you 
 what. 
 
 Descend to the bottom (to what to you seems to be 
 the bottom, but what is the top), stand by the side 
 of those who feed the hungry, clothe the freezing, — 
 fear nothing, — it will not be worse, but better in every 
 respect. Stand in a row with them, with unskilled hands 
 take hold of the first work which feeds the hungry and 
 clothes those who are cold, — of the bread labour, of the 
 struggle with Nature,. — and you will feel for the first 
 time a firm soil under your feet : you will feel that you 
 are at home ; that you are free and firmly settled ; that 
 you have nowhere else to go to, and you will experience 
 those whole-hearted unmixed joys which you will find 
 nowhere, behind no doors and behind no curtains. 
 
 You will learn of joys which you did not know ; you 
 will know for the first time those simple, strong men, 
 your brothers who, far away from you, have so far fed you,
 
 41!^ BOND ARE VS TEACHING 
 
 and, to your surprise, you will discover iu them such vir- 
 tues as you did not know before ; you will see in them 
 such modesty, such goodness, namely toward you, wliich, 
 you will feel, you do not deserve. 
 
 Instead of contempt and ridicule, which you expected, 
 you will see such kiudness, such gratitude, such respect 
 for you, because, having lived all your life by their labours, 
 and despising them, you have suddenly come to your 
 senses and are willing to help them with your unskilful 
 hands. 
 
 You will see that what to you appeared as a little 
 island, on which you have been sitting, to save yourself 
 from the sea which was swamping you, is a bog in which 
 you have been sinking ; and that the sea of which you 
 have been afraid is firm ground over which you will pass 
 safely, calmly, joyfully, and it cannot be otherwise, for 
 from the deception which you did not enter yourself, but 
 were led into, you will make your way out to truth, and 
 from the departure from the will of God yoa will pass 
 over to its fulfilment.
 
 LETTER TO A FRENCHMAN 
 
 1889
 
 LETTER TO A FRENCHMAN 
 
 You ask me why manual labour presents itself to us 
 as one of the inevitable conditions of true happiness ? 
 
 Is it necessary to deprive ourselves of mental activity 
 in the sphere of science and art, which to us seems in- 
 compatible with manual labour ? 
 
 To these questions I have answered as well as I could 
 in my book entitled JVliaf Shall We Bo TJien ? 
 
 I have never looked upon manual labour as a funda- 
 mental principle, but as a most simple and natural appli- 
 cation of moral principles, an appUcation which presents 
 itself first of all to every sincere man. 
 
 In our corrupt society (the society which is called 
 civilized) we have to speak above all else of manual 
 labour only because the chief defect up to the present 
 time has been a tendency to free oneself from manual 
 labour and to make use, without any mutual exchange, 
 of the labour of the ignorant and dispossessed poor 
 classes, who are in a state of slavery resembhng the 
 slavery of the ancient world. 
 
 The first sign of the sincerity of the men of our class, 
 who profess Christian, philosophical, or humanitarian 
 principles, is a striving to free themselves as much as 
 possible from this injustice. 
 
 The simplest and handiest means for attaining this is 
 manual labour, which begins by attending to one's own 
 needs. 
 
 415
 
 416 LETTER TO A FRENCHMAN 
 
 I will never believe in the sincerity of the philosophical 
 and moral principles of a man who makes his chamber- 
 maid carry out his vessel. 
 
 The simplest and shortest rule of morality consists in 
 making others serve one as little as possible, and in serv- 
 ing others as much as possible; in demanding as little 
 as possible from others, and giving to others as much as 
 possible. 
 
 This rule, which gives to our existence a rational 
 meaning, and the good as its consequence, at the same 
 time solves all the difficulties, including the one which 
 presents itself to you. This rule points out the place 
 which is to be occupied by mental activity, by science, by 
 art. In following this rule, I am happy and satisfied only 
 when iu my activity I am unquestionably sure that it is 
 useful to others. The gratification of those for whom I 
 act is already a surplus, a superabundance of happiness, 
 on which I cannot count and which cannot influence me 
 in the choice of my actions. 
 
 My firm conviction that what 1 do is not useless and 
 not harmful, but good for others, — this conviction is the 
 chief condition of my happiness. And it is this which 
 makes a moral and sincere man involuntarily prefer 
 manual labour to scientific and altruistic work. 
 
 In order that my labours as an author may be exploited, 
 the work of printers is needed ; to carry out my symphony 
 I need the work of musicians ; in order to carry out ex- 
 periments I need the labours of those who make appli- 
 ances and instruments for our cabinets ; for the picture 
 which I am painting I need the men who prepare the 
 paints and the canvas, — but at the same time the works 
 which I produce may be useful to men, or they may be 
 (as in the majority of cases they are) quite useless and 
 even harmful. 
 
 How, then, can I busy myself with occupations the 
 usefulness of which is very doubtful, and for which I
 
 LETTER TO A FRENCHMAN 417 
 
 have to put others into requisition, while about me, in 
 front of me, there is an endless quantity of things which 
 are all unquestionably more useful for others, and for the 
 production of which I need nobody ? For example, to 
 carry a burden for him who is fatigued from it ; to plough 
 up the field of a sick farmer ; to dress a wound, and so 
 forth, to say nothing of the thousands of things which 
 surround us, for the production of which no external aid 
 is needed, which give immediate satisfaction to those for 
 whom they are produced ; in addition to these there is a 
 vast number of acts of a different kind, such as, planting 
 a tree, raising a calf, cleaning a well, — and all these acts 
 are unquestionably useful, and a sincere man cannot help 
 preferring them to occupations which demand the labour 
 of others and which, at the same time, are of doubtful 
 usefulness. 
 
 The calling of the prophet teacher is a high and noble 
 one. But we know what the priests are who regard 
 themselves as the only teachers, because they possess the 
 possibility of compelling others to regard them as such. 
 Not he is a prophet who receives the education and the 
 culture of a prophet, but he who has the inner conviction 
 that he is, must be, and cannot help but be that and 
 nothing else. 
 
 This conviction is rarely met with, and can be proved 
 only by the sacrifices which a man brings to his calling. 
 
 The same holds good in true science and true art. 
 The violinist Lulli runs at the danger of his life from the 
 kitchen to the garret, in order to play on his violin, and 
 by this sacrifice he proves the sincerity of his calling. 
 But for a student of the conservatory, a university stu- 
 dent, whose only duty consists in learning what is being 
 taught, it is impossible to prove the truth of his calling. 
 They only make use of the condition which presents 
 itself to them as advantageous. 
 
 Manual labour is a duty and happiness for all men;
 
 418 LETTER TO A FRENCHMAN 
 
 the activity of the mind and imagination is an exclusive 
 activity : it becomes a duty and happiness for those only 
 who are called to it. A calliug may be discovered and 
 proved only by a sacrifice, which the scholar or the artist 
 makes of his rest and comfort, in order to devote himself 
 to his calling. A man who continues to fulfil his obliga- 
 tions of sustaining his hfe by the work of his hands, and 
 who, in spite of this, deprives himself of hours of rest and 
 sleep, in order to create in the sphere of the mind and the 
 imagination, thus proves his calling and creates in his 
 sphere what is necessary for men. But he who rids him- 
 self of universal moral obligations and under the pretext 
 of a special infatuation for art or for science, arranges for 
 himself the life of a drone, creates only false science and 
 false art. 
 
 The fruits of true science and true art are the fruits of 
 sacrifice, and not the fruits of certain material prerogatives. 
 
 But what will then become of art and of science ? 
 
 How often I hear this question from people who are 
 not at all interested in science or in art, and who have not 
 the slightest conception of what science and art are ! One 
 would think that these people have near at heart the good 
 of humanity, and that it, according to their conviction, 
 cannot be obtained in any other way than by the evolu- 
 tion of what they call science and art. 
 
 But what a strange phenomenon this is, that men 
 defend the usefulness of what is useful ! 
 
 Is it possible there can be men so senseless as to deny 
 tlie usefulness of what is useful ? And is it possible 
 there are still more ridiculous people who regard it 
 as their duty to defend the usefulness of what is useful ? 
 
 There are artisans, and there are farmers, and no one 
 has ever had the courage to deny their usefulness ; and 
 never will a labourer stop to prove the usefulness of his 
 labour. He produces, and his product is indispensable 
 and good for others. People make use of it, and no one
 
 LETTER TO A FRENCHMAN 419 
 
 doubts its usefulness ; and still less does one stop to 
 prove it. The workmen of art and of science are in the 
 same situation. Why, then, are there found people who 
 make an effort to prove their usefulness ? 
 
 The reason is this, that the true workers of science and 
 of art do not secure any rights to themselves : they give 
 the products of their labours, these products are useful, 
 and they are in no need of rights and of their confirma- 
 tion. But the vast majority of those who consider them- 
 selves savants and artists know full well that what they 
 produce is not worth what they use up, and so they have 
 recourse to all kinds of means, hke the priests of all times 
 and of all nations, in order to prove that their activity is 
 indispensable for the good of humanity. 
 
 True science and true art have always existed, and will 
 always exist, hke all other branches of human activities, 
 and it is impossible and useless to deny or defend them. 
 
 The false position which science and art occupy in our 
 society proves only that the people who call themselves 
 civilized, with the savants and the artists at their head, 
 form a caste with all the prophets who are inherent in 
 each caste. They debase and minimize the principle 
 in the name of which a caste is formed. Instead of the 
 true religion they preach a false one ; instead of the true 
 science they produce a false one. The same is true of 
 art. They he as a heavy burden on the people, and be- 
 sides deprive the people of the hght, in vain trying 
 to show that they are disseminating it. And, what is 
 worst of all, their acts always contradict the principles 
 which they profess. 
 
 Without considering those who maintain the untenable 
 principle of science for science's sake, and of art for art's 
 sake, they are all obliged to prove that science and art 
 are indispensable, because they serve the good of human- 
 ity. 
 
 But wherein does this good consist ?
 
 420 LETTER TO A FRENCHMAN" 
 
 By what signs can the good be told from the evil ? 
 
 The adherents of science and of art obviate this ques- 
 tion. They even assume that the determination of the 
 good is not possible and is standing outside of science 
 and outside of art. The good in general, they say, what 
 is good and beautiful, caunot be defined. 
 
 But they are lying ! 
 
 At all times, humanity, in its forward movement, has 
 been doing nothing but defining what is good and beauti- 
 ful. Goodness and beauty were defined a thousand years 
 ago ; but this definition does not suit them, the high 
 priests : it discloses their emptiness and the harmfulness 
 of what they call science and art, which is even contrary 
 to goodness and beauty. 
 
 The Brahmins, the Buddhists, the Chinese sages, the 
 Jews, the Egyptians, the Greek stoics, have defined the 
 good in the simplest way. Everything which introduces 
 union among men is goodness and beauty. Everything 
 which disunites them is evil and ugliness. All men 
 know this definition. It is imprinted in our hearts. 
 
 Goodness and beauty are for man that which unites 
 men. And so, if the adherents of science and of art have 
 indeed the good of humanity in view, they must move 
 forward only those sciences which lead to that end. And 
 if that were so, there would be no juridical, no military 
 sciences, no poKtical economy, the aim of which is the 
 good of certain societies and the ruin of others. If the 
 good were actually the aim of science and of the arts, 
 the pretensions of the positive sciences, which frequently 
 have no relation to the true good of humanity, would 
 never have acquired such an inexplicable importance ; the 
 same may be said of the productions of art, which are 
 only good for the excitation of corrupt old men and for 
 the pastime of idle people. 
 
 Human wisdom does not at all consist in the quantity 
 of knowledge which we may acquire. Wisdom does not
 
 LETTER TO A FRENCHMAN 421 
 
 consist in knowing as much as possible ; it consists in the 
 knowledge of that order in which it is useful to know 
 things ; wisdom consists in the knowledge of what branch 
 of knowledge is more or less important. But of all the 
 branches of knowledge the most necessary to man is that 
 of how to live, doing the least possible amount of evil 
 and the greatest possible amount of good ; and of all the 
 arts the most important is the one which teaches us to 
 avoid evil and to introduce the good with the least 
 effort. 
 
 And it has happened that among all the sciences and 
 arts, which pretend to serve humanity, the first science 
 and the first art in importance not only do not exist in 
 fact, but are even excluded from the list of the sciences 
 and the arts. 
 
 What in our society is called science and art is nothing 
 but an immense soap-bubble, a superstition, into which 
 we generally fall as soon as we free ourselves from the 
 superstition of the church. 
 
 In order clearly to see the road over which we have 
 to travel, we must raise the hood which keeps our head 
 warm, but interferes with our seeing the road ahead of us. 
 The offence is great. 
 
 If we are not placed in that situation by our birth, we 
 by our labour or cunning reach out for the upper rounds 
 of the social ladder, for the privileged social position of 
 the priests of civilization, and like the priests, Brahmins 
 or Catholics, we need a great deal of sincerity and a great 
 deal of love of truth and of goodness, in order to sub- 
 ject to doubt those principles which condition such an 
 advantageous position. 
 
 But for a serious man, who, like you, puts to himself 
 the question of life, there is no choice : in order that he 
 may be able to see clearly, he must free himself from 
 prejudice, although the prejudice may be advantageous 
 for him.
 
 422 LETTER TO A FRENCHMAN 
 
 This is a condition sine qua non. 
 
 It is useless to speak with a man who accepts anything 
 whatever on faith. If the field of thought is not com- 
 pletely free, a man may dispute and reflect for a long time 
 and yet not advance an iota in the knowledge of truth. 
 Every rational judgment will be shattered against the pre- 
 conceived tenets which are based on faith alone. 
 
 There is a religious faith and a faith in the progress of 
 humanity. They are precisely alike. A Catholic says to 
 himself : " I may reflect, but only within the limits of 
 Holy Writ and Tradition, which possess the truth in all 
 its fulness and unchangeability." 
 
 The believer in civilization says : " My reflection stops 
 before the two foundations of civilization, science and 
 art." 
 
 " Our science," he says, " is the totality of the true 
 knowledge of man; if science does not yet possess the 
 full truth, it will possess it in the future. Our art, to- 
 gether with the classical art, is the one true art." 
 
 The religious superstitions say : " Outside of man exists 
 the thing in itself, as the Germans say, and that is the 
 church." 
 
 The people of our society say : " Outside of man exists 
 civilization in itself." 
 
 We can easily see the illogicalness in the religious 
 superstitions, because we do not share them. But the 
 religious believer, for example a Catholic, is fully con- 
 vinced that there is no other truth but his. And it 
 seems to him that the source of his truth is proved by 
 disputation. 
 
 Similarly, when we are ourselves enmeshed in the false 
 belief in our civilization, we are almost unable to see the 
 illogicalness of our reflections, which are all directed 
 toward the proof that of all times and nations there is 
 only our time, only a few millions of people, inhabiting a 
 peninsula called Europe, who are in possession of the true
 
 LETTER TO A FRENCHMAN 423 
 
 civilization, which consists in the true science and the 
 true art. 
 
 In order to know the true meaning of life, which is so 
 simple, there is no need of positive philosophy, nor of pro- 
 found knowledge ; all that is necessary is to have no 
 prejudices. 
 
 We must arrive at the condition of a child or of Des- 
 cartes, and we must say to ourselves : " I know nothing, 
 believe nothing, and want nothing but to find out the 
 true meaning of life, which I must live." 
 
 The answer has been given since remote antiquity, and 
 this answer is clear and simple. 
 
 My inner feeling tells me that I want the good and 
 happiness for myself ouly. 
 
 Eeason tells me : " All men, all beings, want the same." 
 
 All beings, which, like me, seek their personal happi- 
 ness, will evidently crush me. And so I cannot find that 
 happiness in the striving after which my life consists. 
 The striving after happiness is my Hfe, and reason shows 
 me that this striving is useless, and that, therefore, I 
 cannot live. 
 
 Simple reflection shows me that in that order of the 
 world, where all beings strive only after their personal 
 good, I, a being striving after the same, cannot get this 
 good. And I cannot live ! 
 
 But, in spite of such a clear reflection, we live and seek 
 happiness and the good. We say to ourselves : " I could 
 attain the good, be happy, if only all the other beings 
 loved me more than themselves." 
 
 This is impossible ! But, in spite of it, we all live, and 
 our whole activity, all our stri\T.ngs after wealth, family, 
 glory, power, — all that is only attempts at compelling 
 other people to love me better than they love themselves. 
 
 Wealth, gloiy, power, give us the semblance of such a 
 state, and we are satisfied : for a moment we forget that 
 these are all illusions, and not reahty.
 
 424 LETTER TO A FRENCHMAIS' 
 
 All beings love themselves better than us, and happi- 
 ness is impossible ! 
 
 There are men (and their number is growing from day 
 to day) who cannot solve this difficvilty, and who kill 
 themselves, saying that life is an empty and foolish 
 jest. 
 
 And yet the solution of the problem is more than 
 simple, and presents itself of its own accord. 
 
 I can be happy only in an order of the world in which 
 all beings would love others more than themselves. The 
 whole world would be happy, if its beings did not love 
 themselves, but their like. 
 
 I am a being, a man, and reason gives me the law of 
 the universal good, and I must follow this law of my 
 reason — I must love others better than myself. 
 
 A man need but reflect thus, in order that life might 
 suddenly present itself to him under an entirely different 
 angle of vision than before. 
 
 The beings destroy one another, but at the same time 
 love and help one another. Life is not supported by the 
 passion of destruction, but by the passion of mutuality, 
 which in the language of our heart is called love. 
 
 In so far as I can see the evolution of the life of the 
 world, I see in it the manifestation of nothing but this 
 principle of mutual help. The whole of history is noth- 
 ing but an ever clearer and clearer manifestation of this 
 one principle of nnitual concord of all beings. 
 
 The reflection is also confirmed by historical and by 
 personal experience, but, independently of the reflection, 
 man finds the most convincing proof of the justice of this 
 reflection in his inner immediate feeling. 
 
 The highest good known to man, the condition of the 
 fullest freedom and happiness, is a condition of renuncia- 
 tion and love. Reason discloses to man the one possible 
 path to happiness, and feeling directs man along this path. 
 
 If the ideas which I have tried to communicate to you
 
 LETTER TO A FRENCHMAN 425 
 
 seem obscure to you, do not judge them too severely. 1 
 hope that some day you will read them in a clearer and 
 simpler exposition. 
 
 I only wanted to give an idea of my views of life.
 
 THE HOLIDAY OF ENLIGHT^ 
 ENMENT OF THE 12TH 
 OF JANUARY 
 
 1889
 
 THE HOLIDAY OF ENLIGHT- 
 ENMENT OF THE 12TH 
 OF JANUARY 
 
 What can there be more terrible than village holidays ? 
 In nothing is so palpably expressed all the savagery and 
 monstrosity of the national life as in the village holidays. 
 During work-days the people live, eating wholesome food 
 moderately, working industriously, communing with one 
 another amicably. Thus it goes for a week, sometimes 
 for months, and suddenly tliis good hfe is impaired with- 
 out any visible cause. On one definite day all stop work- 
 ing at the same time, and in the middle of the day begin 
 to eat unaccustomed dainties, and to drink the specially 
 prepared wine and vodka. All drink : the old make the 
 young, and even children, indulge in drink. All congrat- 
 ulate one another, kiss, embrace, shout, sing songs ; now 
 they are meek, now they brag, now feel offended ; all talk, 
 and no one listens ; one hears cries, quarrels, and often 
 sees fights. Toward evening some stumble, fall, and go 
 to sleep wherever they happen to be ; others are taken 
 away by those who are still in their senses, and others 
 again wallow on the ground and writhe, filling the air 
 with the stench of alcohol. 
 
 On the next day all these men awaken sick and, com- 
 ing to a little, go to work until the next similar day. 
 
 429
 
 430 THE HOLIDAY OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 What is it ? Why is it so ? — Why, it is a hoHday, a 
 church holiday. In one place it is Visitation, in another, 
 Presentation, in a third, the Virgin of Kazan. What 
 is meant by Visitation and Virgin of Kazan, nobody knows. 
 All they know is that it is a church holiday, and that it is 
 necessary to celebrate. And they wait for this celebration, 
 and after their hard life of labour are glad when that time 
 comes. 
 
 Yes, this is one of the most striking expressions of the 
 savagery of the working people. Wine and celebration 
 are for them temptations which they cannot withstand. 
 When a holiday comes, each one of them is prepared to 
 get intoxicated to a point where he loses his human sem- 
 blance. 
 
 Yes, the masses are savage. But here comes the 12th 
 of January, and in the newspapers the following announce- 
 ment is printed : " A social dinner of the alumni of the 
 Imperial Moscow University will take place on founder's 
 day, January 12th, at five o'clock, in the restaurant of 
 Grand Hotel, Moscow, entrance through the main door. 
 Tickets for the dinner at six roubles may be had . . ." 
 (Follows a list of places where tickets may be obtained.) 
 
 But this is not the only dinner ; there will be dozens 
 of such dinners, — in Moscow, in St. Petersburg, and in 
 the provinces. The 12th of January is the hohday of the 
 oldest Russian university, a holiday of Ptussian enlighten- 
 ment. The flower of enhghtenment is celebrating its 
 holiday. 
 
 One would think that men who stand at the two 
 extreme ends of enlightenment, the wild peasants and 
 the most cultured of Russian men, — the peasants who 
 celebrate Presentation or the Virgin of Kazan, and the 
 cultured people who celebrate this very holiday of en- 
 lightenment, — ought to celebrate their holidays in quite 
 different manners. But it turns out that the holiday of 
 the most cultured of people in no way differs from that
 
 THE HOLIDAY OF ENLIGHTENMENT 431 
 
 of the most savage of men, except in external forms. 
 The peasants stick to Visitation or the A^irgin of Kazan 
 without the slightest reference to the meaning of the 
 holiday, in order to eat and drink ; the cultured use as a 
 pretext the day of St. Tatiana, in order to stuff themselves 
 with food and drink, without the slightest reference to 
 St. Tatiana. The peasants eat gelatine and noodles ; the 
 cultured eat sea crabs, different kinds of cheese, soups, 
 fillets, etc. The peasants drink vodka and beer ; the cul- 
 tured drink hquors of every description, — wines, vodkas, 
 liqueurs, — dry, and strong, and weak, and bitter and 
 sweet, and white and red, — and champagne. The cost of 
 each peasant's treat is from twenty kopeks to one rouble ; 
 the treat of the cultured costs from six to twenty 
 roubles for each. The peasants talk of their love for 
 their gossips, and sing Russian songs ; the cultured speak 
 of loving their Alma Mater, and with faltering tongues 
 sing senseless Latin songs. The peasants fall into the 
 mud, and the cultured — upon velvet divans. The peas- 
 ants are taken and dragged home by their wives and sons, 
 and the cultured — by scornful, sober lackeys. 
 
 Indeed, it is terrible ! Terrible, because people who, in 
 their opinion, stand on the highest level of human educa- 
 tion, are not able in any other way to celebrate the holi- 
 day of enlightenment except by eating, drinking, smoking, 
 and shouting senselessly for several hours in succession. 
 What is terrible is this, that old men, the guides of the 
 young, contribute to poisoning them by means of alcohol, 
 — which poisoning, like quicksilver poisoning, never dis- 
 appears entirely and leaves traces for the rest of the life. 
 (Hundreds and hundreds of young men liave, encouraged 
 by their teachers, for the first time become beastly drunk 
 upon this holiday -of enlightenment, thus ruining and cor- 
 rupting themselves for .the rest of their lives.) But most 
 terrible is this, that the men who are doing all this have 
 to such an extent befogged themselves in their conceit
 
 432 THE HOLIDAY OF ENLIGHTENMEKT 
 
 that they are unable to distinguish between what is good 
 and what bad, between what is moral and what immoral. 
 These people have so convinced themselves that the con- 
 dition in which they are is a condition of culture and 
 enlightenment, and that culture and enhghtenment give 
 them the right to pamper to all their weaknesses, that 
 they are unable to see the beam in their own eyes. 
 These people, who abandon themselves to what cannot 
 be called otherwise than monstrous drunkenness, amidst 
 this debauch admire themselves and commiserate the 
 unenhghtened masses. 
 
 Every mother suffers, — I shall not say at the sight of 
 her drunken sou, but even at the thought of such a possi- 
 bility ; every master avoids a drunken labourer ; every 
 uncon-upted man is ashamed of himself, if he has been 
 drunk. All know that drunkenness is bad. But here 
 cultured, enlightened men are drunk, and they are fully 
 convinced that there is not only nothing shameful or bad 
 in it, but that it is very charming, and with pleasure and 
 laughter narrate episodes from their past drunken bouts. 
 Things have come to such a pass that the most abomi- 
 nable orgy, in which young men are made drunk by their 
 elders, — an orgy which is annually repeated in the name 
 of education and enlightenment, — does not offend any- 
 body, and does not keep people, during their drunkenness 
 and after it, from admiring their exalted sentiments and 
 thoughts, and boldly judging and valuing the morality of 
 other people, and especially of the coarse and ignorant 
 masses. 
 
 Every peasant regards himself as guUty when he is 
 drunk, and begs everybody to forgive him for his drunk- 
 enness. In spite of his temporal fall, the consciousness 
 of what is good and bad is alive in him. In our society 
 this consciousness is being lost. 
 
 Very well, you are in the habit of doing so and cannot 
 refrain from it, — all right, continue doing so, if you can-
 
 THE HOLIDAY OF ENLIGHTENMENT 433 
 
 not restrain yourselves; but know this much, that on 
 January 12th, 15th, and 17th, and in February, and in 
 all the other months, this is disgraceful and low, and, 
 knowing this, abandon yourselves to your vicious inclina- 
 tions in secret, and not as you do now, — triumphantly, 
 entangling and corrupting the youth and your so-called 
 younger brothers. Do not confuse the youth with the 
 doctrine that there is another, a civil morality, which 
 does not consist in restraint, and another, a civil immoral- 
 ity, which does not consist in lack of restraint. All 
 know, and you know it, too, that before all other civil 
 virtues one needs restraint from \dces, and that every 
 lack of restraint is bad, and that especially the lack of 
 restraint in drinking is ' exceedingly dangerous, because it 
 kills conscience. All know this, and so, before speaking 
 of any exalted sentiments and objects, we must free our- 
 selves from the base and savage vice of drunkenness, and 
 not speak of exalted subjects while we are drunk. Do 
 not deceive yourselves and other men, especially do not 
 deceive the youths : the youths feel that, taking part in 
 the savage custom, they are not doing the right thing, 
 and lose something very precious and irretrievable. 
 
 And you know this, — you know that there is nothing 
 better and more important than physical and spiritual 
 purity, which is lost in drunkenness ; you know that aU 
 your rhetoric, with your eternal Alma Mater, does not 
 move you, even when you are half-drunk, and that you 
 have nothing to give to the youths in place of that inno- 
 cence and purity which they lose when taking part in 
 your monstrous orgies. Do not debauch them, nor con- 
 fuse them, but know that as it was with Noah, as it is 
 with every peasant, so it has been and will be with each 
 person : it is disgraceful not only to get so drunk as to 
 yell, swing people, get up on the tables, and do all kinds 
 of foolish things, but also, without any need, in com- 
 memoration of the holiday of enlightenment» to eat
 
 434 THE HOLIDAY OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 savoury food, and become iutoxicated with alcohol. Do 
 not debauch the youths, and do not debauch the servants 
 which surround you by your own example. The hun- 
 dreds and hundreds of people who serve you, who bring 
 to you wine and food, and take you to your homes, are 
 men, hve men, for whom there exist, as for all of us, the 
 most important questions of life, as to what is good and 
 what bad. Whose example are they to follow ? It is 
 fortunate that all these lackeys, drivers, porters, these 
 Eussian villagers, do not regard you as what you think 
 yourselves to be, and as what you would like others to 
 regard you, — as representatives of enlightenment. If 
 this were the case, they, looking upon you, would be 
 disappointed in all enlightenment, and would despise it; 
 but even now, though they do not consider you to be 
 representatives of enlightenment, they none the less see 
 in you learned gentlemen, who know everything, and 
 who, therefore, can and must be emulated. And what is 
 it that they, the unfortunate, learn from you ? It is a 
 good question to put to yourselves. 
 
 What is more powerful, that enhghtenment which is 
 disseminated among the masses by the giving of public 
 lectures, and by museums, or that savagery which is 
 supported and disseminated among the masses by the 
 spectacle of such holidays as that of the 12th of Jan- 
 uary, which is celebrated by the most enhghtened men 
 of Eussia ? I think that if all lectures and museums 
 came to a stop, and if at the same time all such celebra- 
 tions and dinners were given up, and the cooks, chamber- 
 maids, drivers, and janitors communicated to one another 
 in conversations that all the enlightened people whom 
 they serve never celebrate the holidays by gorging them- 
 selves with food, and getting drunk, but know how to 
 make merry and converse witliout wine, the enlighten- 
 ment would not lose anything by it. It is time to under- 
 stand that the enlightenment is disseminated, not only
 
 THE HOLIDAY OF ENLIGHTENMKKT 435 
 
 by magic lantern and other pictures, not only by the oral 
 and the printed word, but by the striking example of the 
 whole life of people, and that an enhghtenment which 
 is not based on the moral life has never been and never 
 will be an enlightenment, but only an eclipse and a 
 corruption.
 
 POPULAR LEGENDS 
 
 1886
 
 POPULAR LEGENDS 
 
 HOW THE DEVIL EEDEEMED THE CRUST OF 
 
 BEEAD 
 
 A POOR peasant went out to plough, without having 
 had his breakfast, and took with him from home a crust 
 of bread. The peasant turned over the plough and un- 
 tied the beam, which he put under a bush ; here he also 
 placed his crust of bread, which he covered with his caftan. 
 
 The horse grew tired, and the peasant was hungry. 
 The peasant stuck fast the plough, unhitched the horse 
 and let it go to graze, and himself went to his caftan, to 
 have his dinner. He raised the caftan, but the crust was 
 not there ; he searched and searched for it, and turned his 
 caftan around and shook it, but the crust was gone. The 
 peasant marvelled. 
 
 " This is remarkable, " he thought. " I have not seen 
 any one, and yet somebody has carried off the crust of 
 bread." 
 
 But it was a little devil who, while the peasant had 
 been ploughing, had carried off the crust ; he sat down 
 behind a bush to hear how the peasant would curse and 
 scold him, the devil. 
 
 The peasant looked a bit dejected. 
 
 " Well," he said, " I shall not starve. Evidently the 
 one who carried it off needed it. May he eat it to his 
 health ! " 
 
 439
 
 440 POPULAR LEGENDS 
 
 And the peasant went to the well, drank some water, 
 rested himself, caught the horse, hitched it up, and began 
 once more to plough. 
 
 The little devil felt sad because he had not led the 
 peasant into sin, and went to the chief devil to tell him 
 about it. 
 
 He appeared before the chief devil and told him how 
 he had carried off the peasant's crust, and how the 
 peasant, instead of cursing, had told him to eat it to 
 his health. The chief devil grew angry. 
 
 " If the peasant has in this business got the better of 
 you," he said, " it is your own fault, — you did not know 
 any better. If the peasants, and the women, after them, 
 take such a notion, we shall have a hard time of it. 
 This matter cannot be left in such a shape. Go," he said, 
 " once more to the peasant, and earn the crust. If in 
 three years you do not get the better of the peasant, 
 I will bathe you in holy water." 
 
 The Httle devil was frightened. He ran down upon 
 the earth, and began to think how he might redeem his 
 guilt. He thought and thought, and finally thought it 
 out. He turned into a good man, and hired himself out 
 as a labourer to the peasant. He taught the peasant in a 
 dry year to sow in a swamp. The peasant listened 
 to his hired hand and sowed the grain in the swamp. 
 The other peasants had all their grain burned up by the 
 sun, but the poor peasant's corn grew thick, tall, and 
 with fuU ears. The peasant had enough to eat until 
 the next crop, and much corn was left. In the sum- 
 mer the hired hand taught the peasant to sow on the 
 uplands. It turned out to be a rainy summer. The corn 
 of the other peasants fell down and rotted and made no 
 ears, but this peasant's corn on the uplands was heavy 
 with ears. The peasant had now even more corn left, 
 and he did not know what to do with it. 
 
 The hired hand taught the peasant to mash the graia
 
 POPULAR LEGENDS 441 
 
 and brew liquor. The peasant brewed some liquor, aud 
 began to drink himself and to give it to others. Tl)e 
 little devil came to his chief, aud began to boast that he 
 had earned the crust. The chief devil went to look for 
 himself. 
 
 He came to the peasant, and saw that the peasant had 
 invited some rich men, to treat them to hquor. The 
 hostess was carrying the liquor around to the guests. As 
 she walked around, her foot caught in the table, and she 
 spilled a glass. The peasant grew angry, and scolded 
 his wife. 
 
 " Devil's fool," he said. " Is this slops that you, with 
 your clumsy hands, spill such precious liquor on the 
 ground ? " 
 
 The little devil nudged his chief. 
 
 " Watch him ! " he said. " Now he will regret his 
 crust." 
 
 The host scolded his wife, and began himself to carry 
 the liquor around. A poor peasant, who had not been 
 invited, came back from his work. He greeted the com- 
 pany and sat down, watching the people drink the liquor ; 
 as he was tired he wanted to have a drink himself. He 
 sat and sat, and swallowed his spittle, — but the host did 
 not offer him any ; he only muttered : 
 
 " Where will a man get enough liquor for the whole 
 lot of you ? " 
 
 This, too, pleased the chief devil ; but the little devil 
 boasted : 
 
 " Wait, it will be worse than that." 
 
 The rich peasants had a glass, and so had the host. 
 They began to flatter one another and to praise one 
 another, and to speak oily, deceptive words. The chief 
 devil listened to that, too, and was glad of it. 
 
 " If this drink will make them so foxy, and they will 
 deceive one another," he said, " they will be in our 
 hands."
 
 442 POPULAR LEGENDS 
 
 " Wait," said the little devil, " and see what is coming ; 
 let them drink another glass. Now they wag their tails 
 to one another, like foxes, and want to deceive one 
 another, but look, they will soon be hke fierce wolves." 
 
 The peasants had another glass, and their words became 
 louder and coarser. Instead of oily speeches, they began 
 to curse and to get angry with one another, and they 
 fell to, and mauled one another's noses. The host, too, 
 took a hand in the fight. And he was also beaten. 
 
 The chief devil saw this, too, and was glad. 
 
 " This," he said, " is nice." 
 
 But the little devil said : 
 
 " Wait, it will be better yet ! Let them have a third 
 glass. Now they are like mad wolves, but let them have 
 a third glass, and they will become like swine." 
 
 The peasants had a third glass. They went completely 
 to pieces. They muttered and yelled, they did not know 
 themselves what, and paid no attention to one another. 
 They began to scatter, some going away by themselves, 
 and some by twos and threes ; they all fell down and 
 wallowed in the street. The host went out to see them 
 off, and he fell with his nose in the gutter, and he became 
 all soiled and lay there like a pig, grunting. 
 
 This pleased the chief devil even more. 
 
 " Well," he said, " you have invented a fine drink, and 
 you have earned the crust. Tell me how you made this 
 drink. It cannot be otherwise than that you have first 
 let into it some fox blood, — and this made the peasant 
 as sly as a fox. And then you let in some wolf blood, — 
 and this made him as fierce as a wolf. And finally you 
 poured in some pig l)lood, and this made him a pig." 
 
 " No," said the little devil, " that was not the way I 
 did. All I did was to let him have more corn than he 
 needed. That beast blood has always lived in him, but 
 it has no chance so long as he gets barely enough 
 corn. At that time he was not sorry even for the last
 
 POPULAR LEGENDS 443 
 
 crust, but when he began to have a surplus from his corn, 
 he began to think of how he might have his fun from it. 
 And I taught him the fun of drinking liquor. And when 
 he began to brew God's gift into liquor for his fun, there 
 arose in him his fox, wolf, and pig blood. Let him now 
 drink liquor, and he will always be a beast." 
 
 The chief praised the little devil, forgave him for the 
 crust of bread, and made him a captain.
 
 THE EEPENTANT SINNER 
 
 And he said uuto Jesus, Lord, remember me when thou 
 comest into thy kingdom. 
 
 And Jesus said unto him, Verily I say unto thee, To-day 
 shalt thou be with me in paradise. (Luke xxiii. 42, 43.) 
 
 There was a man who had lived seventy years in 
 the world, and had passed all his life in sins. And he 
 grew sick, and did not repent. And when his time came 
 to die, he wept in the last hour, and said : 
 
 Lord ! Forgive me as Thou forgavest the thief on the 
 cross. 
 
 No sooner had he said this than his soul left him. 
 
 And the soul of the sinner loved God, and believed in 
 His goodness, and came to the gate of heaven. And the 
 sinner knocked at the door, and begged to be let in. And 
 he heard a voice behind the door : 
 
 "What man is this that is knocking at the door of 
 heaven ? And what deeds has this man done in his 
 life ? " 
 
 And the voice of the arraigner answered, and counted 
 out all the sinful deeds of this man, and did not mention 
 a single good deed. 
 
 And a voice answered behind the door : 
 
 " Sinners cannot enter into the kingdom of heaven. Go 
 hence." 
 
 And the man said : 
 
 " Lord, I hear thy voice, but do not see thy face, and 
 do not know thy name." 
 
 444
 
 POPULAR LEGENDS 445 
 
 And the voice answered : 
 
 " I am Peter the apostle." 
 
 And the sinner said : 
 
 "Have pity on me, Peter the apostle. Eemember 
 human weakness and God's love. Wert thou not Christ's 
 disciple, and heardst thou not His teaching from His very- 
 lips, and sawest thou not the examples of His life ? 
 Remember, when He was dejected and troubled in spirit, 
 and commanded thee three times not to sleep, but to 
 pray, thou didst sleep, because thy eyes were heavy, and 
 three times He found thee sleeping. Even so it is with 
 me. And remember again, how thou didst promise Him 
 not to renounce Him until His death, and how thou didst 
 deny Him three times, when they took Him before Cai- 
 aphas. Even so it is with me. And remember again, 
 how the cock crew, and thou didst go out and weep bit- 
 terly. Even so it is with me. Thou canst not keep me 
 out." 
 
 And the voice behind the door of heaven grew silent. 
 
 And the sinner stood awhile, and began once more to 
 knock at the door, and to beg to be admitted into the 
 kingdom of heaven. 
 
 And another voice was heard behind the door, saying : 
 
 "Who is this man, and how did he live in the 
 world ? " 
 
 And the voice of the arraigner answered, again repeat- 
 ing all the evil deeds of the sinner, and did not mention 
 any good deeds whatsoever. 
 
 And the voice behind the door answered : 
 
 "Go hence, for such sinners cannot live with us in 
 heaven." 
 
 And the sinner said : 
 
 " Lord, I hear thy voice, but do not see thy face, and 
 do not know thy name." 
 
 And the voice said to him : 
 
 " I am David, the king and prophet."
 
 446 POPULAR LEGENDS 
 
 But the sinner did not despair. He did not go away 
 from the door of heaven, but said : 
 
 " Have mercy on me, King David, and remember 
 human weakness and God's love. God loved thee and 
 exalted thee above men. Thou hadst everything, a king- 
 dom, and glory, and riches, and wives, and children, but 
 when thou sawest from thy roof the wife of a poor man, 
 sin entered thee, and thou tookest the wife of Uriah, and 
 slewest him with the sword of the Ammonites. Thou, a 
 rich man, tookest the last sheep away from a poor man, 
 and then didst destroy him. Even so did I. Then re- 
 member how thou repentedst, saying, ' I confess my guilt, 
 and am contrite on account of my sin.' Even so did I. 
 Thou canst not keep me out." 
 
 And the voice behind the door grew silent. 
 
 And having tarried awhile, the sinner began to knock 
 once more and to beg to be let into the kingdom of 
 heaven. And a third voice was heard, saying : 
 
 " Who is this man ? And how did he hve in the 
 world ? " 
 
 And the voice of the arraigner answered, for the third 
 time recounting the evil deeds of the man, and did not 
 mention any good deeds. 
 
 And a voice behind the door answered : 
 
 " Go hence. Sinners cannot enter into the kingdom of 
 heaven." 
 
 And the sinner answered : 
 
 " I hear thy voice, but do not see thy face, and do not 
 know thy name." 
 
 And the voice replied : 
 
 " I am John the Divine, the beloved disciple of Christ." 
 
 And the sinner rejoiced and said : 
 
 " Now I cannot be kept out. Peter and David will let 
 me in, because they know human weakness and God's 
 love ; but thou wilt let me in, because there is much love 
 in thee. Didst thou, John the Divine, not write in thy
 
 POPULAR LEGENDS 447 
 
 book that God is love, and that he who does not love 
 does not know God? Didst thou not in thy old age 
 say this word to men : ' Brethren, love one another ' ? 
 How, then, canst thou hate me and drive me away ? 
 Either thou shalt renounce what thou didst say, or thou 
 shalt love me and let me enter into the kingdom of God." 
 And the gates of heaven opened, and John embraced 
 the repentant sinner, and let him enter into the kingdom 
 of God.
 
 THE KEENEL OF THE SIZE OF A HEN'S EGG 
 
 One day some children found in a ravine something 
 that looked like a hen's egg with a parting in the middle 
 and resembling a kernel. A traveller saw this thing in 
 the children's hands, and he bought it from them for 
 a nickel, and took it to town, and sold it to the king as a 
 rarity. 
 
 The king called the wise men and commanded them to 
 find out what the thing was, whether an egg or a kernel. 
 The wise men thought and thought, but could give no 
 answer. The thing was lying on ihe wmdow-sill, and 
 a hen flew in and picked at it, until it picked a hole in 
 it : then all saw that it was a kernel. The wise men went 
 to the king and told the king that it was a rye kernel. 
 
 The king was surprised. He commanded the wise men 
 to find out where and when this kernel had grown. The 
 wise men thought and thought, and hunted through 
 books, and could not find out. In our books nothing is 
 written about it ; it was necessary to ask the peasants 
 whether one of the old men had not heard when and 
 where such a kernel had been sowed. 
 
 The king commanded that a very old peasant be 
 brought into his presence. They found such a man, and 
 brought him to the king. There arrived a green-skinned, 
 toothless old man, and he barely could walk with his two 
 crutches. 
 
 The king showed him the kernel ; but the old man 
 could not see well. He half looked at it, and half felt it 
 with his hands. 
 
 The king began to ask him : " Do you not know, grand- 
 
 448
 
 POPULAR LEGENDS 449 
 
 father, where such a kernel was raised ? Have you not 
 raised such grain ? Or did you not some day during your 
 hfe buy such a seed ? " 
 
 The old man was deaf, and he barely heard what the 
 king was saying, and barely made it out. Then the old 
 man began to speak : 
 
 " No, I have not raised such grain in my field, and 
 have never reaped such, nor have I bought such. When- 
 ever I bought grain, it was always small. But I must 
 ask my father," he said, " perhaps he has heard of such 
 grain." 
 
 The king sent for the old man's father, and commanded 
 that he be brought into his presence. They found the 
 old man's father, and brought him to the king. The old 
 man came on one crutch. The king showed liim the 
 kernel. The old man could see -with his eyes. He took 
 a good look at it. The king began to ask him : 
 
 " Do you not know, old man, where such a kernel was 
 grown ? Have you never raised such in your own field ? 
 Or have you ever bought such kernels in your life ? " 
 
 Though the old man was rather hard of hearing, he 
 heard better than his son. 
 
 " No," he said, " I have never sowed such seed in my 
 field, and have never reaped such. Nor have I ever 
 bought such, as in my day money was not yet in exist- 
 ence. We all lived on our own grain, and in case of need 
 shared with our neighbours. I do not know where such 
 a kernel was grown. Though our grain used to be larger 
 and more millable than what it is now, I never saw such. 
 I used to hear my father say that in his day the grain 
 was larger and more millable than ours. You will have 
 to ask him." 
 
 The king sent for his father. They found the man, and 
 he was brought to the king. The old man walked into 
 the king's room without any crutches. He walked 
 lightly, — his eyes were bright, and he could hear well.
 
 450 POPULAR LEGENDS 
 
 and talked distinctly. The king showed the kernel to 
 the old man. The old man looked at it, and turned 
 it around. 
 
 " It is now long since I last saw such grain." 
 
 The old man bit off a piece of the kernel, and chewed it. 
 
 " It is that," he said. 
 
 " Tell me, grandfather, when and where such a kernel 
 was raised ? Did you never sow such in your own field ? 
 Or did you ever buy it of people in your lifetime ? " 
 
 And the old man said : 
 
 " In my day such grain was raised everywhere. With 
 such corn I fed myself and other people. Such grain 
 I sowed, and reaped, and threshed." 
 
 And the king asked : 
 
 " Tell me, grandfather, did you buy such grain, or did 
 you sow it in your own field ? " 
 
 The old man smiled. 
 
 " In my day," he said, " no one ever thought of such 
 a sin as selling or buying grain. We did not know any- 
 thing about money. Everybody had enough corn of his 
 own." 
 
 And the king asked : 
 
 " Then tell me, grandfather, where you sowed such 
 corn, and where your field was ? " 
 
 And the old man said : 
 
 " My field was God's earth. Wherever I ploughed, 
 there was the field. The land was free. They did not 
 call it one's own land. People called nothing but their 
 labour their own." 
 
 " Tell me, then," said the king, " two more things : one 
 is, why formerly you used to grow such grain, and now 
 such grain does not grow. The otlier is, why your grand- 
 son walked with two crutches, while your son came with 
 one, and you walk entirely at your ease : your eyes are 
 bright, your teeth strong, and your speech clear and pleas- 
 ing. Grandfather, how did these two things happen ? "
 
 POPULAR LEGENDS 451 
 
 And the old man said : 
 
 " These things are so because people have stopped 
 living by their own labour, aud are having an eye to 
 other people's labour. They did not hve that way of old ; 
 of old they lived in godly fashion, — they owned what 
 ■was their own, and did not profit by what belonged to 
 others."
 
 HOW MUCH LAND A MAN NEEDS 
 
 The elder sister came with her younger sister to the 
 country. The elder was married to a merchant in 
 the city, and the younger to a peasant in the vil- 
 lage. The sisters were drinking tea, and talking. The 
 elder began to boast, — to praise her city life, — telling 
 how comfortably and how cleanly they lived in the city, 
 how she dressed up the children, what savoury food and 
 drink she had, and how she went to picnics and en- 
 tertainments and theatres. 
 
 The younger sister felt offended, and began to speak 
 disparagingly of the merchant life, and to extol the life 
 of the peasants. 
 
 " I would not exchange my life for yours," she said. 
 " It is true, we live uncleanly, but we do not know what 
 fear is. You live more cleanly, but you either make 
 a lot of money, or you lose it all. And the proverb 
 says, ' Gain loves more.' And it happens that to-day you 
 are rich, and to-morrow you lie in the gutter. But our 
 peasant business is surer; a peasant's life is slim, but 
 long ; we are not rich, but have enough to eat." 
 
 The elder sister said : 
 
 " Yes, enough to eat, but with pigs and calves ! You 
 aren't dressed up, and have no manners. No matter how 
 much your man may work, you live in manure, and so 
 you wiU die, leaving nothing to your children." 
 
 " What of it ? " said the younger. " Such is our busi- 
 ness. But we are independent, and do not bow to any 
 
 452
 
 POPULAR LEGENDS 453 
 
 one, and fear no one. But you live in the cities among 
 temptations : to-day it is all right, and to-morrow the 
 unclean one will turn up and tempt your man either 
 with cards, or with wine, or with some damsel. And 
 then all will go to the winds. Do not such things 
 happen ? " 
 
 Pakhom, her husband, lying on the oven, heard the 
 women's prattle. 
 
 " That is the gospel truth," he said. " Our kind have 
 been turning over mother earth ever since our childhood, 
 and so foolishness has no time to enter into our heads. 
 There is just this trouble, — we have not enough land ! 
 If I had as much land as I want, I would not be afraid of 
 the devil himself." 
 
 The women drank their tea, prattled awhile about 
 dresses, put away the dishes and went to sleep. 
 
 But the devil had been sitting behind the oven, and 
 listening to all they said. He was glad to hear the 
 peasaut woman make her husband boast that if he had 
 enough land, the devil would not take him. 
 
 " Very well," he thought, " we shall have a tussle : I 
 will give you lots of land. I will overcome you by means 
 of the land." 
 
 n. 
 
 By the side of the peasants there lived a small pro- 
 prietress. She had 120 desyatinas of land. So far she 
 had lived in peace with the peasants, and had offended no 
 one ; but an ex-soldier hired out to her as a steward, and 
 he began to wear the peasants out with fines. No matter 
 how careful Pakhom was, either his horse would run into 
 the oats, or a cow would lose her way in the garden, or 
 the calves would stray into the meadow, — for everything 
 he had to pay a fine. 
 
 Pakhom paid the fines, and scolded and beat his home 
 people. And so Pakhom suffered many an insult from
 
 454 POPULAK LEGENDS 
 
 r 
 
 that steward during the summer, aud was glad when they 
 began to stable the cattle, — though he was sorry 
 they could not graze, he at least had no more fear. 
 
 In the winter the rumour was spread that the propriet- 
 ress was going to sell her land, and that an innkeeper on 
 the highway was trying to buy it. When the peasants 
 heard this, they groaned. 
 
 " Well," they thought, " if the innkeeper gets the laud, 
 he will wear us out with fines even worse than the pro- 
 prietress. We cannot live without this land, — we live 
 all around it." 
 
 The peasants went to the proprietress and began to ask 
 her not to sell it to the innkeeper, but to let them have it. 
 They promised they would pay more for it. The lady 
 consented. The peasants were thinking of buying the 
 land in common : they met once and twice to discuss 
 the matter, but it did not work. The evil one brought 
 discord among them, and they could not agree. Finally 
 the peasants agreed to buy the land in lots, as much as 
 each could afford to buy. The lady agreed even to this. 
 Pakhdm heard that a neighbour of his had bought twenty 
 desyatinas, and that she had given him time for half the 
 sum. Pakhom felt jealous : " They will buy up all 
 the land," he thought, " and I shall be left with nothing." 
 He began to take counsel with his wife. 
 
 " People are buying the land," he said, " and we, too, 
 ought to buy a few desyatinas of it. We cannot get 
 along now, for the steward has ruined me with the fines." 
 
 They considered how they might buy it. They had 
 one hundred roubles put away, and they sold a colt, and 
 half of the bees, and hired out their son as a labourer, 
 and borrowed some from a relative, and thus got together 
 half the sum. 
 
 Pakhom took the money, picked out fifteen desyatinas 
 with a little grove, and went to the lady to strike a bar- 
 gain. He bought the fifteen desyatinas, clinched the
 
 POPULAR LEGENDS 455 
 
 bargain, and paid an earnest. They drove to the city and 
 made out a deed, and he paid half the sum and promised 
 to pay the rest in two years. 
 
 Thus Pakhom became possessed of land. He borrowed 
 seed and sowed in the purchased land, and it produced a 
 good crop. In one year he paid his debt to the lady and 
 to his relative. And so Pakhom became a proprietor : he 
 ploughed and sowed in his own land, mowed on his 
 own land, cut poles off his own land, and pastured his 
 cattle on his own laud. Pakhom took great delight in 
 ploughing the land which belonged to him for all time, 
 and in going out to look at the sprouting corn and at the 
 meadows. It seemed to him as though the grass grew 
 and the flowers bloomed quite differently on them. He 
 had crossed this land many a time before, and it had been 
 just land to him; but now it was something quite dif- 
 ferent. 
 
 III. 
 
 Thus Pakhom lived, enjoying himself. All would have 
 been well, but the peasants began to trespass on Pakhom's 
 fields and meadows. He begged them in kindness, but 
 they paid no attention to him : now the shepherds let the 
 cows get into his meadows, and now the horses would leave 
 their right pastures and run into his corn. Pakhom drove 
 them off, and forgave the peasants, and did not sue them ; 
 finally he got tired of it, and began to complain in the 
 township office. He knew that the peasants were not 
 doing it from malice, but because they were crowded,, but 
 he thought : " I cannot let them off, for they will ruin aU 
 my fields. I must teach them a lesson." 
 
 He taught them one or two lessons in court, and this 
 and that man were fined. His neighbours began to have 
 a grudge against him, and occasionally trespassed on his 
 land intentionally. Some one stole in the night into 
 his grove and cut down ten lindens for bast. As Pakhom
 
 456 POPUL.\K LEGENDS 
 
 passed by the grove, he noticed something white there. 
 He drove up to the spot, and found the barked lindens 
 on the ground, and the stumps standing. " If he had just 
 cut off the outer bushes aud left the main tree standing ! 
 But no, the rascal has cut them all down." Pakhom 
 grew angry. 
 
 " Oh," he thought, " if I could just find out who did it ; 
 I would get my revenge on him." He thought and 
 thought who it could be ; " It cannot be any one but 
 S^mka." 
 
 He went into S^mka's yard to look for them, but found 
 there nothing, aud they only had a quarrel. I'akhom 
 became even more convinced that it was S(^mka. He 
 entered a complaint. They were summoned to court. 
 They tried aud tried the case, and discharged the peasant, 
 for there was no evidence. Pakhom grew angrier than 
 ever, and he scolded the elder aud the judges. 
 
 " You are in with the thieves," he said. " If you your- 
 selves lived honestly, you would not let the thieves go 
 free." 
 
 Pakhom quarrelled with the judges and with his neigh- 
 bours. They began to threaten to set fire to his house. 
 Pakhom lived more comfortably on his land, but less 
 comfortably in the Commune. 
 
 Just then they began to spread a rumour that people 
 were going to new places. Aud Pakhom thought : 
 
 " I have no reason for leaving my own land ; but if 
 some of our men would go there, there would be more 
 room here. I would take up their land and would attach 
 it to^my own. I should live more comfortably than I do 
 now, for now I am crowded ! " 
 
 Pakhom was sitting at home one day, when a transient 
 peasant stepped in. They invited the peasant to stay 
 overnight, and gave him to eat, and talked with him, 
 asking him whence God had brought hira. The peasant 
 said that he had come from farther down, from beyond
 
 POPULAR LEGENDS 457 
 
 the Volga, where he had been working. One word led to 
 another, and he told them how people were rushing 
 to settle down there. He told them that men from his 
 village had settled there, joining the Commune, and re- 
 ceiving ten desyatinas to each soul. The land was such, 
 he said, that they planted rye which grew to be higher 
 than a horse, and so thick that about five handfuls made 
 a sheaf. There was one peasant, he said, who had been 
 poor, and had come with nothing but his hands, and now 
 had six horses and two cows. 
 
 This excited Pakhoui. He thought : 
 
 " Why suffer here where it is crowded, if it is possible 
 to live better ? I will sell the laud and the farm ; there 
 I will start a new farm with this money, and will provide 
 myself with everything. Here, where it is crowded, it is 
 just a shame to stay. But I must first find it all out 
 myself." 
 
 He got ready in the summer, aud started out. Down 
 to Samara he went on a steamer, then he made four hun- 
 dred versts on foot. He reached the place. It was all 
 as he had been told : the peasants were living freely, with 
 ten desyatinas of land to each soul, and glad to receive 
 people into their Communes. Aud if a man had money, 
 he could, in addition to the grant, buy in perpetual pos- 
 session the very best land at three roubles : he could get 
 all the land he wanted. 
 
 Pakhom found out everything he wanted. He returned 
 home in the fall, aud began to sell everything. He sold 
 his land at a profit, and his farm, and all his cattle ; he 
 gave up his membership in the Commune, and waited for 
 spring, and went with his whole family to the new places. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Pakhom arrived with his family in the new places, 
 where he joined the Commune of a large village. He
 
 458 POPULAR LEGENDS 
 
 treated the old men and got all the papers made out. 
 They received Pakhom, and apportioned to him for his 
 five souls fifty desyatinas in various fields, not counting 
 the common pasture. 
 
 Pakhom built a hut and bought cattle. He had now 
 three times as much land as before, and it was fruitful 
 land. He began to live ten times as well as before. He 
 had all the fields and meadows he wanted. He could 
 keep as many cattle as he pleased. 
 
 At first, while he was building and getting things into 
 shape, everything looked nice to Pakhom ; but when he 
 got used to it, he began once more to feel crowded. The 
 first year Pakhom sowed w^heat on the grant land, and 
 he had a good crop. He got it into liis head to sow 
 wheat, but the grant land was not enough for him, and 
 what there was of it was no good. There they were 
 sowing wheat on prairie laud. They sowed it in for two 
 years, and then let it he fallow, to grow up again with 
 prairie grass. There were many who wanted to have 
 such land, so that there was not enough land to go 
 around. And there were quarrels about it: those who 
 were better off wanted to sow on it themselves, and the 
 poor people gave it to the merchants for the taxes. Pak- 
 hom wanted to sow as much as possible. He went the 
 next year to a merchant, and bought land for the period 
 of a year. He went the next year to the merchant, 
 and again bought land for a year. He sowed more 
 wheat, and he had a good crop, only it was far away 
 from the village, — he had to haul the wheat fifteen 
 versts. He saw the merchant peasants of the district 
 living in their estates, and getting rich. 
 
 " It would be nice," thought Pakhom, " if I myself 
 bought land in perpetuity, and estabhshed an estate for 
 myself. Everything would be adjoining me." 
 
 And Pakhdm began to think how he might buy land 
 in perpetuity.
 
 POPULAR LEGENDS 459 
 
 • Thus Pakhom lived for three years. He rented land, 
 and sowed wheat. The years were good, and the wheat 
 grew well, and he had some money laid by. He could 
 live and live, but it appeared tiresome to Pakhom to buy 
 new land from people each year, and to have to fuss 
 about the land: where there was any good land the 
 peasants would swoop down on it and take it all up, 
 and unless he was quick in getting it, he would not have 
 any land to sow in. And in the third year he rented 
 with a merchant a pasture on shares, and they ploughed 
 it all up, but the peasants from whom they rented it 
 went to court about it, and all their work was lost. " If 
 it were all my land," he thought, " I should not bow to 
 any one, and there would be no worry." 
 
 Pakhom began to inquire where he could buy land in 
 perpetuity, and he found a peasant who would sell. The 
 peasant had bought five hundred desyatinas, but he had 
 lost money, and now wanted to sell the land cheap. 
 Pakhom began to bargain with him. He bargained and 
 bargained, and finally got it for fifteen hundred roubles, 
 half of it on time. They had almost settled the matter, 
 when a transient merchant stopped at his farm to get 
 something to eat. They drank tea, and started to talk. 
 The merchant told him that he had come from the far- 
 off country of the Bashkirs. There, he said, he had 
 bought about five thousand desyatinas from the Bashkirs, 
 and for this he had to pay only one thousand roubles. 
 Pakhom began to question him. The merchant told him 
 all about it. 
 
 " All I had to do," he said, " was to gain over the old 
 men. I gave in presents about one hundred roubles' 
 worth of cloaks and rugs, and a caddy of tea, and filled 
 up with wine those who would drink. I gave twenty 
 kopeks per desyatina." He showed the deed. " The 
 land," he said, " lies along a river, and it is all a prairie," 
 
 Pakhom began to question him all about it.
 
 460 POPULAR LEGENDS 
 
 " You can't walk around the land in a year," he said, 
 " and it all belongs to the Bashkirs. And the people 
 have no sense, just like sheep. You can get it almost 
 for nothing." 
 
 " Well," thought Pakhom, " why do I want to buy 
 five hundred desyatiuas for one thousand roubles, and 
 take a debt on my neck ? There I can get rich for one 
 thousand roubles." 
 
 V. 
 
 Pakhom inquired how to get there, and as soon as he 
 saw the merchant off he got ready to go. He left his 
 house to his wife, and took his hired help, and went with 
 him. They travelled to the city, bouglit a caddy of tea, 
 presents, and wine, just as the merchant had said. They 
 travelled and travelled, until they had five hundred versts 
 behind them. On the seventh day they came to the 
 Bashkir roaming-grounds. Everything was as the mer- 
 chant had said. They all live in the steppe, above 'the 
 river, in felt tents. They themselves neither plough 
 nor eat bread, but the cattle and horses run in droves in 
 the steppe. Back of the tents the colts are tied, and 
 twice a day they drive the mares there, and milk them, 
 and make kumys of the milk. The women churn the 
 kumys and make cheese, and all the men do is to drink 
 kumys and tea, eat mutton, and play a pipe. They look 
 sleek and merry, and they celebrate the whole summer. 
 The people are all ignorant, and know no Kussian, but 
 they are kind. 
 
 As soon as they saw Pakhom, they came out of their 
 tents, and surrounded the guest. There was an inter- 
 preter there. Pakhom told him that he had come to see 
 about some land. The Bashkirs were happy, and they 
 took Pakhom by his arms, and led him to a nice tent, 
 seated him on rugs, placed down pillows under him, sat 
 around him in a circle, and began to treat him to tea and
 
 POPULAR LEGENDS 461 
 
 to kumys. They killed a sheep, and filled him with mut- 
 tou. Pakhdm fetched the presents from the tarantas, and 
 began to distribute them to the Bashkirs. Pakhom gave 
 the presents to the Bashkirs, and distributed the tea among 
 them. The Bashkirs were happy. They prattled among 
 themselves, and then told the interpreter to translate. 
 
 " They command me to tell you," said the interpreter, 
 " that they like you, and that it is our custom to give 
 our guests every pleasure, and to return presents. You 
 have given us presents ; now tell us what you like us to 
 give you of our things." 
 
 "What I like," said Pakhom, "most of all, here, is 
 your laud. Where I live," he said, " the land is crowded 
 and worn out by ploughing, but you have much and good 
 land. I have never seen such before." 
 
 The interpreter translated. The Bashkirs talked among 
 themselves. Pakhom did not understand what they were 
 saying, but he saw that they were merry, shouting and 
 laughing. Then they grew silent, and looked at Pakhdm, 
 but the interpreter said : 
 
 " They command me to tell you that for the good 
 which you have done them they are glad to give you as 
 much land as you want. You have just to point to it, 
 and it is yours." 
 
 Then they talked again, and disputed among them- 
 selves. Pakhdm asked what they were disputing, and 
 the interpreter said : 
 
 "Some say that they must ask the elder about the 
 land, and that they cannot do it without him. But 
 others say that they can do it without him," 
 
 VI. 
 
 The Bashkirs went on disputing, when suddenly a 
 man in a fox cap came in. They all grew silent and got 
 up, and the interpreter said :
 
 462 POPULAR LEGENDS 
 
 " This is their elder." 
 
 Pakhom immediately took out the best cloak and five 
 pounds of tea, and took this to the elder. The elder 
 received the presents, and sat down in the place of 
 honour. The Bashkirs be^^an at once to talk to him. 
 The elder listened and listened to them, and shook his 
 head to them, for them to keep quiet. Then he began to 
 speak in Russian to Pakhom. 
 
 " Well, you may have it," he said. " Take it wherever 
 you like. There is a great deal of land here." 
 
 " How can I take as much as I want ? " thought 
 Pakhom. " I must get some statement, or else they will 
 say that it is mine, and then they will take it away from 
 me." 
 
 " Thank you," he said, " for your kind words. You 
 have a great deal of land, but I want only a small part 
 of it. How shall I know which is mine ? I must 
 measure it off, and get a statement of some kind. For 
 God disposes of life and of death. You good people give 
 it to me, but your children may come and take it away." 
 
 " You are right," said the elder, " we shall give you a 
 statement." 
 
 Then Pakhom said : 
 
 " I have heard that a merchant came to see you. You 
 made him a present of some land and gave him a deed : 
 I ought to get one myself." 
 
 The elder understood it all. 
 
 " That is all possible," he said. " We have a scribe, 
 and we will go to town, and affix our seals." 
 
 " And what will the price be ? " asked Pakhom. 
 
 " We have but one price : one thousand roubles a 
 day." 
 
 Pakh6m did not understand him. 
 
 " What kind of a measure is a day ? How many 
 desyatiuas are there in it ? " 
 
 " We cannot figure it out," he said. " We sell by the
 
 POPULAR LEGENDS 463 
 
 day ; as much as you can walk over in one day is yours, 
 and a day's price is one thousand roubles." 
 
 Pakhom was surprised. 
 
 " But in one day you can walk around a great deal of 
 land," he said. 
 
 The elder laughed. 
 
 " It is all yours," he said. " But there is just one 
 condition : if you do not come back in one day to the 
 place from which you start, your money is lost." 
 
 " But how can I mark oti' what I walk over ? " asked 
 Pakhom. 
 
 " We shall stand on the spot which you will choose, 
 and you wiU start on the circuit : take with you a spade, 
 and wherever necessary, in the corners, dig a hole, and 
 pile up some turf, and we shall later make a furrow with 
 a plough from hole to hole. Make any circuit you please, 
 but by sundown you must come back to the spot from 
 which you have started. Whatever ground you cover is 
 yours." 
 
 Pakhom was happy. They decided to go out early in 
 the morning. They talked awhile, drank more kumys, 
 ate some mutton, and had tea again ; it was getting dark. 
 They bedded Pakhom on feather beds, and then the Bash- 
 kirs went away. They promised to meet him at daybreak, 
 and to go out to the spot before the sun was up. 
 
 vn. 
 
 Pakhom lay down on the feather bed and could not 
 sleep : he was thinking all the time of the land. 
 
 " I will slice off a mighty tract," he thought. " I can 
 walk about fifty versts in one day. The day is long now ; 
 in fifty versts there will be a lot of land. The woi*st I will 
 sell, or let to the peasants, and the best I will keep, and 
 will settle on myself. I will buy me two ox-teams 
 and will hire two more hands ; I will plough up about
 
 464 POPULAR LEGENDS 
 
 fifty desyatinas, and on the rest I will let the cattle 
 roam." 
 
 Pakhom could not fall asleep all night. It was only 
 before daybreak that he forgot himself. The moment he 
 became unconscious, he had a dream. He saw himself 
 lying in the same tent, and some one on the outside was 
 roaring with laughter. He wanted to see who was laugh- 
 ing there, and he thought he went out of the tent, and 
 saw the same Bashkir sitting before the tent, holding his 
 belly with both his hands and swaying in his laughter. 
 He went up to him and said : " What are you laughing 
 about ? " And it seemed to him that it was not the 
 Bashkir, but the merchant who had stopped at liis house 
 and had told him all about the land. And he asked the 
 merchant : " How long have you been here ? " But it 
 was no longer the merchant ; it was the peasant that long 
 ago had come from the lower country. And Pakhom saw 
 that it was not the peasant, but the devil himself with 
 horns and hoofs : he was sitting, and laughing, and before 
 him lay a man, in his bare feet, and in a shirt and trou- 
 sers. And Pakhom took a closer look to see who the 
 man was. And he saw that it was a dead man, — him- 
 self. Pakhdm was frightened, and awoke. " A man will 
 dream anything," he said, as he awoke. He looked around 
 through the open door, and day was breaking, and it was 
 getting light. 
 
 " I must wake the people now%" he thought, " it is time 
 to start." 
 
 Pakhom got up, woke his labourer in the tarantas, ordered 
 him to hitch up, and went himself to wake the Bashkirs. 
 
 " It is time to go out to lay off the land," he said. 
 
 The Bashkirs got up, and gathered together, and the 
 elder arrived. The Bashkirs began again to drink kumys 
 and wanted to treat Pakhom to tea, but he would not 
 wait so long. 
 
 " If we are to go, let us go," he said. " It is time."
 
 POPULAR LEGENDS 465 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The Bashkirs caine together, and some went on horse- 
 back, and others in tarantases, and they started. Pakhom 
 went with his labourer in his little tarantas, taking a spade 
 with them. They arrived in the steppe just as it was 
 dawning. They rode up a mound, called " shikhan " in 
 the Bashkir language. They got out of their tarantases 
 and dismounted from their horses, and gathered in a 
 circle. The elder walked over to Pakhom, and pointed 
 with his hand. 
 
 " Everything you see," he said, " is ours. Choose what- 
 ever you please." 
 
 Pakh(5m's eyes were burning: it was all prairie land, 
 as smooth as the palm of the hand and as black as the 
 poppy, and wherever there was a hollow there were 
 different kinds of grass, breast-high. 
 
 The elder took off his fox cap and put it on the 
 ground. 
 
 " This will be the goal," he said. " From here you will 
 start, and here you will come back. "WTiatever you circle 
 about will be yours." 
 
 Pakh(5m took out the money, put it on the cap, and 
 pulled off his caftan, and so was left in his sleeveless 
 coat. He pulled his girdle tighter over his belly, drew 
 up his trousers, put a wallet with bread in his bosom, tied 
 a can of water to his belt, pulled up his boot-legs, took the 
 spade from his labourer, and got ready to go. He tliought 
 for awhile in what direction to start, — it was nice every- 
 where. He thought : " It makes no difference. I will s,o 
 eastward." He turned his face toward the sun, stretched 
 himself, and waited for the sun to peep out. He thought : 
 " I must not waste time in vain. It is easier to walk while 
 it is fresh." The moment the sun just glisteued over the 
 edge, Pakhom threw the spade over his shoulder and started 
 over the steppe.
 
 466 POPULAR LEGENDS 
 
 Pakhdm walked neither leisurely, nor fast. He walked 
 about a verst ; he stopped, dug a hole, and put some turf 
 in a heap, so as to make the sign clearer. He went on. 
 He was getting limbered up, and he increased his step. 
 After walking a distance, he dug another hole. 
 
 Pakhom looked around. The shikhan could easily be 
 seen in the sunshine, and the people were standing there, 
 and the tires on the wheels of the tarantases glistened. 
 Pakhdm guessed that he had walked five versts. He was 
 getting warm, so he took off his coat, threw it over his 
 shoulder, and marched on. It grew warm. He looked 
 at the sun. It was time to think of breakfast. 
 
 " I have walked the distance of a ploughing," thought 
 Pakhom, " and there are four of them in a day, — it is 
 too early yet to turn. I must just take off my boots." 
 
 He sat down, pulled off his boots, stuck them in his 
 girdle, and started off again. It was easy to walk now. 
 He thought : " I wiU walk another five versts, then I will 
 turn to the left. The land is so fine, it is a pity to leave 
 it out." The farther he went, the nicer it was. He went 
 straight ahead. He turned back to look : the shikhan 
 was barely visible, and the people looked like black ants, 
 and something could barely be seen glistening in the 
 sun. 
 
 " Well," thought Pakhom, " I have walked enough in 
 this direction. I must turn in. I am hot, too : I must 
 take a drink." 
 
 He stopped, dug a large hole, piled up the turf, untied 
 the can, took a drink, and bent sharply to the left. He 
 walked on and on, and the grass was liigh, and he felt 
 hot. 
 
 Pakhdm was beginning to grow tired ; he looked at the 
 sun, and saw that it was exactly noon. 
 
 " Well," he thought, " I must take a rest." 
 
 Pakhdm stopped and sat down. He ate a piece of 
 bread and drank some water, but did not lie down : he
 
 POPULAR LEGENDS 467 
 
 was afraid he might fall asleep. After sitting awhile 
 he started off again. At first the walking was easy. The 
 lunch gave him new strength. It grew very hot, and 
 he felt sleepy ; but he kept walking, thinking that he 
 would have to suffer but a little while, and would have to 
 live long. 
 
 He walked quite a distance in this direction. He was 
 on the point of turning, when, behold, he came upon a 
 wet hollow ; it was a pity to lose this. He thought 
 that flax would do well there. He walked on straight. 
 He took in the hollow, then dug a hole beyond it, and 
 turned around the second corner. Pakhom looked back 
 at the shikhan ; it was mist-covered from the heat, quiv- 
 ering in the air, and through the haze he could barely see 
 the people. 
 
 " Well," thought Pakhom, " I have taken two long 
 sides. I must make this one shorter." 
 
 He started on his third side, and began to increase his 
 speed. He looked at the sun, and it was already near 
 the middle of the afternoon, but he had made only two 
 versts on the third side. To the goal it was still fifteen 
 versts. 
 
 " Yes," he thought, " though it is going to be a crooked 
 estate, I must walk in a straight line. I must not take in 
 too much, — as it is I have a great deal." 
 
 Pakhom quickly dug a hole, and turned straight toward 
 the shikhan. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Pakh6m walked straight toward the shikhan, and it 
 was getting hard. He was thirsty, and he had cut and 
 hurt his feet, and he began to totter. He wanted to rest, 
 but he could not, for he would not get back by sundown. 
 The sun did not wait, and kept going down and down. 
 
 " Oh," he said, " I hope I have not made a mistake and 
 taken in too much. What if I do not get back in time ? "
 
 468 POPULAR LEGENDS 
 
 He looked ahead of him at the shikhan and up at the 
 sun : it was still far to the shikhan, and the sun was not 
 far from the horizon. 
 
 Pakhom walked, and it was hard for him, but he kept 
 increasing his gait. He -walked and walked, and it was 
 far still, so he began to trot. He threw away his coat, 
 his boots, and the can ; he threw away his cap, but held 
 on to the spade, to lean on it. 
 
 " Oh," he thought, " I have made a mistake and have 
 ruined the whole affair. I shall not get back before sun- 
 down." 
 
 And terror took his breath away. He ran, and his 
 shirt and trousers stuck to his body from perspiration, and 
 his mouth was dry. In his breast it was as though bel- 
 lows were being pumped, and in his heart there was a 
 hammering, and his legs gave way under him. Pakhom 
 felt badly : he was afraid he might die from too much 
 straining. 
 
 He was afraid he might die, but he did not dare to stop. 
 
 " I have run so much," he thought, " so how can I stop 
 now ? They will only call me a fool." 
 
 He ran and ran, and was getting near, and could hear 
 the Bashkirs screaming and shouting to him, but their 
 noise made him still more excited. He ran with all his 
 might, and the sun was getting near the edge : it was lost 
 in the mist, and looked as red as blood. It was just 
 beginning to go down. The sun was nearly gone, but it 
 was no longer far to the goal. He saw the people wav- 
 ing their hands at him from the shikhan, and encouraging 
 him. He saw the fox cap on the ground and the money 
 on top of it ; and he saw the elder sitting on the ground, 
 holding his hands over his belly. And Pakh6m recalled 
 his dream. 
 
 " There is a lot of land," he thought, " but will God 
 grant me to live on it? Oh, I have ruined myself," he 
 thought. " I shall not reach the spot."
 
 POPULAR LEGENDS 469 
 
 Pakhom looked at the sun, and it was down to the 
 ground, — a part of it was down, and only an arch was 
 standing out from the horizon. Pakhom made a last 
 effort and bent forward with his whole body : his legs 
 hardly moved fast enough to keep him from falling. He 
 ran up to the shikhau, when suddenly it grew dark. 
 He looked around, and the sun was down. He groaned. 
 
 " My labour is lost," he thought. 
 
 He wanted to stop, but he heard the Bashkirs shouting 
 to him, and then he recalled that here below it seemed to 
 him that the sun was down, but that on the shikhan 
 it was not yet down. Pakhom made a last effort, and 
 ran up the shikhan. On the shikhan it was still light. 
 He ran up, and saw the cap. In front of the cap sat the 
 elder, laughing and holding his hands on his belly. 
 Pakhom recalled the dream. He groaned, and his legs 
 gave way, and he fell forward, and his hands touched the 
 cap. 
 
 " You are a fine fellow ! " cried the elder. " You have 
 come into a lot of land." 
 
 Pakhdm's labourer ran up, wishing to raise him, but 
 blood was flowing from his mouth, and he was dead. 
 
 The Bashkirs clicked their tongues, pitying him. 
 
 The labourer picked up the spade, and dug a grave for 
 Pakhom, as much as he measured from his feet to his 
 head, — three arshins, — and buried him in it.
 
 THE GODSON 
 
 Ye have heard that it hath been said, An eye for an eye, 
 and a tooth for a tooth : but I say unto you, That ye resist 
 not evil (Matt. v. 38, 39). 
 
 Vengeance is mine ; I will repay (Bom. xii. 19). 
 
 I. 
 
 A SON was born to a poor peasant. The peasant was 
 delighted, and he went to his neighbour to call a god- 
 father. The neighbour refused, — what pleasure is there 
 in being godfather to a poor peasant's child ? The poor 
 peasant went to another neighbour, and he, too, refused. 
 
 He went through the whole village, but no one would 
 be godfather. The peasant went to another village. On 
 his way he met a man and the man stopped him. 
 
 " Good morning," he said, " whither does God carry you, 
 man ? " 
 
 " The Lord has given me a child," said the peasant, " in 
 childhood a care, in old age a consolation, and after death 
 for my soul's remembrance ; but as I am poor, no one in 
 our village wants to be godfather. I am on my way to 
 look for a godfather." 
 
 And the stranger said : 
 
 " Take me for a godfather." 
 
 The peasant was happy, thanked the stranger, and 
 said : 
 
 " And whom shall I call in as a godmother ? " 
 
 " Call a merchant's daughter," said the stranger. " Go 
 into the town : on the square there is a stone house with 
 
 470
 
 POPULAR LEGENDS 471 
 
 shops ; at the entrance into the house ask the merchant 
 to let his daughter go as a godmother." 
 
 The peasant hesitated. 
 
 " How can I," he said, " oh, godfather, go to the rich 
 merchant ? He will hold me in contempt, and will not 
 let his daughter go." 
 
 " That is not your grief. Go and ask him. Be pre- 
 pared to-morrow morning, — I will come to be sponsor." 
 
 The poor peasant returned home, and he went to town 
 to see the merchant. He put up the horse in the yard, 
 when the merchant himself came out. 
 
 " What do you want ? " he asked. 
 
 " It is Hke this, Mr. Merchant. The Lord has given 
 me a child, in childhood a care, in old age a consolation, 
 and after death for my soul's remembrance. Please, let 
 your daughter be his godmother." 
 
 '• When will the christening be ? " 
 
 " To-morrow morning." ^ 
 
 " Very well, God be with you. She will come to-mor- 
 row to mass." 
 
 On the next day the godmother came, and so did the 
 godfather, and the child was christened. The moment 
 the christening was over, the godfather went away, and 
 no one found out who he was, or ever saw him again. 
 
 II. 
 
 The child began to grow to his parents' joy : he was 
 strong, and wilHng to work, and clever, and well-behaved. 
 The boy was ten years old, when his parents had him 
 taught to read. What it takes others five years to learn, 
 the boy learned in one, and there was nothing else they 
 could teach him. 
 
 Easter week came. The boy went down to see his 
 godmother, to exchange the Easter greeting with her. 
 When he returned home, he asked :
 
 472 POPULAR LEGENDS 
 
 " Father and mother, where does my godfather live ? I 
 should like to exchange the Easter greeting with him." 
 
 And the father said to him : 
 
 " We do not know, beloved son, where your godfather 
 lives. We ourselves feel sorry for it. We have not seen 
 him since he christened you. We have not heard of him, 
 and we do not know where he lives, or whether he is 
 ahve." 
 
 The boy bowed to his father and to his mother : 
 
 " Father and mother," he said, " let me go to tind him. 
 I want to find him, — to exchange the Easter greeting 
 with him." 
 
 The parents let him go, and he went to find his god- 
 father. 
 
 in. 
 
 The boy left the house, and travelled on the highway. 
 After walking half a day, he met a stranger. 
 
 The stranger stopped. 
 
 " Good day, boy," he said, " whither does God carry 
 you ? " 
 
 And the boy said : 
 
 " I went to exchange the Easter greeting with my 
 godmother ; when 1 came back home I asked my parents 
 where my godfather lived, as I wanted to exchange the 
 Easter greeting with him. My parents said to me : 
 ' We do not know, son, where your godfather lives. After 
 christening you, he went away from us, and we know 
 nothing about him, and we do not know whether he is 
 alive.' But I am anxious to see my godfather, and so I 
 have started out to find him." 
 
 And the stranger said : 
 
 " I am your godfather." 
 
 The boy was happy, and exchanged the Easter greeting 
 with his godfather. 
 
 " Whither are you, godfather, wending your way ? " he
 
 POPULAR LEGENDS 473 
 
 asked, " If you are going in our direction, come to our 
 house ; and if you are going home, I will go with you." 
 
 And the godfather said : 
 
 " I have no time to go now to your house, — I have 
 some business in the villages. But I shall be at home 
 to-morrow, so come to me then." 
 
 " But how shall I find you, father ? " 
 
 " Walk all the time toward the rising of the sun, 
 straight ahead, and you will come to a forest, and in the 
 forest there is a clearing. Sit down in that clearing, rest 
 yourself, and watch what will happen. When you come 
 out of the forest, you will see a garden, and in the garden 
 there is a booth with a golden roof : that is my house. 
 Walk up to the gate, and I will come out to meet you." 
 
 Thus the godfather spoke, and disappeared from the 
 godson's view. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The boy went as the godfather had told him. He 
 walked and walked, and came to the forest. He came 
 out on the clearing and saw in the middle of it a fir-tree, 
 and on the fir-tree a rope was attached to a branch, and 
 to the rope was tied an oak log weighing some three puds. 
 Under the log there was a trough with honey. 
 
 The boy was wondering why the honey was placed 
 there, and the log attached above it, when there was a 
 crashing through the woods, and he saw bears coming 
 out : in front was the she-bear ; she was followed by a 
 yearling, and behind by three small cubs. The she-bear 
 scented the air and went straight to the trough, and the 
 cubs after her. 
 
 The she-bear stuck her muzzle into the honey: she 
 called up the cubs, and they rushed up and made for 
 the trough. The log moved away a little and turned 
 back and struck the cubs. When the she-bear saw^ this, 
 she moved the log away with her paw. The log moved
 
 474 POPULAR LEGENDS 
 
 back farther, came back again, and struck into the midst 
 of the cubs, hitting some on the back and some on the 
 head. 
 
 The cubs howled and jumped away. The she-bear 
 grew furious, grabbed the log above her head with both 
 her paws, and swung it far away from herself. The log 
 flew up high ; in the meantime the yearling ran up to the 
 trough, stuck his muzzle into the honey, and began to 
 lap it, and the others, too, began to come up to it. They 
 had barely come up, when the log swept back and 
 whacked the yearling on the head, killing him on the 
 spot. The she-bear growled more than ever, and grabbed 
 the log and sent it with all her strength Hying upward. 
 
 The log flew higher than the branch, so that even the 
 rope was slackened, and the she-bear ran up to the 
 trough, and all the cubs with her. The log flew up and 
 up, and stopped, and started downward. The lower it 
 went, the faster it flew. It came down with a crash and 
 banged the she-bear on the head. She rolled over, jerked 
 her legs, and was dead. The cubs ran away. 
 
 V. 
 
 The boy marvelled at this, and walked on. He came 
 to a large garden, and in it there was a high palace with a 
 golden roof. The godfather was standing at the gate, and 
 smiling. He exchanged greetings with his godson, led 
 him through the gate, and took him through the garden. 
 Even in his dream the boy had not thought of such 
 beauty and joy as there were in this garden. 
 
 The godfather led the boy into the palace. The palace 
 was even more beautiful. He took the boy through all 
 the rooms : they were one more beautiful than the other, 
 and one more cheerful than the other, and he brought 
 him to a locked door. 
 
 " Do you see this door ? " he said. " There is no lock
 
 POPULAR LEGENDS 475 
 
 on it, — there are only some seals. It is possible to open 
 it, but I command you not to do so. Live and enjoy 
 yourself wherever and however you please ; enjoy all 
 joys, but this is the one commandment : do not enter 
 through this door. But if you do go in through it, re- 
 member what you saw in the woods." 
 
 The godfather said this, and went away. The godson 
 was left alone, and began to hve. He was so happy 
 and so cheerful that he thought he had lived here but 
 three hours, whereas thirty years had passed. When the 
 thirty years had passed, the godson went up to the sealed 
 door and thought : 
 
 " Why did my godfather not permit me to enter this 
 room ? I will go and see what there is there." 
 
 He pushed the door, the seals flew back, and the door 
 opened. The godson went in, and he saw larger and 
 more beautiful rooms than any, and in the middle of the 
 rooms stood a golden throne. The godson walked from 
 one room to another, and he went up to the throne, and 
 walked up its steps and sat down. Near the throne he 
 saw a sceptre. He took the sceptre into his hands. The 
 moment he lifted it, all four walls of the room disap- 
 peared, and he saw everything which was going on in the 
 world. He looked straight ahead of him, and he saw 
 the sea, and ships sailing on it. He looked to the right 
 and he saw where foreign, non-Christian people were 
 living. He looked to the left, and he saw where Christian 
 people, but not Eussians, were hving. He looked into 
 the fourth side, and there were our Eussians. 
 
 " I will just see," he said, " what is going on at home, — 
 whether the corn grows well there." 
 
 He looked at his field and saw cocks of corn there. 
 He began to count the cocks, to see how much corn 
 there was, and he saw a cart coming into the field, and a 
 man sitting inside of it. The godson thought that his 
 father was coming in the night to haul away the ricks.
 
 476 POPULAR LEGENDS 
 
 He took a good look at him, and saw that it was Vaska 
 Kiidrashov, the thief, who was coming in the cart. He 
 drove up to the cocks, and began to load them on. That 
 made the godson angry. He shouted : 
 
 " Father, your sheaves are being stolen from the field ! " 
 
 His father woke up iu the pasture. 
 
 " I had a dream that they are steahng my sheaves," he 
 said. " I must go and see." 
 
 He jumped on a horse, and rode off. When he came 
 to the field, he saw Vasili, and so he called the peasants 
 together. They beat Vasili, and tied him, and took him 
 to the jail. 
 
 The godson now looked into the town where his god- 
 mother was living. He saw her married to a merchant. 
 She was lying and sleeping, but her husband got up and 
 went to his mistress. The godson cried to his god- 
 mother : 
 
 " Get up ! Your husband is doing something bad." 
 
 His godmother jumped up, dressed herself, found out 
 where her husband was, disgraced and beat the mistress, 
 and drove her husband away from her. 
 
 Then the godson looked at his mother, and saw her 
 lying in the hut, and a robber slinking into the house 
 and breaking into her trunk. 
 
 The mother awoke, and cried aloud. When the robber 
 saw her, he took hold of an axe, and swung it, wishing 
 to kill her. 
 
 The godson did not hold out, but hurled the sceptre at 
 the robber, and struck him straight on his temple, and 
 killed him on the spot. 
 
 VL 
 
 The moment the godson killed the robber, the walls 
 closed up again, and the room became what it was. 
 The door opened, and the godfather came in. He
 
 POPULAR LEGENDS 477 
 
 walked over to his godson, took his hand, led him down 
 from the throne, and said : 
 
 " You did not obey my command, — you have done 
 a bad thing in opening the forbidden door ; another bad 
 thing you did when you ascended the throne and took 
 my sceptre ; a third bad thing you did, — you added 
 much evil to the world. If you had been sitting here 
 another hour, you would have ruined half the people." 
 
 And the godfather led his godson up to the throne, and 
 took the sceptre into his hand. And again were the walls 
 removed, and everything became visible. 
 
 And the godfather said : 
 
 " See now what you have done to your father ! Vasili 
 has been a year in prison, where he has learned all kinds 
 of evil deeds and has become entirely a beast. See there ! 
 He has driven off two of your father's horses, and, you 
 see, he is setting tire to his farmhouses. This is what 
 you have done to your father." 
 
 The moment the godson saw his father's house on fire, 
 the godfather hid this from him, and ordered him to look 
 in another direction. 
 
 " Here," he said, "the husband of your godmother has 
 abandoned his wife for more than a year, and is making 
 free with other women, while she, from grief, has taken 
 to drink, and his former mistress is entirely lost. This is 
 what you have done to your godmother." 
 
 And the godfather hid this from him, and showed him 
 his house. And he saw his mother : she was weeping 
 on account of her sins, and repenting them, and saying, 
 " It would have been better if the murderer had killed 
 me then, for I should not have committed so many sins." 
 
 " This is what you have done to your mother." 
 
 And the godfather hid this, too, from him, and pointed 
 downward. And the godson saw the robber- two guards 
 were holding him before the dark place. 
 
 And the godfather said to him :
 
 478 POPULAR LEGENDS 
 
 " This man has ruined nine souls. He ought to redeem 
 his own sins ; but you have killed him, and so have taken 
 all his sins upon yourself. Now you will have to answer 
 for all his sins. That is what you have done to yourself. 
 The she-bear pushed away the log, and so disturbed the 
 cubs ; she pushed it away a second time, and killed 
 the yearling; she pushed it away a third time, and 
 killed herself. You have done the same. I give you 
 now thirty years' time. Go into the world, and redeem 
 the sins of the robber. If you do not redeem them, you 
 will have to go in his place." 
 
 And the godson said : 
 
 " How can I redeem his sins ? " 
 
 And the godfather said : 
 
 " When you shall have freed the world from as much 
 evil as you have carried into it, you will have redeemed 
 your sins as well as those of the robber." 
 
 And the godson asked : 
 
 " How can I free the world from sins ? " 
 
 And the godfather said : 
 
 " Go straight toward the rising sun, and you will come 
 to a field, with men upon it. Watch the people to see 
 what they are doing, and teach them what you know. 
 Then walk on, and take note of what you see ; on the 
 fourth day you will come to a forest ; in the forest there 
 is a cell, and in the cell lives a hermit. Tell him every- 
 thing that has happened. He will teach you what to do. 
 When you have done everything that the hermit com- 
 mands you to do, you will have redeemed your sins and 
 those of the robber." 
 
 Thus spoke the godfather, and he saw his godson out 
 of the gate. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The godson went away. As he walked, he thought : 
 " How can I free the world from evil ? They destroy
 
 POPULAR LEGENDS 479 
 
 evil by sending evil people to hard labour, locking them 
 up in prisons, and putting them to death. What shall I 
 do, then, to destroy evil, and not to take other people's 
 sins upon myself ? " 
 
 The godson thought and thought, but could not think 
 out anything. He walked for a long time, and finally 
 came to a field. In the field the corn had grown large 
 and thick, and it was time to harvest it. The godson 
 saw a heifer get into the corn. When the people saw it, 
 they mounted their horses, and began to drive the heifer 
 through the corn, now from one side and now from 
 another. The moment the heifer was ready to run out 
 of the corn, a rider passed by, which frightened the heifer, 
 and she went back into the corn ; again they galloped 
 after her through the corn. But a woman was standing in 
 the road, and weeping : " They are going to get my heifer." 
 
 And the godson said to the peasants : 
 
 " Why are you doing this ? Eide all of you out of the 
 com. Let the woman call her heifer ! " 
 
 The people obeyed him. The woman went up to the 
 edge and began to call her heifer : " Tpryusi, tpryusi, 
 browny, tpryusi, tpryusi ! " 
 
 The heifer pricked her ears, stopped to listen, and ran 
 straight toward the woman, and put her mouth into 
 the woman's lap, almost knocking her down. And the 
 peasants were glad, and the woman was glad, and 
 the heifer was glad. 
 
 The godson walked on, thinking : 
 
 " Now I see that evil increases through evil. The 
 more people persecute evil, the more do they multiply it. 
 It is evident that evil cannot be destroyed through evil. 
 But I do not know how to destroy it. It is well that the 
 heifer obeyed her mistress ; but how could she have been 
 called out, if she had not obeyed ? " 
 
 The godson thought and thought, but could not think 
 it out. He went farther.
 
 480 POPULAR LEGENDS 
 
 VIII. 
 
 He walked and walked, until he came to a village. 
 He asked at the outer hut to be allowed to stay 
 there overnight. The mistress let him in. There 
 was no one in the hut but the mistress, and she was 
 washing. 
 
 The godson went in, chmbed on the oven, and began to 
 look around, to see what the mistress was doing. He saw 
 that she had washed the house, and was now washing the 
 table. After she had washed the table, she began to wipe 
 it with a dirty towel. She began to wipe it on one side, 
 but the table did not get clean : the dirty towel left strips 
 of dirt on the table. She began to wipe in another direc- 
 tion ; she wiped off some of the stripes, but made other 
 stripes come out. She began once more to rub length- 
 wise, and again it was the same : she soiled the table 
 with the dirty towel. She wiped off the dirt in one 
 place, and rubbed it on in another. The godson looked 
 at it for awhile, and said : 
 
 " Mistress, what are you doing there ? " 
 
 " Do you not see ? " she said. " I am cleaning up for 
 the hohday. I somehow cannot get the table clean, — it 
 is so dirty. I am all worn out from it." 
 
 "If you would just wash the towel," he said, "you 
 would be able to get it clean." 
 
 The mistress did so, and she got her table clean. 
 
 " Thank you," she said, " for having taught me." 
 
 Next morning the godson bade the mistress good-bye, 
 and went away. He walked and walked, and came to a 
 forest. There he saw some peasants bending hoops. 
 The godson went up to them, and saw the peasants 
 walking in a circle, but the hoop did not bend. He 
 looked on awhile, and saw that the vise was not fastened, 
 but turning around. So he said : 
 
 " Friends, what are you doing there ? "
 
 POPULAR LEGENDS 481 
 
 "We are bending hoops. We have steamed them 
 twice, and we are all worn out, — they do not bend." 
 
 " Friends, fasten the vise, for you are turning around 
 with it." 
 
 The peasants obeyed him, fastened the vise, and things 
 went after that. 
 
 The godson remained with them overnight, and went 
 farther. He walked a whole day and a night, and before 
 the dawn came to some drovers. He lay down near them. 
 He saw that the drovers had put away the cattle, and were 
 trying to start a fire. They took dry leaves and set them 
 on fire, and before they burned well, they put on them wet 
 twigs. The twigs hissed, and the fire went out. The 
 drovers took some more dry leaves and set them on fire, 
 and again put on wet twigs. The fire was again put out. 
 They worked for a long time, but the fire would not 
 burn. 
 
 And the godson said : 
 
 " Don't be in a hurry to put on the twigs, but first let 
 the leaves burn well. When the fire is well started, you 
 may put on the twigs." 
 
 The drovers did so : they started a good fire, and then 
 heaped up the twigs. The twigs caught fire and burned 
 well. The godson remained with them awhile, and then 
 went farther. He thought and thought why he had seen 
 these three things, but he could not understand. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The godson walked and walked. A day passed. He 
 came to a forest, and in the forest was a cell. He went 
 up to the cell, and knocked. A voice inside asked : 
 
 "Who is there?" 
 
 "A great sinner: I want to redeem other people's 
 sms. 
 
 The hermit came out, and asked :
 
 482 POPULAR LEGENDS 
 
 " What are those sins of other people which are upon 
 you ? " 
 
 The godson told him everything : about his godfather, 
 and about the she-bear and her cubs, and about the throne 
 in the sealed room, and about what the godfather had 
 commanded him to do, and about his having seen the 
 peasants trample down all the corn, and about the heifer's 
 coming out herself to her mistress. 
 
 " I now understand that evil cannot be destroyed by 
 evil, but I cannot understand how it is to be destroyed. 
 Teach me how." 
 
 And the hermit said : 
 
 " Tell me what else you saw on the road." 
 
 The godson told him about the woman's cleaning up, 
 and about the peasants' bending of the hoops, and about 
 the drovers' making a fire. 
 
 When the hermit had heard it all, he went back to his 
 cell and brought out a notched and battered axe. 
 
 " Come with me," he said. 
 
 The hermit went a distance away from the cell, and 
 pointed to a tree. 
 
 " Cut it down," he said. 
 
 The godson cut the tree, and it fell down. 
 
 " Cut it now into three parts." 
 
 The godson cut it into three parts. The hermit went 
 again into the cell, and brought some fire. 
 
 " Burn the three logs," he said. 
 
 The godson started the fire and burned the three logs, 
 and three smudges w^ere left. 
 
 " Bury them half into the ground, — like this." 
 
 The godson buried them. 
 
 " You see, at the foot of . the hill is a river : bring the 
 water from there in your mouth, and water them. Water 
 this smudge as you taught the woman ; water this smudge 
 as you taught the coopers ; water this smudge as you 
 taught the drovers. When all three shall have sprouted
 
 POPULAR LEGENDS 483 
 
 and three apple-trees shall have grown from the smudges, 
 you will know how to destroy evil among men; and 
 then you will redeem the sins." 
 
 Having said this, the hermit went back to his cell. 
 The godson thought and thought, but could not under- 
 stand what the hermit had told him. However, he did 
 as he was commanded. 
 
 X. 
 
 The godson went to the river, filled his mouth full of 
 water, poured it out on a smudge, and went back for 
 more, — and so he watered the other two smudges. The 
 godson grew tired, and wanted to eat. He went to 
 the cell, to ask the hermit for something to eat. He 
 opened the door, but the hermit lay dead on a bench. 
 The godson looked around and found some hardtack, 
 which he ate ; then he found a spade, and began to dig 
 a grave for the hermit. In the night he carried water to 
 the smudges, and in the daytime he dug the grave. He 
 had just finished the grave and was about to bury the 
 hermit, when people came from the village, bringing food 
 for the hermit. 
 
 The people learned that the hermit had died, and that 
 he had blessed the godson in his place. The people 
 buried the hermit, and left the bread for the godson ; 
 they promised to bring him more, and went away. 
 
 And so the godson remained to live in the place of the 
 hermit. He lived there, and ate what the people brought 
 to him, and kept doing the work which he had been com- 
 manded to do, carrying water in his mouth from the river, 
 to water the smudges. 
 
 Thus the godson passed a year,- and many people began 
 to come to him. The rumour went abroad that a holy 
 man was living in the forest, finding his salvation in 
 carrying water in his mouth from the river at the foot of 
 the hill, and watering the burned stumps. A multitude
 
 484 POPULAK LEGENDS 
 
 began to come to him. Eich merchants, too, began to 
 come to him, bringing him presents. The godson 
 took nothing from them, except what he needed, and 
 what they gave him, he turned over to other poor 
 people. 
 
 And this is the way the godson lived: half the day 
 he carried water in his mouth, watering the smudges, 
 and the other half he rested himself and received the 
 people. 
 
 And the godson came to think that he had been com- 
 manded to live in this manner, thus destroying evil and 
 redeeming sins. 
 
 So the godson lived another year, and did not miss 
 watering the smudges a single day, but they did not 
 sprout. 
 
 One day he was sitting in the cell, when he heard a 
 man ride by him siugiug songs. The godson went out to 
 see who the man was. He saw that he was a strong lad. 
 He wore good clothes, and his horse and the saddle under 
 him were fine. 
 
 The godson stopped him, and asked him what kind of 
 a man he was and whither he was riding. 
 
 The man stopped. 
 
 " I am a robber," he said, " and am travelling along the 
 roads, killing people : the more people I kill, the merrier 
 the songs are which I sing." 
 
 The godson was frightened, and said : 
 
 " How can I destroy the evil in this man ? It is easy 
 enough for me to talk to those who come to me, and 
 themselves repent their sins. But this one boasts of 
 evil." 
 
 The godson did not say anything, but went away, and 
 thought what to do now. "If the robber takes it into 
 his head to rove here, the people will become scared, and 
 will stop coming to see me. They will lose their advan- 
 tage, and how shall I live then ? "
 
 POPULAR LEGENDS 
 
 485 
 
 And the godson stopped, and said to the robber : 
 
 " People come here, not to boast of evil, but to repent 
 and to pray for their sins. Repent, if you are afraid of 
 God ; if you do not wish to repent, go away from here, 
 and never come back to disturb me, and to frighten the 
 people. If you will not pay any attention to me, God 
 will punish you." 
 
 The robber laughed. 
 
 " I am not afraid of God," he said, " and I will pay no 
 attention to you. You are not my master. You live by 
 your praying, and I live by robbery. All have to hve in 
 some way. Teach the women that come to see you, but 
 you cannot teach me. Since you have mentioned God to 
 me, I will kill two additional men to-morrow. I should 
 have killed you, but I do not want to soil my hands. 
 Don't ever get in my way again." 
 
 Thus the robber threatened him, and went away. He 
 never came back, and the godson lived quietly, as before, 
 for eight years. 
 
 XL 
 
 One night the godson went out to water his smudges. 
 He came back to the cell, to rest himself, and he sat and 
 looked at the footpath, to see whether people would come 
 soon. On that day not one man came. The godson sat 
 there alone until evening, and he felt lonely, and thought 
 about his life. He remembered how the robber had 
 rebuked him for living by praying. And so the godson 
 looked back upon his life. 
 
 " I am not living as the hermit told me to," he thought. 
 " The hermit imposed a penance on me, wbile I have 
 earned a living and fame by it. And I have been so 
 tempted by it that I feel lonely when people do not come 
 to me. I have not redeemed my former sins, and have 
 only added new ones. I will go into the woods, to 
 another place, so that the people may not find me. I
 
 486 POPULAR LEGENDS 
 
 will live all by myself, so as to redeem my old sins, and 
 not add new ones." 
 
 Thus thought the hermit, and he took a bag full of 
 hardtack and a spade, and went away from the cell, 
 toward a ravine, in order to build him an earth hut in a 
 hidden place, where the people might not see him. 
 
 The godson was walking with his bag and with his 
 spade, when the robber rode up to him. The godson 
 became frightened, and wanted to run, but the robber 
 overtook him. 
 
 " Whither are you going ? " he said. 
 
 The godson told him that he wanted to go away from 
 the people, to a place where the people could not reach 
 him. The robber was surprised. 
 
 " What will you now live by, if people stop coming to 
 you ? " 
 
 The godson had not thought of it before, but when the 
 robber asked him this, he thought of the food. 
 
 " By what God will give me," he said. 
 
 The robber said nothing, and rode on. 
 
 " Why did I not tell him anything about his life ? " 
 thought the godson. " Maybe he would repent now. He 
 seems to be kinder to-day, and did not threaten to kill 
 me." 
 
 And the godson called out to the robber : 
 
 " But still you must repent. You cannot get away 
 from God." 
 
 The robber turned his horse around. He pulled his 
 knife out of the girdle, and sw^ung it to strike the godson. 
 The godson became frightened, and ran into the forest. 
 
 The robber did not run after him, but only said : 
 
 " Twice have I forgiven you, but if you come in my 
 way the third time, I will kill you." 
 
 Having said this, he rode off. In the evening the 
 godson went to water the smudges, and, behold, one of 
 them had sprouted ; an apple-tree was gruwing from it.
 
 POPULAR LEGENDS 487 
 
 xn. 
 
 The godson hid himself from the people, and began to 
 live alone. His hardtack gave out. 
 
 " Well," he thought, " now I will look for herbs." 
 
 He went out to look for herbs, when he saw a bag with 
 hardtack hanging on a branch. He took it, and lived 
 on that hardtack. 
 
 When this hardtack gave out, another bag of it was 
 hanging on the same branch. And thus the godson 
 lived. But he had this grief, — he was afraid of the 
 robber. Whenever he heard the robber, he hid himself; 
 He thought : 
 
 " If he kills me, I shall not have a chance to redeem 
 my sins." 
 
 Thus he lived another ten years. The one apple-tree 
 grew, but the other smudges remained such as they 
 were. 
 
 One morning the godson went early to do his work ; 
 he watered the earth around the smudges, and he was 
 tired and sat down to rest himself. He was sitting and 
 resting himself, and thinking : 
 
 " I have sinned, to be afraid of death. If God so 
 wishes, I can redeem my sins by my death." 
 
 No sooner had he said this, than he heard the robber 
 riding along, and cursing. The godson heard him, and 
 thought : 
 
 " Except from God, nothing good nor evil will befall 
 me from anybody," and he went to meet the robber. 
 
 He saw that the robber was not travelling by himself, 
 but was bringing a man with him on the saddle. The 
 man's hands and mouth were tied. The man was silent, 
 and the robber kept cursing him. The godson went up 
 to the robber, and stood in front of the horse. 
 
 " Whither are you taking this man ? " he asked. 
 
 " I am taking him to the forest. He is the son of a
 
 488 POPULAR LEGENDS 
 
 meichant. He will not tell me where his father's money- 
 is hidden, and I will flog him until he does tell." 
 
 The robber wanted to ride on ; but the godson did not 
 let him, — he seized the horse by the bridle. 
 
 " Let this man go," he said. 
 
 The robber grew angry at the godson, and wanted to 
 strike him. 
 
 " Do YOU want me to do the same to you ? I have 
 told you I would kill you. Let me go ! " 
 
 The godson was not frightened. 
 
 " I will not let you go," he said. " I am not afraid of 
 you, but only of God. God does not allow me let you 
 go. Set the man free ! " 
 
 Tlie robber scowled, took out his knife, cut the ropes, 
 and set free the merchant's son. 
 
 " Get away from me," he said. " Let me not catch you 
 !" 
 
 The merchant's son leaped down and ran away. The 
 robber wanted to ride on, but the godson stopped him 
 again ; he began to talk to him about giving up his bad 
 life. The robber stood still awhile and listened to all he 
 had to say, but said nothing, and rode off. 
 
 The next morning the godson went to water the 
 smudges. Behold, auotlier smudge had sprouted, — again 
 it was an apple-tree that was growing from it. 
 
 XIIL 
 
 Another ten years passed One day the godson was 
 sitting. He was not wishing for anything, and he was not 
 afraid of anything, and his heart was glad. And the god- 
 son thought : 
 
 " What grace is given by God to men ! But they 
 torment themselves in vain. They ought to live in joy 
 all the time." 
 
 And he thought of all the evil of men, and how they 
 
 again
 
 POPULAR LEGENDS 489 
 
 tormented themselves. And he began to feel sorry for 
 men. 
 
 " In vain," he thought, " I live this way ; I must go 
 and tell people what I know." 
 
 No sooner had he thought so, than he heard the robber 
 coming along. He let the robber pass by him, and 
 thought : 
 
 " What use is there in speaking to him ? He will not 
 understand." 
 
 At first he thought so, but he thought it over again, 
 and went out on the road. The robber passed by, look- 
 ing gloomy and staring at the ground. The godson looked 
 at him, and felt sorry for him, and ran up to him, and 
 seized him by his knee. 
 
 " Dear brother," he said, " have pity on thy soul ! 
 God's spirit is in you ! You are suffering yourself, and 
 are causing others to suffer, and you will suffer even more. 
 But God loves you, and has such grace in store for you ! 
 Do not ruin yourself, brother ! Change your life ! " 
 
 The robber scowled, and turned his face away. 
 
 " Get away from me," he said. 
 
 The godson embraced the robber's knee even more 
 firmly and began to weep. 
 
 The robber raised his eyes to the godson. He looked 
 and looked at him, and chmbed down from his horse, and 
 knelt before the godson. 
 
 " You have vanquished me, old man," he said. " Twenty 
 years have I struggled with you, and you have overcome 
 me. I have no power over myself ; you can do with me 
 what you please. When you tried to persuade me the first 
 time, I only grew more savage. I began to think of 
 your speeches only when you went away from people 
 and found out that you yourself did not need anything 
 from men." 
 
 And the godson recalled that the woman washed the 
 table clean only when she washed the towel. When he
 
 490 POPULAR LEGENDS 
 
 stopped caring for himself, and cleansed his own heart, 
 he was able to cleanse also the hearts of others. 
 
 And the robber said : 
 
 " And my heart turned in me only when you did not 
 fear death." 
 
 And the godson recalled that the coopers could bend 
 the hoop only when the vise was made firm. When he 
 stopped fearing death, and made his hfe firm in God, the 
 unruly heart was vanquished. 
 
 And the robber said : 
 
 " And my heart melted completely only when you took 
 pity on me and wept before me." 
 
 The godson was happy, and led the robber to where 
 the smudges were. When they came up to them, an 
 apple-tree had sprouted from the tliird smudge. And 
 the godson recalled that the wet branches caught fire 
 with the drovers only when the fire burned bright. When 
 his heart burned bright, another man's heart, too, burned 
 up. 
 
 And the godson was glad, because now he had redeemed 
 the sins. 
 
 He told all this to the robber, and died. The robber 
 buried him, and began to live as the godson had com- 
 manded him, and so he taught the people.
 
 THREE SONS 
 
 1892
 
 THREE SONS 
 
 A FATHER gave his son some property, corn, and cattle, 
 and said to him : 
 
 " Live like me, and thou wilt always fare well." 
 The son took his patrimony, went away from the 
 father, aiid began to live for his pleasure. The father 
 had, indeed, told him to live like him. " He lives and 
 enjoys himself, and so will I." 
 
 Thus he lived a year, two, ten, twenty years, — and 
 wasted all his patrimony, and he had nothing left ; 
 and he began to ask his father to give him more ; but 
 his father did not listen to him. Then he began to pro- 
 pitiate his father and to give to him the best things he 
 had, and to ask him again. But his father tuade no reply 
 to him. Then the son began to ask his father's forgive- 
 ness, thinking that he had offended him in some way, 
 and again asked him to give him something ; but his 
 father did not say a word. 
 
 Then the son began to imprecate his father, saying : 
 " If thou dost not give me now, why didst thou give 
 me before and dole out my part to me and promise me 
 that I should fare well ? All my former joys, when I 
 spent my estate, are not worth one hour of the present 
 torments. I see that I perish, and there is no salvation. 
 And who is to blame ? Thou. Thou knewest that my 
 estate would not be sufficient, and thou didst not give me 
 
 more. All thou toldest me was, " Live like me, and thou 
 
 493
 
 494 THREE SONS 
 
 wilt fare well. And I lived like thee. Thou livedst for 
 thy joy, and I lived for mine. Thou hast more left 
 for thyself, so thou hast some, while I have not enough. 
 Thou art not a father, but a deceiver and evil-doer ! 
 Cursed is my hfe, and cursed be thou, evil-doer and tor- 
 mentor, — I do not want to know thee, and I hate thee ! " 
 The father gave also some property to the second son, 
 saying only : 
 
 " Live like me, and thou wilt always fare well." 
 The second sou was not so much rejoiced at his estate 
 as had been the first. He thought that he received his 
 due ; but he knew what had happened with his elder 
 brother, and so began to think that he might lose his 
 property like the first. He understood this much, that 
 his eldest brother had not understood correctly the words, 
 " Live like me," and that it was not right to live only for 
 one's own pleasure. 
 
 He began to brood over the words, " Live like me." 
 And he reasoned out that it was necessary, as his 
 father had done, to put to profit the estate which his father 
 gave him. And he began to ask his father how to do 
 this or that, but his father made no reply to him. Then 
 the son thought that his father was afraid to teU him, 
 and began to take to pieces all his father's things, in 
 order to see for himself how everything was done, and he 
 spoiled and ruined everything which he had received 
 from his father, and everything new which he did was 
 all to no profit. But he did not want to acknowledge 
 that he had spoiled everything, and so he lived in agony, 
 telHng all that his father had given him nothing, but that 
 he had made everything for himself. " We can 'all of us 
 do better and better, and shall soon reach a point when 
 everything will be well." Thus spoke the second son, so 
 long as anything his father had given him was left with 
 him ; but when he had spent the last, and he had nothing 
 to' live on, he laid hands on himself and killed himself.
 
 THREE SONS 495 
 
 The father gave just such an estate to the third son, 
 and told him too : 
 
 " Live like me, and then thou wilt always fare well." 
 
 And the third son, like the first and the second, was 
 glad to receive the estate, and went away from his father ; 
 but he knew what had happened with his elder brothers 
 and began to think of what was meant by the words, 
 " Live like me, and thou wilt always prosper." 
 
 The eldest brother had thought that to live like the 
 father meant to live for his own pleasure, and he squan- 
 dered everytiiing, and was ruined. 
 
 The second brother had thought that to live like his 
 father meant for him to do everything which his father 
 had done, and he, too, came to despair. "VST] at, then, is 
 meant by living hke the father ? 
 
 And he began to recall everything he knew about his 
 father. And no matter how much he thought, he could 
 not think of anything else about his father except that 
 formerly there had been nothing, not even himself, and 
 that his father had begotten, brought up, and educated 
 him, and had taught and given him everything good, and 
 had said, " Live like me, and thou wilt always prosper." 
 Even thus his father had done with his brothers. And 
 no matter how much he thought, he could not think of 
 anything else about his father, except that his father had 
 done good to him and to his brothers. 
 
 And then he comprehended what these words meant. 
 He understood that to live like the father meant to do 
 what he was doing, to do good to men. And when he 
 thought of this, his father was already near him, and 
 said : 
 
 " Here we are again together, and thou wilt always fare 
 well. Go to thy brother and to all of my children, and 
 tell them what is meant by, ' Live like me,' and that 
 those who will live like me will always fare well." 
 
 And the third son went and told everything to his
 
 496 THREE SONS 
 
 brother, and since then all the children, in receiving their 
 estate from their father, have not rejoiced because they 
 have a large estate, but because they can live like the 
 father, and vs^ill always fare well. 
 
 The father is God ; His sons are men ; the estate is life. 
 Men think that they can live alone without God. 
 
 Some of these men think that their life is given to 
 them in order to rejoice in this life. They rejoice and 
 waste this life, and when the time comes to die, they do 
 not understand why such life was given to them, since 
 its joys end in suffering and death. And these men die, 
 cursing God and calling Him evil, and depart from God. 
 
 This is the first son. 
 
 Other men think that life is given to them in order 
 that they may understand how it is made, and in order 
 that they may make it better than what is given them by 
 God. And they struggle over it, to make another, a better 
 life. But, in improving this life, they ruin it, and thus 
 deprive themselves of life. 
 
 Other people say : 
 
 " Everything we know of God is that He gives the 
 good to men and commands them to do the same, and so 
 let us do the same that He does, — good to men." 
 
 And the moment they begin to do so, God Himself 
 comes to them, and says : 
 
 " This is precisely what I wanted. Do with me what 
 I do, and as I live, so shall you live."
 
 LABOURER EMELYAN AND 
 THE EMPTY DRUM 
 
 A Fairy-Tale 
 189a
 
 LABOURER EMELYAN AND 
 THE EMPTY DRUM' 
 
 Emelyan was working for a master. One day he was 
 walking over the field, to his work, when a frog jumped 
 up before him : he almost stepped on it. Eraelyan 
 stepped over it. Suddenly he heard some one calling 
 him from behind. He looked around, and saw there 
 standing a beautiful maiden, and she said to him: 
 
 " Emelyan, why do you not get married ? " 
 
 " How can I marry, pretty maid ? All I have is what 
 I carry with me, and no one will have me." 
 
 And the maiden said : 
 
 " Take me for a wife ! " 
 
 Emelyan took a hking to the maiden. 
 
 " I would gladly marry you," he said, " but where shall 
 we live ? " 
 
 " We shall think of that," said the maiden. " If only 
 we work much and sleep little, we shall be clothed and 
 fed anywhere." 
 
 " Very well," he said, " let us get married ! Whither 
 shall we go?" 
 
 " Let us go to the city." 
 
 Emelyan went with the maiden to the city. She took 
 him to a small house at the edge of the city, and they 
 were married, and began to live. 
 
 1 A popular tale, created along the Vdlga in the remote past, and 
 reconstructed by Tolstoy. 
 
 499
 
 600 LABOURER EMELYAN 
 
 One day the king drove beyond the city. As he passed 
 by Emelyan's house, his wife came out to look at the 
 king. The king saw her, and marvelled : 
 
 " Where was such a beauty bom ? " 
 
 The king stopped his carriage, and called up Emelyan's 
 wife, and began to ask her : 
 
 " Who are you ? " 
 
 " I am the wife of Peasant Emely^n," she said. 
 
 " Why have you, who are such a beauty, married a 
 peasant ? " he said. " You ought to be a queen." 
 
 " I thank you for your kind words," she said. " I am 
 satisfied with a peasant." 
 
 The king spoke with her, and drove on. He returned 
 to his palace. He could not forget Emelyan's wife. He 
 could not sleep the whole night long, thinking all the 
 time how he might take Emelyan's wife away. He could 
 not think how it could be done. He called his servants, 
 and commanded them to think it out. And the servants 
 of the king said to him : 
 
 " Take Emelyan into your palace to work for you. We 
 will kill him with work, and his wife will be left a 
 widow, then you can take her." 
 
 So the king did : he sent for Emelyan, commanding 
 him to be a janitor in his palace, and to live in the palace 
 with his wife. 
 
 The messengers went to Emelyan, and told him so. 
 His wife said : 
 
 " Why not ? Go ! Work in the daytime, and come to 
 me in the night ! " 
 
 Emelyan went. When he came to the palace, the 
 king's steward asked him : 
 
 " Why did you come by yourself, without your wife ? " 
 
 " Why should I bring her ? She has a house of her 
 own." 
 
 They gave Emelyan work enough for two to do. 
 Emelyan took hold of the work, thinking he would never
 
 LABOURER EMELTAN 501 
 
 finish it ; but, behold, he finished it before night. When 
 the steward saw that he got through with it, he gave him 
 for the next day enough for four to do. Emelyan went 
 home ; but at his home everything was swept clean and 
 tidied : the fire was made in the oven, and everything was 
 baked and cooled. His wife was sitting at the table, 
 sewing at something, and waiting for her husband. She 
 met her husband, got the supper ready, gave him to eat 
 and to drink, and began to ask him about his work, 
 
 " Things are bad," he said. " They give me tasks be- 
 yond my strength : they will kill me with work." 
 
 " Do not think of work," she said. " Look neither for- 
 ward nor backward, whether you have done much, or 
 whether much is left to do. Work, and everything will 
 come out in proper time." 
 
 Emelyan lay down to sleep. In the morning he went 
 out again. He took liold of the work, and did not look back 
 once. Behold, in the evening everything was done, and 
 he went home to sleep, while it was yet light. They 
 kept increasing his task, but he finished his work in time, 
 and went home to sleep. 
 
 A week passed. The king's servants saw that they 
 could not wear out Emelyan with hard labour, and so 
 began to give him cunning tasks ; but they could not 
 wear him out with these, either. No matter what they 
 gave him to do, whether carpenter's, or mason's, or 
 thatcher's work, he finished all by the set time, and went 
 home to his wife to sleep. Another week passed. The 
 king called up his servants, and said to them : 
 
 " Do I feed you for nothing ? Two weeks have passed, 
 and I do not see anything from you. You were going to 
 kill Emelyan wdth work, and I see each day through the 
 window that he goes home singing songs. Do you mean 
 to make fun of me ? " 
 
 The king's servants began to justify themselves. 
 
 " We have tried with all our might and main to wear
 
 502 LABOURER EMELTAN 
 
 him out, first of all, with menial labour, but we could not 
 vanquish him. No matter what we gave him to do, he 
 did, as though sweeping it clean, and feeling no weariness. 
 We began to give him cunning work to do, thinking that 
 he would not have sense enough, and still we could not 
 overcome him. Where does it all come from ? He un- 
 derstands everything, and does everything. Either there 
 is some witchery in him, or in his wife. We are our- 
 selves tired of him. We want to give him now such 
 work to do that he will be unable to finish it. We have 
 decided to ask him to build a cathedral iu one day. Call 
 in Emelyan, and command him in one day to build a 
 cathedral opposite the palace. And if he does not build 
 it, we can chop off his head for his disobedience." 
 
 The king sent for Emelyan. 
 
 " Here is my command," he said : " Build me a new 
 cathedral opposite the palace, on the square. It has to 
 be ready by to-morrow evening. If you get it built, I 
 shall reward you ; but if you do not, I shall put you to 
 death." 
 
 When Emelyan had heard the king's words, he turned 
 around and went home. 
 
 " Well," he thought, " now my end has come." 
 
 He came to his wife and said : 
 
 " Wife, get ready ! you must run away wherever you 
 can, or else you will lose your life." 
 
 " What frightens you so," she said, " that you want to 
 run ? " 
 
 " How can I help being frightened ? The king has 
 commanded me to build a cathedral to-morrow, in one 
 day. If I do not get it built, he threatens to chop off my 
 head. There is nothing left to do but run away." 
 
 His wife did not accept his words. 
 
 " The king has many soldiers, and he will catch you 
 anywhere. You cannot run away from him. So long as 
 you have strength you must obey him."
 
 LABOURER EMELYAN 503 
 
 " But how shall I obey, if I have not the strength ? " 
 
 " Never mind, husband. Do not trouble yourseK : eat 
 your supper and lie do^\^l to sleep; get up early in the 
 morning, and all will go well." 
 
 Emelyan lay down to sleep ; his wife woke him up. 
 
 " Go," she said, " and finish the cathedral as quickly as 
 you can. Here are nails and a hammer. You will find 
 about a day's work left to do." 
 
 Emelyan went into the city, and there, indeed, the 
 cathedral was standing in the middle of the square, just 
 a little unfinished. Emelyan. began to put on the last 
 touches, wherever necessary, and by evening he had 
 everything done. The king woke up, looked out of the 
 palace, and, behold, there was the cathedral, and Emelyan 
 was walking to and fro, driving in nails here and there. 
 The king was not at all pleased with the cathedral : he 
 was angry, because he had no reason to put him to death, 
 and could not take his wife from him. The king again 
 called his servants. 
 
 " Emelyan has done tliis task, too, and I have no cause 
 to kill him. This task was not big enough for him. You 
 must invent something more cunning. Think out some- 
 thing, or else I will have you put to death before him." 
 
 The servants thought out to have Emelyan construct a 
 river around the palace, so that ships might sail on it. 
 The king called Emelyan, and commanded him to do a 
 new task. 
 
 " If you were able to build a cathedral in one night," 
 he said, " you are also able to do this work : everything 
 is to be ready by to-morrcw as I command. If it is not 
 ready, I shall have your head cut off." 
 
 Emelyan was grieved more than ever, and came home 
 gloomy to his wife. 
 
 " Why are you so sad ? Has the king commanded you 
 to do something new ? " 
 
 Emelyan told her.
 
 604 LABOURER EMELYAN 
 
 " We must run away." 
 
 But his wife said : 
 
 " You cannot run away from the soldiers, — they will 
 catch you anywhere. You must obey." 
 
 " But how can I obey ? " 
 
 " Come now, come now, husband, do not worry ! Eat 
 your supper, and lie down to sleep. Get up as early as 
 possible, and all will be in good time." 
 
 Emelyan lay down to sleep. His wife woke him up in 
 the morning. 
 
 "Go tc the castle," she said. "Everything is ready. 
 Near the harbour, opposite the palace, a little mound is 
 left : so take a spade and even it up." 
 
 Emelyan went. When he came to the city he saw a 
 river round about the palace, and the ships were sailing 
 upon it. Emelyan went up to the harbour, opposite the 
 palace, and he saw an uneven place, and evened it up. 
 
 The king awoke, and he saw a river where there had 
 been none before ; ships were sailing on the river, and 
 Emelyan was evening up a mound with a spade. The 
 king was frightened and not at all glad of the river and 
 the ships, but annoyed, because he could not put Emelyan 
 to death. He thought to himself : " There is no task 
 which he cannot do. What shall I do ? " He called up 
 his servants and took counsel with them. 
 
 " Think out a task," he said, " which will be beyond 
 Emelyan ; for so far, no matter what we have given him 
 to do, he has done, and I am not able to get his wife from 
 him." 
 
 The courtiers thought and thought, and finally thought 
 out something. They came to the king and said : 
 
 " Emelyan ought to be called and told this : ' Go there, 
 know not where, and bring that, know not what!' He 
 will not be able to get away this time, for wherever he 
 may go, you will say that he did not go where it was 
 necessary, and no matter what he may bring, you will say
 
 LABOUREK EMELYAN 505 
 
 that he did not bring the right thing. Then you can put 
 him to death and take his wife." 
 
 The king was happy. 
 
 " This is a clever thought of yours," he said. 
 
 The king sent for Emelyan, and said to him : 
 
 " Go there, know not where, bring that, know not 
 what. If you do not bring it, I shall have your head 
 cut off." 
 
 Emelyan came to his wife, and told her what the king 
 had said to him. The wife thought awhile. 
 
 " Well," she said, " they have instructed the king 
 cleverly. Now we must do it well." 
 
 His wife sat awhile thinking, and then she said to her 
 husband : 
 
 " You will have to go a long distance, — to our grand- 
 mother, the ancient peasant, soldier mother, — and you 
 must ask her favour. If you get anything from her, go 
 straight to the palace, and I will be there. Now I cannot 
 get out of their hands. They will take me by force, but 
 it will not be for long. If you do everything as the 
 grandmother tells you to, you will redeem me soon." 
 
 The wife got her husband ready, and gave him a wallet 
 and a spindle. 
 
 " Give this to her," she said. " By this will she tell 
 that you are my husband." 
 
 She showed him the road. Emelyan went away. 
 When he came outside the city, he saw them teacliing 
 the soldiers. He stood still for awhile, watching them. 
 After the soldiers had practised, they sat down to rest 
 themselves. Emelyan went up to them, and asked : 
 
 " Brothers, can you tell me how to go there, know not 
 where, and how to bring that, know not what ? " 
 
 When the soldiers heard this, they marvelled. 
 
 " Who sent you to find that ? " they asked. 
 
 " The king," he said. 
 
 " We ourselves," they said, " ever since we have been
 
 506 LABOURER EMELYAN 
 
 made soldiers, have been going there, know not where, 
 and cannot get there, and have been seeking that, know 
 not what, and cannot find it. We cannot help you." 
 
 Emelyan sat awhile with the soldiers, and went on. 
 He walked and walked, and came to a forest. In the 
 forest there was a hut. In the hut sat an old woman, — 
 the peasant, soldier mother, — spinning at the wheel. 
 She was weeping and did not moisten her fingers with 
 her spittle in her mouth, but with the tears in her eyes. 
 When the old woman saw Emelyan, she called out to 
 him: 
 
 " What did you come here for ? " 
 
 Emelyan gave her the spindle, and said that his wife 
 had sent him to her. The old woman softened at once, 
 and began to put questions to him. And Emelyan told 
 her all about his life, how he had married the maiden ; 
 how he had gone to the city to live ; how he had been 
 made a janitor ; how he had served in the palace ; how 
 he had built the cathedral and had made a river with its 
 ships, and how the king had commanded him to go there, 
 know not where, and bring that, know not what. 
 
 The old woman listened to him and stopped weeping. 
 She began to mumble to herself : 
 
 " The time has evidently come. Very well," she said, 
 " sit down, my son, and have something to eat." 
 
 Emelyan had something to eat, and the old woman 
 said to him : 
 
 " Here you have a ball of twine : roll it before you, and 
 follow it, wherever it rolls. It will roll far away, to the 
 very sea. You will come to the sea, and there you will 
 see a large city. Go into the city, and ask them in the 
 outer house to let you stay there overnight. Then look 
 for what you need ! " 
 
 " How shall I know it, grandmother ?" 
 
 " When you see that which people obey better than 
 their parents, you have found it. Grasp it and take it to
 
 LABOUKER EMELYAN 607 
 
 the king ! When you bring it to the king, he will say- 
 to you that you have not brought the right thing ; 
 say then, ' If it is not that I shall have to break it,' and 
 strike the thing and then take it to the river, break it to 
 pieces, and throw it into the water ; then you will get 
 your wife back, and you will dry up my tears." 
 
 Emelyau bade the old woman good-bye, and went 
 away, rolling the ball before him. He rolled it and 
 rolled it, and it brought him to the sea. Near the sea 
 was a large city. At the edge of it stood a large house. 
 Emelyan asked the people in the house to let him stay in 
 it overnight, and they let him. He lay down to sleep. 
 He woke up early in the morning, and heard the father 
 getting up and waking his son, to send him to cut some 
 wood. And the son did not obey him : 
 
 " It is early yet : I shall have time enough to do it." 
 
 He heard the mother say on the oven: 
 
 "Go, my son, your father's bones are aching, — how 
 can he go himself ? It is time." 
 
 The son only smacked his hps, and fell asleep again. 
 The moment he fell asleep, there was a thundering and 
 rattling in the street. The son jumped up, dressed him- 
 self, and ran out into the street. Emelyan, too, jumped 
 up and ran after him, to see what it was that the son 
 paid more attention to than to his father and his mother, 
 Emelyan ran out, and saw a man walking in the street, 
 carrying a round thing over his belly, and striking it 
 with sticks, and it was this that thundered so and made 
 the son pay attention to it. Emelyan ran up to take a 
 look at the thing. He saw that it was as round as a vat, 
 and skins were stretched over both sides of it. He asked 
 the people what they called this thing. 
 
 " A drum," they said. 
 
 " Is it empty ? " 
 
 " Yes," they said. 
 
 Emelyan wondered at the thing, and began to ask the
 
 508 LABOURER EMELYAN 
 
 man to give it to him. The man would not give it to 
 him. Emelyan stopped aslviug for it, but followed 
 the drummer. He walked the whole day, and when the 
 drummer lay down to sleep, Emelyan seized the drum, 
 and ran away with it. He ran and ran and came home 
 to his city. He went to see his wife, but she was not at 
 home. She had been taken to the king the next day. 
 Emelyan went to the palace, and had liimself announced. 
 
 " The man has come," he said, " who went there, know 
 not where, and has brought that, know not what." 
 
 He was announced to the king. The king sent word 
 to Emelyan to come the next day. Emelyan asked to be 
 announced once more : 
 
 " I have come this day, and have brought what the 
 king has commanded. Let the king come to me, or else 
 will I go in myself." 
 
 The king came out. 
 
 " Where have you been ? " he asked. 
 
 He told him where, 
 
 " It is not there," he said. " And what did you 
 bring ? " 
 
 Emelyan wanted to show it to him, but the king did 
 not look at it. 
 
 " It is not that," he said. 
 
 " If it is not that," he said, " I must break it, and the 
 devil take it ! " 
 
 Emelyan went out of the palace with the drum, and 
 struck it. The moment he struck it, tlie whole army of 
 the king gathered about Emelyan. They did not obey the 
 king, but followed after Emelyan. When the king saw 
 this, he ordered Emelyan's wife brought out to Emelyan, 
 and began to ask him to give him the drum. 
 
 " I cannot," said Emelyan. " I have been commanded 
 to break it to pieces, and to throw the pieces into the 
 river." 
 
 Emelyan went with the drum to the river, and the
 
 LABOUKER EMELYAN 509 
 
 soldiers came after him. At the river, Emelyan broke 
 the drum and smashed it to splinters, and threw them 
 into the river. And all the soldiers rau away. But 
 Emelyan took his wife and went home with her. After 
 that the king stopped harassing him, and he began to 
 live happily, gaining what was good, and losing what was 
 evil.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 * 
 
 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Death of Ivan Tlich 3 
 
 The Power of Darkness 
 
 
 
 
 
 83 
 
 Act I. 
 
 
 
 
 
 84 
 
 Act II 
 
 
 
 
 
 106 
 
 Variant .... 
 
 
 
 
 
 159 
 
 The Fruits of Enlightenment 
 
 
 
 
 
 187 
 
 Act I. .... 
 
 
 
 
 
 191 
 
 Act it 
 
 
 
 
 
 231 
 
 Act III 
 
 
 
 
 
 259 
 
 Act IY 
 
 
 
 
 
 287 
 
 The Kreutzer Sonata . 
 
 
 
 
 
 307 
 
 Epilogue to the Kreutzer Sonata . 
 
 
 
 » 
 
 419 
 
 Ox the Relation between the S 
 
 EXES 
 
 
 
 
 437
 
 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 
 
 1884-86
 
 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 
 
 In the large building of the court institutions, during a 
 pause in the case of the Melvinskis, the associates and the 
 prosecuting attorney met in the cabinet of Ivan Egorovich 
 Sh^bek, and started a conversation on the famous Krasov- 
 ski case, Fedor Vasilevich grew excited, proving that it 
 was not subject to their jurisdiction. Ivan Egorovich 
 stuck to his opinion, while Peter Ivanovich, who had not 
 entered into the discussion from the start, took no part in 
 it, and looked through the Gazette which had been lianded 
 to him. 
 
 " Gentlemen," he said, " Ivan Ilich is dead." 
 
 " Is it possible ? " 
 
 " Here, read it," he said to FMor Vasilevich, giving 
 him the fresh-smelling number of the newspaper. 
 
 Within a black border was the following announcement : 
 " Praskovya Ft^dorovna Golovin with sincere sorrow in- 
 forms her relatives and acquaintances of the demise of her 
 beloved husband, Ivan Ilich Golovin, associate member of 
 the court, which took place on February 4th of this year, 
 1882. The funeral will be on Friday, at one o'clock P. m." 
 
 Ivan Ilich was an associate of the gentlemen assembled, 
 and they all loved him. He had been ill for several 
 weeks : it was said that his disease was incurable. His 
 post was left open for him, but it was rumoured that in 
 
 3
 
 4 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 
 
 case of his death Aleksy^ev would probably be appomted 
 iu his place, and that Vinnikov or Shtabel would get 
 Aleksy^ev's place. Therefore, upon hearing about Ivan 
 Ilich's death, the first thought of every one of the gen- 
 tlemen collected in the cabinet was as to the signifi- 
 cance which this death might have on the changes or 
 promotions of the associates themselves or of their friends. 
 
 " Now I shall no doubt get Shtabel's place or Vinni- 
 kov's," thought F(^dor Vasilevich. " I was promised that 
 long ago, and this promotion will mean for me eight hun- 
 dred roubles increase, in addition to the chancery." 
 
 " I must now ask for the transfer of my brother-in-law 
 from Kaluga," thought Peter Ivanovich. " My wife will 
 be very glad. She will no longer be able to say that I 
 am not doing anything for her relatives." 
 
 " I never thought he would get up again," Peter Ivano- 
 vich said, aloud. " I am sorry." 
 
 " What was the matter with him, anyway ? " 
 
 " The doctors could not make it out. That is, they did, 
 but each of them differently. When I saw him the last 
 time, I thought he was getting better." 
 
 " And here I have not called on him since the holidays. 
 I was meaning to all the time." 
 
 " Well, did he have any estate ? " 
 
 " I think his wife has a little something, but nothing 
 of any consequence." 
 
 " Yes, I shall have to go there ; but they have been 
 living a terrible distance away." 
 
 " That is, from your house. From your house every- 
 thing is a distance away." 
 
 " You really cannot forgive me for living on the other 
 side of the river," Peter Ivanovich said, smiling at Sh^bek. 
 And they began to talk of the extent of the city distances, 
 and went back to the court session. 
 
 In addition to the reflections evoked in each of them by 
 this death about the transpositions and possible changes
 
 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 5 
 
 in the service likely to happen in consequence of it, the 
 very fact of the death of a close friend evoked in all those 
 who heard of it, as it always does, a feeling of joy because 
 it was Ivan Ilich who had died and not they. 
 
 " How is this ? It is he who is dead, and not I," each 
 of them thought or felt. 
 
 But the close acquaintances, Ivan Ilich's so-called 
 friends, involuntarily thought also of this, that now they 
 would have to perform some very tedious duties of pro- 
 priety and go to the mass and call on the widow to express 
 their condolence. 
 
 His nearest friends were F(5dor Vasilevich and Peter 
 Ivanovich. 
 
 Peter Ivanovich had been his schoolmate while studying 
 law, and considered himself under obligation to Ivan Ilich. 
 
 At dinner Peter Ivanovich gave his wife the news of 
 Ivan Ilich's death, and his reflections as to the possibility 
 of his brother-in-law's transfer to their circuit, and, with- 
 out dying down to rest himself, he put on his dress coat 
 and drove to Ivan Ilich's house. 
 
 At the entrance to Ivan Ilich's apartments stood a car- 
 riage and two cabs. Down-stairs, in the antechamber, 
 near the hat-rack, and leaning against the wall, stood a 
 tinselled coffin-lid with its tassels and burnished galloons. 
 Two ladies in black were taking off their fur coats. One 
 of them, Ivan Ilich's sister, he knew; the other was a 
 stranger to him. Peter Ivanovich's friend, Schwarz, was 
 coming down-stairs, and, seeing the newcomer from the 
 upper step, he stopped and winked to him, as if to say : 
 "Ivan Ilich has managed things stupidly; you and I 
 fixed things better." 
 
 Schwarz's face with its English side-whiskers and his 
 whole lean figure in the dress coat had, as always, an 
 elegant solemnity about them, and this solemnity, which 
 always contradicted Schwarz's character of playfulness, 
 had here its particular salt. So Peter Ivanovich thought.
 
 6 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 
 
 Peter Ivanovich allowed the ladies to precede him, and 
 followed them up the staircase. Schwarz did not start to 
 go down, but stopped up-stairs. Peter Ivanovich knew 
 why he did so : he evidently wanted to make an engage- 
 ment to play a game of vint that day. The ladies went 
 up-stairs to see the widow, and Schwarz, with seriously 
 compressed, strong lips and playful glance, with a motion 
 of his brows showed Peter Ivanovich to the right, to the 
 room where the body lay. 
 
 Peter Ivanovich entered, as is always the case, per- 
 plexed as to what he would have to do. One thing he 
 knew, and that was that under such circumstances it 
 would never do any harm to make the sign of the cross. 
 But he was not quite sure whether he ought also to make 
 obeisances, and so he chose the middle way : upon enter- 
 ing the room, he began to make the sign of the cross and 
 acted as though he were bowing. At the same time, as 
 much as the motion of his hands and of his head per- 
 mitted it, he surveyed the room. Two young men, jone 
 of them a gymnasiast, — he thought they were nephews, 
 — were leaving the room, making the sign of the cross. 
 An old woman stood motionless and a lady with queerly 
 raised brows was telling her something in a whisper. A 
 sexton, in a Prince Albert, a wide-awake, determined man, 
 was reading something in a loud voice with an expression 
 which excluded every contradiction ; Gerasim, a peasant 
 of the buffet-room, was with light steps strewing some- 
 thing on the floor, in front of Peter Ivanovich. As Peter 
 Ivanovich saw this, he at once caught the light odour of 
 the decomposing body. 
 
 During his last call on Ivan Ilich, Peter Ivanovich had 
 seen this peasant in the cabinet : he had been performing 
 the duty of a nurse, and Ivan Ilich was particularly fond 
 of him. Peter Ivanovich kept making the sign of the 
 cross and slightly inclined his head in a central direction 
 between the coffin, the sexton, and the images on the
 
 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 7 
 
 table in the corner of the room. Afterward, when this 
 motion of making the sign of the cross with his hand 
 appeared to him to have lasted long enough, he stopped 
 and began to look at the corpse. 
 
 The dead man was lying, as all dead men lie, quite 
 heavily, in corpse-like fashion sinking with the stark 
 members of his body in the bedding of the coffin, with 
 an eternally bent head on a pillow, and displayed, as 
 corpses always do, his yellow, waxen brow with bare spots 
 over his sunken temples, and a towering nose which 
 seemed to be pressing against the upper lip. He was 
 very much changed and much thinner than when Peter 
 Ivanovich had seen him the last time, but, as is the case with 
 all corpses, his face was more beautiful and, above all, 
 more significant than that of a hving man. On his face 
 there was an expression of this, that what was necessary 
 to do had been done, and done correctly. Besides, in this 
 expression there was also a rebuke or reminder to the 
 li\ing. 
 
 This reminder seemed to Peter Ivanovich out of place, 
 or, at least, having no reference to him. For some reason 
 he felt ill at ease, and so hastened to cross himself again 
 and, as it appeared to him, too precipitously and out of 
 keeping with the proprieties, turned around and walked 
 toward the door. 
 
 Schwarz was waiting for him in a middle room, spread- 
 ing his legs wide, and with both his hands playing behind 
 his back with his silk hat. One glance at Schwarz's play- 
 ful, natty, and elegant figure refreshed Peter Ivanovich. 
 Peter Ivanovich understood that he, Schwarz, was stand- 
 ing above such things, and did not surrender himself to 
 crushing impressions. His very glance said : the inci- 
 dent of the mass for Ivan Ilich can by no means serve as 
 a sufficient reason for declaring the order of the session 
 disturbed, that is, that nothing could keep him that very 
 evening from cHcking with the deck of cards after break-
 
 8 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 
 
 ing the seal, while the lackey would place f(3ur fresh 
 candles on the table ; altogether there was no cause for 
 supposing that this incident could keep them from passing 
 an agreeable evening. Indeed, he said so in a whisper to 
 Peter Ivauovich as he passed by, proposing that they meet 
 for the game at the house of F^dor Vasilevich. But it 
 was apparently not Peter Ivanovich's fate to have a game 
 of vint that evening. Praskovya F^dorovna, an under- 
 sized, fat woman, who, in spite of all efforts to the 
 contrary, had been expanding all the time downward from 
 the shoulders, dressed in black, with her head covered 
 with lace, and with the same upturned brows as those 
 of the lady who was standing at the coffin, came out of 
 her apartments with other ladies and, taking them to the 
 door of the room where the dead man lay, said : " The 
 mass will be read at once. Pass in." 
 
 Schwarz made an indefinite bow and stopped, evidently 
 neither accepting nor declining the offer. When Pras- 
 kovya Fedorovua recognized Peter Ivauovich, she sighed, 
 went up close to him, took his hand, and said : " I know 
 that you were a true friend to Ivan Ilich," and looked at 
 him, expecting from him an action which would corre- 
 spond to these words. Peter Ivauovich knew that, as it 
 was necessary there to make the sign of the cross, so here 
 it was necessary to press her hand, to sigh, and to say : 
 " Believe me ! " And so he did. Having done it, he felt 
 that the desired result was achieved : both he and she 
 were touched. 
 
 " Come with me : before it begins there, I have to talk 
 with you," said the widow. " Give me your arm." 
 
 Peter Ivauovich gave her his arm, and they went to the 
 inner apartments, past Schwarz, v/ho gave Ivan Ilich a 
 sad wink. 
 
 " There goes the vint ! You must not be angry with 
 us if we choose another partner. If you get off, we may 
 play a five-handed game," said his playful glance.
 
 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH \f 
 
 Peter Ivanovich sighed more deeply and more sadly 
 still, and Praskovya F(^dorovna pressed his haud grate- 
 fully. Upon entering her drawing-room, which was 
 papered with pink cretonne and was illuminated by a 
 dim lamp, they sat down at the table, — she on a divan, 
 and Peter Ivanovich on a pouffe with crushed springs and 
 unevenly yielding seat. Praskovya F^dorovna was on 
 the point of cautioning him and asking him to take 
 another seat, but found this cautiouiug incompatible with 
 her present condition, and so changed her mind. 
 
 Seating himself on this pouffe, Peter Ivanovich recalled 
 how Ivan Ilich had appointed this room and had con- 
 sulted him in regard to this very pink cretonne with its 
 green leaves. As the widow, on her way to seat herself, 
 passed by the table (the drawing-room was altogether too 
 full of trifles and of furniture), the black lace of her black 
 mantilla caught on the carving of the table. Peter Ivano- 
 vich raised himself in order to disentangle it, and the 
 liberated pouffe began to agitate under him and to push 
 him. The widow began to free her lace herself, and Peter 
 Ivanovich sat down again, choking the riotous pouffe. 
 But the widow did not free the lace entirely, and Peter 
 Ivanovich raised himself again, and again the pouffe be- 
 came agitated and even chcked. When all this was 
 ended, she took out her clean cambric handkerchief and 
 began to weep. But Peter Ivanovich was cooled off by 
 the episode with the lace and by the struggle with the 
 pouffe, and sat scowling. This awkward situation was 
 interrupted by Sokolov, Ivan Ilich's butler, who came to 
 report that the lot in the cemetery which Praskovya 
 F^dorovna had chosen would cost two hundred roubles. 
 She stopped weeping and, looking at Peter Ivanovich with 
 the glance of a victim, said in French that it was very 
 hard for lier. Peter Ivanovich made a silent sign, which 
 expressed unquestionable assurance that that could not be 
 otherwise.
 
 10 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 
 
 « Do smoke, if you please," she said, in a magnanimous 
 and at the same time crushed voice, and proceeded to 
 busy herself with Sokolov concerning the price of the lot. 
 Peter Ivanovich heard, while starting to smoke, how she 
 inquired very circumstantially about the different prices 
 of the land and settled on the lot which she was going to 
 take. Having finished about the lot, she also made her 
 arrangements about the singers. Sokolov went away. 
 
 " I do everything myself," she said to Peter Ivanovich, 
 pushing aside the albums which were lying on the ta- 
 ble, and, observing that the ashes were threatening the 
 table, she without delay moved up the ash-tray to Peter 
 Ivanovich, and said : " I consider it a bit of hypocrisy to 
 assure people that my grief prevents me from attending 
 to practical matters. On the contrary, if there is any- 
 thing which can, not console, but distract me, it is the 
 cares concerning him." She again drew out her handker- 
 chief, as though getting ready to cry, and suddenly, as 
 though overcoming herself, she shook herself, and began 
 to speak calmly. " But I want to ask you about a certain 
 matter." 
 
 Peter Ivanovich made a bow, without permitting the 
 springs of the pouffe, which began to stir under him, to 
 get away. 
 
 " The last three days he suffered terribly." 
 
 " Suffered terribly ? " asked Peter Ivanovich. 
 
 " Oh, terribly ! The last minutes, nay hours, he never 
 stopped crying. It was unbearable. I cannot understand 
 how I stood it ; you could hear him three rooms off. Oh, 
 what I have endured ! " 
 
 " And was he really in his right mind ? " asked Peter 
 Ivanovich. 
 
 " Yes," she whispered, " to the last minute. He bade 
 us good-bye within fifteen minutes of his death, and also 
 asked us to take Volodya away." 
 
 The thought of the suffering of this man, whom he had
 
 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 11 
 
 known so closely, at first as a merry boy, as his school- 
 mate, and later, when he was grown, as his partner, 
 suddenly terrified him, in spite of the disagreeable con- 
 sciousness of his hypocrisy and of that of the woman. He 
 again saw that brow and that nose which pressed against 
 the hp, and he felt terribly for himself. 
 
 " Three days of frightful suffering, and death. Why, 
 this may happen to me now, any minute," he thought, 
 and for a moment he felt terribly. But immediately, he 
 did not know himself how, the habitual thought occurred 
 to him that this had happened to Ivan Ilich, and not to 
 him, and that this should not and could not happen 
 to him ; that if he thought in this manner, he submitted to 
 a gloomy mood, which he ought not to do, as was evident 
 from Schwarz's face. Having reflected thus, Peter Ivano- 
 vich calmed himself and interestedly inquired about the 
 details of Ivan Ilich's end, as though death was an acci- 
 dent which was pecuHar to Ivan Ilich but by no means to 
 him. 
 
 After many details of the really terrible physical suffer- 
 iags which Ivan Ilich had endured (these details Peter 
 Ivanovich learned only from the way these torments of 
 Ivan Ilich affected the nerves of Praskovya FMorovna), 
 the widow apparently found it necessary to pass over to 
 business. 
 
 " Oh, Peter Ivanovich, it is so hard, so terribly hard, 
 so terribly hard ! " and she started weeping again. 
 
 Peter Ivanovich sighed and waited for her to clear her 
 nose. When she had done so, he said, " Believe me — " and 
 she became again voluble and made a clear breast of what 
 evidently was her chief business with him. This business 
 consisted in questions as to how to obtain money from the 
 government on the occasion of her husband's death. She 
 made it appear as though she were asking Peter Ivano- 
 vich's advice in regard to the pension ; but he saw that 
 she knew down to the minutest details, what he did not
 
 12 THE DEATH OF IVAJf ILICH 
 
 kuow, what could be got out of the government in con- 
 sequence of this death, but that she wanted to find out if 
 it were not possible in some way to get a little more 
 money out of it. Peter Ivanovich tried to discover a 
 means to do so, but, after reflecting a Httle and out of 
 propriety scolding our government for its stinginess, 
 be said that he thought that nothing more could be got 
 from it. Thereupon she sighed and obviously was trying 
 to find a means for ridding herself of her visitor. He 
 understood this, and so put out his cigarette, pressed her 
 baud, and went into the antechamber. 
 
 In the dining-room with a clock, to which Ivan Ilich 
 had taken such a fancy that he had purchased it in a 
 bric-a-brac shop, Peter Ivanovich met a priest and a few 
 acquaintances who had come to be present at the mass, 
 and saw Ivan Ilich's daughter, a pretty young lady, with 
 whom he was acquainted. She had a gloomy, determined, 
 almost angry look. She bowed to Peter Ivanovich, as 
 though he were guilty of something. Back of the daugh- 
 ter stood, with the same offended look, a wealthy young 
 man, an examining magistrate and an acquaintance of 
 Peter Ivanovich, who, as he had heard, was her fianc^ 
 He bowed dejectedly and was on the point of passing 
 into the room of the dead man, when from under the 
 staircase appeared the small form of a gymnasiast, Ivan 
 Ilich's sou, who resembled his father terribly. This was 
 little Ivan Ilich, such as Peter Ivanovich remembered him 
 in the law school. His eyes were small and such as one 
 generally sees in impure boys of thirteen or fourteen 
 years of age. Upon noticing Peter Ivanovich, the boy 
 began to frown sternly and shamefacedly. Peter Ivano- 
 vich nodded to him, and entered the room of the dead 
 man. The mass began, and there were the candles, 
 groans, incense, tears, sobs. Peter Ivanovich stood frown- 
 ing, looking at his feet in front of him. He did not once 
 cast a glance on the dead man, and did not to the end
 
 THE DEATH OF IVAX ILICH 13 
 
 succumb to the dissolving iufluences, and was one of the 
 first to leave the room. There was no one in the aute- 
 chamber. Gerasim, the peasant of the buffet-room, leaped 
 out from the room of the deceased man, and with his 
 powerful hands rummaged among all the fur coats, in order 
 to find the one w^hich belonged to Peter Ivanovich and 
 w^hich he handed to him. 
 
 " Well, friend Gerasim ? " said Peter Ivanovich, to be 
 saying something. " Are you sorry ? " 
 
 " It is God's will. We shall all of us be there," said 
 Gerasim, displaying his white, solid peasant teeth ; like 
 a man in the heat of intense work, he opened the door 
 in lively fashion, called the coachman, helped Peter Ivano- 
 vich in, and jumped back to the porch, as though consider- 
 ing what else he had to do. 
 
 It was especially pleasant for Peter Ivanovich to 
 breathe the pure air, after the odour of incense, of the 
 dead body, and of carbohc acid. 
 
 " Whither do you command me to drive you ? " asked 
 the coachman. 
 
 " It is not yet late, — I will make a call on Fedor 
 Vasilevich." 
 
 And Peter Ivanovich departed. He indeed found 
 them at the end of the first rubber, so that it was conve- 
 nient for him to come in as the fifth.
 
 n. 
 
 Ivan Ilich's past life was simple and most common, 
 and yet most terrible. 
 
 Ivan IKch died at the age of forty-five years, as a mem- 
 ber of the court of justice. He was the son of an official 
 who had in various ministries and departments of St. 
 Petersburg made that career which brings people to that 
 state from which, though it becomes evident to them that 
 they are no good for the performance of any essential duty, 
 they none the less cannot be expelled, both on account 
 of their long past service and their ranks, and so re- 
 ceive imaginary, fictitious places, and non-fictitious thou- 
 sands, from six to ten, with which they live to a good old 
 age. 
 
 Such had been the privy councillor, the useless member 
 of all kinds of useless estabhshments, Ilya Efimovich 
 Golovin. 
 
 He had three sons : Ivan Ilich was his second ; the 
 eldest had made a similar career to that of his father, 
 only in a different ministry, and was rapidly approaching 
 that official age when one attains that inertia of salary. 
 The third son was a failure. He had continuously ruined 
 himself in various places, and was now serving with the 
 railways, and his father and his brothers, but especially 
 their wives, not only disliked meeting him, but without 
 some extreme need did not even mention his existence. 
 His sister was married to Baron Gref, a St. Petersburg 
 official like his father-in-law. 
 
 Ivan Ilich was " le phcnix de la famille," as they said. 
 
 He was not as cold and as precise as the elder, and not 
 
 14
 
 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 15 
 
 as desperate as the younger. He was intermediate be- 
 tween them, — a clever, lively, agreeable, and decent man. 
 He attended the department of law together with his 
 younger brother. The yor.nger brother did not graduate, 
 and was expelled in his tilth year, while Ivan Ilich 
 graduated high in his class. Even while studying law 
 he was what he was later, during his whole life, — a 
 capable, jolly, and affable man, who none the less strictly 
 carried out what he considered to be his duty ; and he 
 considered his duty that which was so considered by men 
 in the higher spheres. Neither as a boy nor as a grown 
 man did he curry favour with any one, but from his 
 earhest youth he tended, like a fly to the light, to men 
 who occupied the highest positions in the world, adopted 
 their manner and- their views of life, and established 
 friendly relations with them. All the distractions of 
 childhood and youth had passed for him without leaving 
 any great traces ; he abandoned himself to sensuality and 
 ambition, and toward the end to the liberalism of the 
 higher classes, but all tliis within certain limits which his 
 feeling indicated to him correctly. 
 
 He had committed acts, while studying law, which had 
 presented themselves to him as great abominations and 
 had inspired him vdth contempt for himself at the time 
 that he had committed them, but later, when he observed 
 that such acts were also committed by distinguished per- 
 sonages and were not considered to be bad, he, without 
 acknowledging them to be good, completely forgot them 
 and was by no means grieved at the thought of them. 
 
 Having graduated from the law school in the tenth 
 class and having received from his father money with 
 which to provide himself with clothes, Ivan Ilich ordered 
 them at Charmeur's, attached to his fob a small medal 
 with the inscription, " Ecspice Jinem," bade good-bye to 
 the prince and to his tutor, dined with his companions 
 at Donon's, and with new trunk, underwear, clothes,
 
 16 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 
 
 shaving and toilet appurtenances, and a plaid, all of them 
 ordered and bought in the best shops, departed for the 
 province to take the place of an official on the governor's 
 special business, which his father had procured for him. 
 
 In the province Ivan Ilich at once arranged the same 
 easy and pleasant position for himself that he had enjoyed 
 in the law school. He served, made a career for himself, 
 and at the same time passed his time pleasantly and 
 decently ; now and then he journeyed to the counties at 
 the command of the authorities, bore himself with dignity 
 both toward those who stood above him and those who 
 stood beneath him, and with precision and incorruptible 
 honesty, which he could not help but be proud of, carried 
 out the business entrusted to him, especially in matters 
 of the dissenters. 
 
 In matters of his service he was, in spite of his youth 
 and proneness to light merriment, extremely reserved, 
 official, and even severe ; but in matters of society he was 
 often playful and witty, and always good-hearted, decent, 
 and a " hon enfant," as was said of him by his chief and 
 his chief's wife, at whose house he was a close friend. 
 
 There was also in the province a liaison with one of 
 the ladies, who obtruded herself on the dandyish jurist ; 
 and there was a modiste, and drinking bouts with visiting 
 aids-de-camp, and drives to a distant street after supper ; 
 there was also a subserviency to the chief, and even to the 
 wife of the chief, but all this bore upon itself such an 
 elevated tone of decency that it could not be called by 
 any bad words : it all only fitted in with the French 
 saying, " E faut que jeunesse se passe" Everything took 
 place with clean hands, in clean shirts, with French words, 
 and, above all else, in the very highest society, con- 
 sequently with the approval of most distinguished persons. 
 
 Thus Ivan Ilich served for five years, and a change 
 was made in the service. There appeared new institutions 
 of law, and new men were needed.
 
 THE DEATH OF lYAN ILICH 17 
 
 Ivan Ilich became such a new man. 
 
 Ivan Ilich was offered the place of examining magis- 
 trate, and accepted it, although this place was in another 
 Government and it became necessary for him to give up 
 the established relations and establish new ones. Ivan 
 Ilich was seen off' by his friends, a group was formed, a 
 silver cigarette case was presented to him, and he departed 
 for the new place-. 
 
 Ivan Ilich was the same comme il faut, decent examin- 
 ing magistrate, who knew how to separate his official 
 duties from his private life and who inspired general 
 respect, that he had been as an official on special business. 
 The post of the examining magistrate itself presented 
 much more interest and attraction to him than the one 
 he had formerly held. In his former office it had been a 
 pleasure to him with an easy gait, and wearing Charmeur's 
 undress uniform, to pass by the trembling petitioners, 
 who were waiting for an audience, and by the official 
 people, who envied him, and to enter directly the chief's 
 private room and sit down with him at tea while smoking 
 a cigarette, but there had been but few people who were 
 directly dependent on his will. Such people had been 
 chiefs of rural police and dissenters, whenever he was 
 sent out on some special business ; and he had been fond 
 of treating such people, who were dependent on him, 
 pohtely, almost chummiiy, and of making them feel that 
 he, who might crush them, was treating them in a friendly 
 and simple manner. There had been but few such people. 
 
 But now, while he was an examining magistrate, Ivan 
 Ilich felt that all, all without exception, — the most im- 
 portant and most self-satisfied people, — were in his hands, 
 and that he needed only to write certain words on a paper 
 with a certain heading, when such an important, self- 
 satisfied man would be brought to him in the capacity of 
 defendant or witness, who, if he had no mind to let him 
 sit down, would stand before him and answer his ques-
 
 18 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 
 
 tions. Ivan Ilich never misused this power and, on the 
 contrary, tried to mitigate its expression ; l)ut the con- 
 sciousness of this power and the possibility of mitigating 
 it formed for him the chief interest and attraction of his 
 new service. In the service itself, more especially in 
 his examinations, he very soon acquired the manner of 
 removing from himself all those circumstances v/hich had 
 notliing to do with the service, and of simplifying every 
 extremely comphcated matter to a form which would 
 permit the matter to be reflected merely externally on 
 paper, and which completely excluded his personal view 
 and, above all, made it possible to observe the whole 
 necessary formality. This was a new business, and he 
 was one of the first men who in practice worked out the 
 application of the statutes of the year 1864, 
 
 On arriving in the new city, in the capacity of examin- 
 ing magistrate, Ivan Ilich made new acquaintances and 
 connections, arranged matters for himself anew, and as- 
 sumed a somewhat different tone. He placed himseK 
 in a certain dignified aloofness from the provincial author- 
 ities, chose the best circle consisting of members of the 
 legal profession and of the wealthy gentry who lived in 
 the city, and assumed a tone of shght dissatisfaction with 
 the government, of moderate liberalism, and of cultured 
 civism. Besides this, Ivan Ilich, though making no 
 change in the elegance of his toilet, in this new office 
 stopped shaving his chin and permitted his beard to grow 
 as it listed. 
 
 In this new city Ivan Ilich's hfe again arranged itself 
 in a most agreeable manner: the society which found 
 fault with the governor was jolly and pleasant, the salary 
 was larger, and not a small degree of pleasure was at that 
 time added by the whist which Ivan Ilich began to play, 
 being possessed of the ability of playing cards merrily, 
 and reflecting rapidly and very shrewdly, so that on the 
 whole he was always winning.
 
 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 19 
 
 After two years of service iu the new city, Ivan Ilich 
 met his future wife. Praskovya F(5dorovna Mikhel was 
 the most attractive, clever, aud brilliant girl of the circle 
 in which he moved. Among the other amusements and 
 relaxations from the labours of the examining magistrate, 
 Ivan Ilich established playful, hght relations with Pras- 
 kovya F^dorovna. 
 
 Ivan Ihch had been in the habit of dancing while he 
 was an official on special business ; but being an examin- 
 ing magistrate, he danced only as an exception. He now 
 danced iu this sense that, though he was serving in the 
 new institutions and belonged to the fifth class, he could 
 prove, when it came to dancing, that in this line he was 
 better than anybody else. Thus he occasionally danced 
 with Praskovya F^dorovna toward the end of the evening, 
 and mainly during these dances conquered her. She fell 
 in love with him. He did not have any clear and defi- 
 nite intention of getting married, but when the girl fell 
 in love with him, he put this question to himself : " In- 
 deed, why can't I get married ? " 
 
 Miss Praskovya F^dorovna belonged to a good family 
 of the gentry, and she had some little property. Ivan 
 Ihch could count on a more brilliant match, but this one 
 was not bad, either. Ivan Ilich had his salary, and she, so 
 he hoped, would have as much again. It was a good 
 alhance ; she was a sweet, pretty, and absolutely decent 
 woman. To say that Ivan Ilich married because he loved 
 his fiancee aud found in her a sympathetic relation to his 
 views of life would be as unjust as saying that he married 
 because the people of his society approved of the match. 
 Ivan Ilich married for two reasons : he was doing some- 
 thing agreeable for himself in acquiring such a wife, and 
 at the same time did what people in high positions re- 
 garded as regular. 
 
 And so Ivan Ilich got married. 
 
 The process of marrying itself and the first period of
 
 20 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 
 
 his marital life, with the conjugal affection, new furniture, 
 new dishes, new hnen, passed very well until his wife's 
 pregnancy, so that he began to think that his marriage 
 would not ouly not impair that character of the easy, 
 agreeable, merry, and always decent life, which was ap- 
 proved of by society and which he regarded as peculiar to 
 life in general, but that it would even intensify it. But 
 beginning with the first month of his wife's pregnancy, 
 there appeared something new, unexpected, disagreeable, 
 oppressive, and indecent, which it had been impossible to 
 expect, and impossible to get rid of. 
 
 Without the least provocation, as it seemed to Ivan 
 Ilich, " de gaite de cceur" as he said to himself, his wife 
 began to impair the pleasure and decency of life : she was 
 without any cause jealous of him, demanded his atten- 
 tions, nagged him in everything, and made disagreeable 
 and vulgar scenes with him. 
 
 At first Ivan Ilich hoped to free himself from the un- 
 pleasantness of this situation by means of that same light 
 and decorous relation to life which had helped him out 
 before ; he tried to ignore his wife's disposition and con- 
 tinued to live lightly and agreeably, as before : he invited 
 his friends to his house, to have a game, and tried himself 
 to go to the club or to his friends ; but his wife one day 
 began with such energy to apply vulgar words to him, and 
 continued so stubbornly to scold him every time that he 
 did not comply with her demands, having apparently 
 determined not to stop until he should submit, that i>s, 
 should stay at home and experience tedium like herself, 
 that he became frightened. He comprehended that mari- 
 tal life, at least with his wife, did not always contribute 
 to the pleasures and the decency of life, but on the con- 
 trary frequently violated them, and that, therefore, it was 
 necessary for him to defend himself against these viola- 
 tions. Ivan Ilich began to look for means for this. His 
 service was the one thing which impressed Praskdvya
 
 THE DEATH OF lYAN ILfcH 21 
 
 F^dorovna, and Ivan Ilich began by means of his service 
 and the duties resulting from it to struggle with his wife, 
 hedging in his independent world. 
 
 With the birth of a child, with the attempts at nursing 
 it aud the various failures in this matter, with the real 
 and imaginary diseases of the child and of the mother, 
 when Ivan Ilich's cooperation was demanded, though he 
 was unable to comprehend a thing about these matters, 
 the necessity for hedging in his world outside his family 
 became more imperative for him. 
 
 In measure as his wife became more irritable and more 
 exacting, Ivan Ihch more and more transferred the centre 
 of his life into his service. He began to love his service 
 more and grew to be more ambitious than he had been 
 before. 
 
 Very soon, not more than a year after his marriage, 
 Ivan Ilich understood that marital Life, though it pre- 
 sented certain comforts of life, in reahty was a very 
 complex and difficult matter, in relation to which, in 
 order to perform one's duty, that is, to lead a decent life, 
 which is approved by society, it was necessary to work 
 out a certain relation, just as in the case of the service. 
 
 And Ivan Ilich worked out such a relation to the 
 marital life. He demanded from his domestic life noth- 
 ing but those comforts of a home dinner, of the hostess, 
 of the bed, which she could give him, and, above all, that 
 decency of exterual forms which were determined by 
 public opinion. In everything else he sought merry 
 enjoyment and decency, and he was thankful when he 
 found them. Whenever he met with opposition and 
 grumbling, he immediately withdrew to the separate world 
 of his service, in which he hedged himself in and found 
 his pleasure. 
 
 Ivan Ilich was esteemed as a good official, and after 
 three years he was made associate prosecuting attorney. 
 His new duties, their importance, the possibility of sum-
 
 22 THE DEATH OF IV/n ILICH 
 
 moning to court and incarcerating any person, the pub- 
 licity of the speeches, the success which Ivan Ilich had 
 in this matter, — all this attracted him more and more to 
 the service. 
 
 There came a succession of children. His wife became 
 more irritable and grumbled more and more, but his rela- 
 tions to domestic life, as worked out by him, made him 
 almost impermeable to her irritability. 
 
 After seven years of serving in one city, Ivan Ilich was 
 transferred to another Government in the capacity of 
 prosecuting attorney. They moved ; they had little 
 money, and his wife did not like the place to which they 
 moved. Though his salary was larger than before, the 
 living was more expensive ; besides, two of the children 
 died, and so the domestic life became even more disa- 
 greeable for Ivan Ilich. 
 
 Praskovya F^dorovna reproached her husband for all 
 mishaps in this their new place of abode. The majority 
 of the subjects of conversation between husband and wife, 
 especially the education of the children, led to questions 
 which recalled former quarrels, and quarrels were ready 
 to burst forth at any moment. There remained only 
 those rare periods of amorousness which came over the 
 two, but did not last long. Those were islets where they 
 anchored for awhile, but they soon set out again into the 
 sea of hidden enmity, which found its expression in their 
 mutual alienation. This alienation might have grieved 
 Ivan Ilich, if he had thought that this ought not to be so ; 
 but he now recognized this situation not only as normal, 
 but even as the aim of his activity in the family. His 
 aim consisted in freeing himself more and more from 
 these unpleasantnesses and giving them the character 
 of innocuousness and decency ; and this he obtained by 
 passing less and less time with his family, and when he 
 was compelled to be with them, he tried to make his 
 position secure by the presence of third parties.
 
 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 23 
 
 But the chief thing was his service. The whole inter- 
 est of hfe centred for him iu the official world. This 
 interest absorbed him. The consciousness of his power, 
 of the possibihty of ruining any man he wanted to ruin, 
 his importance with his inferiors, even externally, upon 
 entering court or meeting them elsewhere, his success be- 
 fore his superiors and his subordinates, and, above all, the 
 mastery with which he conducted his cases, of which he 
 was conscious, — all this gave him pleasure, and with his 
 conversations witli friends, and with dinners and whist, 
 filled his life. Thus, in general, Ivan Ilich's hfe con- 
 tinued to run as he thought that it ought to run, — 
 agreeably and decently. 
 
 Thus he lived another seven years. His eldest daugh- 
 ter was now sixteen years old ; another child had died, 
 and there was left a boy, agymnasiast, the subject of their 
 contentions. Ivan Ilich wanted to send him to a law 
 school, but Praskovya Fedorovna, to spite him, sent the 
 boy to a gymnasium. The daughter studied at home and 
 grew well, and the boy, too, studied not badly.
 
 III. 
 
 Thus Ivan Ilich's life had run for seventeen years from 
 the time of his marriage. He was now an old prosecut- 
 ing attorney, who had declined several transfers in the 
 expectation of a more desirable place, when suddenly 
 there happened a disagreeable circumstance which com- 
 pletely upset the calm of his hfe. Ivan Ilich was waiting 
 for the place of presiding judge in a university city ; but 
 Goppe somehow gut ahead of him, and received that place. 
 Ivan Ihch was annoyed at this, began to make reproaches, 
 and quarrelled with him and with the nearer authorities ; 
 they grew cold to him, and at the next appointment he 
 was again left out. 
 
 That happened in the year 1880. That year was the 
 most difficult one in Ivan Ilich's life. In that year it 
 appeared that, on the one hand, the salary was not large 
 enough to live on, and that, on the other, all had for- 
 gotten him, and that what in relation to him appeared to 
 him as the greatest and most cruel injustice, to others 
 appeared as an entirely common affair. Even his father 
 did not consider it his duty to help him. He felt that 
 all had abandoned him, considering his situation with 
 thirty-five hundred roubles salary most normal and even 
 fortunate. He alone knew that, with the consciousness 
 of those cases of injustice which had been done him, and 
 with the eternal nagging of his wife, and with the debts 
 which he had begun to make, since he was living beyond 
 his means, — he alone knew that his situation was far 
 from being normal. 
 
 21
 
 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 25 
 
 To economize, he took that summer a leave of absence 
 and went with his wife to pass the summer in the country 
 with Praskovya F^dorovna's brother. 
 
 In the country without his service, Ivan Ilich for the 
 first time experienced not only tedium, but also intoler- 
 able despondency, and he decided that it was impossible 
 to live in this manner and that it was necessary to take 
 some decisive measures. 
 
 Ivan Ilich passed a sleepless night, during which he 
 walked up and down the terrace, and he decided to go to 
 St. Petersburg, to bestir himself, and, in order to punish 
 them, who had not appreciated him, to go over to another 
 ministry. 
 
 On the next day he went to St. Petersburg, in spite of 
 the dissuasions of his wife and his brother-in-law. 
 
 He went there with one thing in view, — to obtain 
 a place which would give him a salary of five thousand a 
 year. He no longer stuck to any ministry, political bias, 
 or manner of activity. All he needed was a place, a place 
 with five thousand, in the administration, in the banks, 
 with the railways, in the institutions of Empress Mary, 
 even in the custom-house, — but it had by all means 
 to be five thousand, and he by all means to leave the 
 ministry, where they did not know how to appreciate 
 him. 
 
 This journey of Ivan Ilich was crowned by remarkable, 
 unexpected success. In Kursk F. S. Ilin, an acquaintance 
 of his, entered the coach of the first class, and informed 
 him of the contents of the latest despatch received by the 
 governor of Kursk, that shortly a transposition would take 
 place in the ministry : Ivan Sem^novich was to be ap- 
 pointed in Peter Ivanovich's place. 
 
 The proposed transposition had, in addition to its mean- 
 ing for Eussia, a special meaning for Ivan IKch, for, by 
 bringing to the front Peter Petrovich and, apparently, his 
 friend Zakhar Ivanovich, it was extremely favourable for
 
 26 THE DEATH OF IVAX ILfCH 
 
 Ivan nich. Zakhar Ivanovich was Ivau Ilich's school- 
 mate and friend. 
 
 In Moscow the news was confirmed. Upon arriving at 
 St. Petersburg, Ivan Ilich found Zakhar Ivanovich, from 
 whom he received the promise of a certain place in his 
 former ministry of justice. 
 
 A week later he telegraphed to his wife : " Zakhar 
 Miller's place, with first report I receive appointment." 
 
 Thanks to this transposition of persons, Ivan Ilich 
 suddenly received an appointment in his former ministry, 
 which advanced him two points above his comrades, and 
 gave him a salary of five thousand, and thirty-five hun- 
 dred for travelling expenses. His whole anger against 
 liis former enemies and against the whole ministry was 
 forgotten, and he was quite happy. 
 
 Ivan Ilich returned to the village merry and satisfied, 
 as he had not been for a long time. Praskovya Fedorovna 
 herself was merry, and a truce was estabhshed between 
 them. Ivan Ilich told of how he had been honoured in 
 St. Petersburg, how all those who were his enemies had 
 been put to shame and now were fawning before him, how 
 he was envied his position, and especially how much all 
 loved him in St. Petersburg. 
 
 Praskovya listened to it all, and looked as though she 
 believed it all, and did not contradict him in anything ; 
 she only made plans for the new arrangement of life in 
 the city to which they were going to move. Ivan Ilich 
 saw with delight that these plans were his plans, that 
 they agreed with one another, and that his arrested life 
 was once more receiving the real character of merry 
 pleasantness and decency which was peculiar to it. 
 
 Ivan Ilich came back for but a short time. On Sep- 
 tember the 10th he had to enter upon his new office, and, 
 besides, he needed time to arrange matters in the new 
 place, to transfer everything from the province, to purchase 
 things, to order a lot more, — in short, to arrange matters
 
 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 27 
 
 as they had been determined upon in his mind, and almost 
 in precisely the same manner as had been decided also in 
 Praskovya F^dorovna's mind. 
 
 Now that everything had been arranged so successfully 
 and he and his wife agreed in their aims, and besides lived 
 so little together, they became more friendly with one 
 another than they had been since the first years of their 
 married hfe. Ivan Ilich intended to take his family away 
 at once, but the insistence of his sister and his brother- 
 in-law, who suddenly became unusually amiable and 
 familiarly interested in Ivan Ilich and his family, had this 
 effect, that Ivan Ilich departed by himself. 
 
 Ivan Ilich departed, and the happy mood w^hich was 
 produced by his success and the agreement with his wife, 
 one intensifying the other, did not leave him all the time. 
 He found charming quarters, precisely what husband and 
 wife had been dreaming of together. The large, high- 
 studded reception-rooms in the old style, the comfortable, 
 magnificent cabinet, the rooms for his wife and his daugh- 
 ter, the class-room for his son, — everything was as if 
 purposely intended for them ; Ivan Ilich himseK attended 
 to their appointments : he chose the wall-paper, bought 
 more furniture, especially such as was old-fashioned, which 
 gave the aspect of a comme il faut style and which he had 
 re-covered, and everything grew and grew, and arrived at 
 the ideal which he had formed for himself. When he 
 had half arranged matters, his arrangement surpassed his 
 expectations. He understood that comme il faut, elegant, 
 and non-vulgar character which everything would assume 
 when it was ready. 
 
 When he fell asleep, he imagined the parlour as it would 
 be. As he looked at the drawing-room, which was not 
 yet finished, he already saw the fireplace, the screen, the 
 shelves, and those scattered chairs, those dishes and plates 
 along the walls, and the bronzes, when they should all be 
 set up in their proper places. He rejoiced at the thought
 
 28 THE DEATH OF IVAX ILfCH 
 
 of how he would surprise Praskovya and Lizanka, who 
 also had good taste in such things. They were not ex- 
 pecting it at all. He was particularly fortunate in finding 
 and purchasing some old things, which gave it a pecuharly 
 noble aspect. In his letters he purposely represented 
 matters worse than they were, in order to startle them 
 the more. All this interested him so much that even his 
 new service, though he liked it, interested him less than 
 he had expected. 
 
 At the sessions he had minutes of absent-mindedness ; 
 he was wondering what borders to put on the curtains, 
 whether to have them straight or gathered. He was so 
 busy with this, that he frequently bothered with it him- 
 self, transposed the furniture, and himself hung the cur- 
 tains in different places. One day he climbed a ladder in 
 order to show the paper-hanger how he wanted the drapery 
 hung ; he made a misstep and fell, but, as he was a stroug 
 and agile man, he caught himself in time, merely striking 
 his side against the window-frame knob. The blow hurt 
 a httle, but this soon passed away. 
 
 Ivan Ilich felt himself particularly happy and well dur- 
 ing this time. He wrote : " I feel that fifteen years have 
 jumped off from me." He l;iad intended to be through 
 with it all in September, but it lasted until the middle of 
 October. But it was superb, so not only he said, but also 
 all those who saw it. 
 
 In reality it was the same as in the case of all not very 
 wealthy men, who want to be like the rich, and so only 
 resemble one another : there were stuffs, black wood, 
 flowers, rugs, and bronzes, dark and burnished, everything 
 which people of a certain class have in order to resemble 
 all people of a certain class. And everything was so 
 much like it in his house, that it tvas even impossible to 
 direct one's attention to it, but to him it appeared as 
 something quite special. When he met his family at the 
 railway station and brought them home to his illuminated
 
 THE DEATH OF IVAX ILICH 29 
 
 and fixed-up apartments, and a lackey in a white necktie 
 opened the door into an antechamber which was all 
 adorned with flowers, and thev later entered the drawing- 
 room and the cabinet, and went into raptures from 
 pleasure, — he was very happy, led them around every- 
 where, imbibed their praises and shone with joy. On 
 that evening, when Praskovya Fedorovna asked him at 
 tea, among other things, how he had fallen, he laughed 
 and impersonated to them how he Hew down and fright- 
 ened the paper-hanger. 
 
 " That's what I am a gymnast for. Another man 
 would have been killed, but I barely hit myself right 
 here ; when you touch it, it hurts, but it is all going 
 away ; it is simply a bump." 
 
 And they began to live in their new quarters, in which, 
 as is always the case when people have settled down, 
 there was wanting just one room, and with their new 
 means, to which, as always, only a little, some five hun- 
 dred roubles, was wanting, and everything was very well. 
 Especially well it was at first, when things were not yet all 
 arranged, and it was necessary still to look after things, — 
 now to buy, now to order, now to transpose, now to fix 
 things. Though there was some disagreement between 
 husband and wife, both were so much satisfied, and they 
 had so much to do, that everything ended without any 
 great quarrels. When there was nothing more to arrange, 
 it became a little tedious and something was wanting, but 
 they made new acquaintances, acquired new habits, and 
 life was filled out. 
 
 Ivan Ilich passed the morning in the court and returned 
 for dinner, and at first his disposition was good, though it 
 suffered somewhat from the apartments. Every spot 
 on the table-cloth and on the upholstery, a torn cord of 
 the curtain, irritated him. He had put so much labour 
 into the arrangement of things, that every bit of destruc- 
 tion pained him. But, in general, Ivan Ilich's Life went
 
 30 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 
 
 on as according to bis faith it had to run, — lightly, 
 agreeably, and decently. He got up at nine, drank 
 cofiee, read the newspaper, then put on bis undress uni- 
 form, and went to court. 
 
 Here be found the collar set in which he had to work : 
 he immediately found his way into it. There were 
 petitioners, inquiries at the chancery, the chancery itself, 
 the sessions, — public and administrative sessions. In 
 all this it was necessary to exclude everything raw and 
 vital, which for ever impairs the regularity of the course 
 of official affairs : it was necessary not to permit any 
 relations with people outside of official ones, and the 
 cause for such relations must be nothing but official, and 
 the relations themselves must be nothing but official. 
 For example, a man comes and wants to find out some- 
 thing. Ivan Ilich, as a private citizen, can have no 
 relations with such a man ; but if there exists a relation 
 with such a man, as to a member of the court, such a rela- 
 tion as can be expressed on paper with a heading, — within 
 the limits of such relations Ivan Ilich does everything, ab- 
 solutely everything possible, and with this he observes the 
 semblance of human, amicable relations, that is, poHteness. 
 The moment the official relation comes to an end, every 
 other relation is also ended. This abihty to separate the 
 official side, without mixing it with real life, Ivan Ilich 
 possessed in the highest degree, and through long prac- 
 tice and talent he had worked it out to such a degi'ee that 
 at times he permitted himseK, like an artist, as though 
 in jest, to mix the human and the official relations. He 
 took this hberty, because he felt himself able always, 
 whenever it should be necessary, again to segregate what 
 was official and reject what was human. 
 
 Things went with Ivan Ilich not only easily, agreeably, 
 and decently, but even artistically. During pauses he 
 smoked, drank tea, and chatted a l)it about politics, a little 
 about general matters, a little about cards, and most of
 
 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 31 
 
 all about appointments. And he returned home tired, 
 but with the feeling of the artist who has finished 
 with precision his part, one of the first vioHns in the 
 orchestra. 
 
 At home the daughter and her mother were either out 
 calling somewhere, or they had guests ; the son was in 
 the gymnasium, prepared his lessons with tutors, and 
 studied well such things as are studied in a gymnasium. 
 After dinner, if there were no guests, Ivan IHch at times 
 read a book of which people were talking a great deal, 
 and in the evening sat down to attend to business, that 
 is, he read documents and looked into the laws, compar- 
 ing depositions and finding corresponding statutes. This 
 neither annoyed him, nor gave him pleasure. He felt 
 ennui when it was possible to play vint ; but when there 
 was no vint, this was better than sitting alone or with 
 his wife. His pleasures consisted in small dinners, to 
 which he invited ladies and gentlemen who were dis- 
 tinguished so far as their worldly position was concerned, 
 and in such pastime wdth them as would resemble the 
 usual pastime of such people, just as his drawing-room 
 resembled all other drawing-rooms. 
 
 One time they even had an evening party, and there was 
 some dancing. Ivan Ilich felt happy and everything was 
 well, except that he had a great quarrel with his wife on 
 account of the cake and confectionery : Praskovya Fedor- 
 ovna had her ovni plan, but Ivan Ihch insisted that 
 everything be purchased from an expensive confectioner, 
 and bought a lot of cake, and the quarrel w^as due to the 
 fact that the cake was left over, while the confectioner's 
 bill amounted to forty-five roubles. The quarrel w^as 
 great and disagreeable, so that Praskovya Fedorovna said 
 to him, " Fool, ninny ! " He clutched his head and in his 
 anger made some mention about divorce. But the even- 
 ing itself was a merry one. The best society was 
 present, and Ivan Ihch danced with Princess Trufdnov,
 
 32 THE DEATH OF IVAX ILfCH 
 
 the sister of the one who was known through the found- 
 ing of the society of " Carry away my grief." 
 
 The ojBficial joys were the joys of self-love ; the social 
 joys were the joys of vanity ; but Ivan Ilich's real joys 
 were the joys of the game of vint. He confessed that 
 after everything, after any joyless incidents in his life, it 
 was a joy, which shone like a candle before the rest, 
 to sit down with good players, not bellowing partners, to a 
 game of vint, by all means in a four-handed game (" a five- 
 handed game is annoying, though I pretend that I like 
 it"), and to carry on a clever, serious game (when the 
 cards come your way), then to eat supper and drink a 
 glass of wine. Ivan Ilich used to lie down to sleep after 
 a game of vint in a very good frame of mind, especially if 
 his winnings were small (large ones are disagreeable). 
 
 Thus they lived. Their society circle consisted of the 
 best, and distinguished and young people called on them. 
 
 In their opinions of the circle of their acquaintances, 
 husband, wife, and daughter were in complete agreement. 
 Without having plotted on the subject, they all alike 
 washed their hands clean and freed themselves from all 
 kinds of friends and relatives, slatternly people, who flew 
 at them gushingly in their drawing-room with the Japa- 
 nese plates along the wall. Soon these slatternly friends 
 stopped flying about, and the Golovins had nothing but 
 the very best society left. Young men paid court to 
 Lizanka, and Petrishchev, the son of Dmitri Ivanovich 
 Petrishchev, and the only heir to his fortune, as examining 
 magistrate, began to pay attention to Lizanka, so that Ivan 
 Ilich even had a talk about this matter with Praskovya 
 Fedorovna, whether he had not better take them out 
 driving on trdykas, or arrange a performance for them. 
 
 Thus they lived, and everything went on thus, without 
 any change, and everything was well.
 
 IV. 
 
 All were well. It was impossible to call ailment that 
 of which Ivau Ilich now and then said that he had a 
 peculiar taste in his mouth and an uncomfortable feeling 
 in the left side of his abdomen. 
 
 But it so happened that this discomfort kept growing 
 and passing, not yet into a pain, but into the conscious- 
 ness of a constant weight in his side and into ill humour. 
 This ill humour, growing and growing all the time, began 
 to spoil the pleasure of the light and decent life which 
 had established itself in the family of the Golovins. Man 
 and wife began to quarrel more and more often, and soon 
 there disappeared the ease and pleasure, and with diffi- 
 culty decency alone was maintained. The scenes became 
 more frequent again. Again there were left some islets, 
 but only a few of these, on which husband and wife could 
 meet without any explosion. Praskovya Fedorovna now 
 said not without reason that her husband was hard to get 
 along with. With her usual habit of exaggerating, she 
 said that he had always had such a terrible character that 
 one had to have her goodness to have stood him for twenty 
 years. It is true, the quarrels now began with him. It 
 was he who began to find fault, always immediately before 
 dinner, and frequently just as he was beginning to eat, 
 during his soup. Now he remarked that some dish was 
 chipped, or the food was not just right, or his son had put 
 his elbow on the table, or there was something wrong with 
 his daughter's hairdressing. For everything he blamed 
 Praskovya Fedorovna. 
 
 Praskovya Fedorovna at first retorted and told him 
 
 33
 
 o4 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 
 
 disagreeable things, but he once or twice flew into such 
 a rage during the dinner that she understood that this 
 was a morbid condition, which was provoked in him by 
 the partaking of the food, and she curbed herself : she no 
 longer retorted, but only hastened to eat her dinner. Pras- 
 kovya F^dorovna regarded her humility as a great desert 
 of hers. Having made up her mind that her husband had 
 a terrible character, and had been the misfortune of her 
 life, she began to pity herself, and the more she pitied 
 herseK, the more did she hate her husband. She began 
 to wish that he would die, but she could not wish tliis, 
 because then there would be no salary. And this irri- 
 tated her still more against him. She considered herself 
 terribly unfortunate even because his very death could 
 not save her, and she was irritated and concealed her 
 irritation, and this concealed irritation increased her irri- 
 tation. , 
 
 After a scene, in which Ivan Ilich was particularly 
 unjust, and after which he during the explanation said 
 that he was indeed irritable, but that this was due to his 
 disease, she said to him that if he was ill, he had to 
 undergo a cure, and so demanded of him that he should 
 consult a famous physician. 
 
 He went to see him. Everything was as he had 
 expected ; everything was done as such things always 
 are. The expectancy, and the assumed importance of 
 the doctor, which was familiar to him and which he 
 knew in himself in the court, and the tapping, and the 
 auscultation, and the questions which demanded previ- 
 ously determined and apparently useless answers, and 
 the significant aspect which seemed to say, " Just submit 
 to us, and we shall arrange everything ; we know indubi- 
 tably how to arrange it all, in the same fashion for any 
 man you please." Everything was precisely as in the 
 court. Just as he assumed a certain mien in respect to the 
 defendants, so the famous doctor assumed the same mien.
 
 THE DEATH OF TY/n ILfCH 35 
 
 The doctor said, " So and so shows that inside of you 
 there is so and so ; but if that is not confirmed by the inves- 
 tigation of so and so, we shall have to assume so and so. 
 If we assume so and so, then — " and so forth. Ivan 
 Ilich was interested in but one question, and that was, 
 whether his situation was dangerous, or not. But the 
 doctor ignored this irrelevant question. From the doc- 
 tor's standpoint, this question was idle and not subject 
 to consideration ; there existed only a weighing of proba- 
 bilities, — between a floating kidney, a chronic catarrh, 
 and the disease of the cfficum. This dispute the doctor 
 decided in the presence of Ivan Ilich in a brilliant manner 
 in favour of the caecum, with the proviso that the inves- 
 tigation of the urine might give new symptoms, and then 
 the case would be revised. All that was precisely what 
 Ivan Ilich had a thousand times done in just as brilliant 
 a manner in the case of defendants. The doctor made 
 his r^sum(5 in just as brilhant a manner, and looked with 
 a triumphant and merry glance over his glasses at the 
 defendant. From the doctor's resum^ Ivan Ilich drew 
 the conclusion that things were bad, and that it was a 
 matter of indifference to him, the doctor, and, for all that, 
 to all people, but bad for himself. This conclusion mor- 
 bidly affected Ivan Ilich, provoking in him a feehng of 
 great pity for himself and of great anger against this doctor 
 who was indifferent to such an important question. 
 
 But he did not say anything ; he only got up, put the 
 money "down on the table, and said, sighing, " We sick 
 people no doubt frequently put irrelevant questions to 
 you. Is this, in general, a dangerous disease, or not ? " 
 
 The doctor cast a stern glance at him with one eye, 
 above his glasses, as though saying, "Defendant, if you 
 do not remain within the limits of the questions put to 
 you, I shall be obliged to order your removal from the 
 court-room." 
 
 " I have already told you what I consider necessary
 
 36 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 
 
 and proper," said the doctor. " Further things will be 
 disclosed in the investigation." 
 
 And the doctor made a bow. 
 
 Ivan Ilich went out slowly, gloomily seated himself in 
 the sleigh, and drove home. All the way he continued 
 analyzing everything which the doctor had said, trying to 
 translate all those mixed, obscure scientific terms into 
 simple language, and to read in them an answer to the 
 question, " Am I in bad shape, in very bad shape, or is it 
 still all right ? " And it seemed to him that the meaning 
 of everything said by the doctor was that he was in bad 
 shape. Everything in the streets appeared sad to Ivan 
 Ilicli. The drivers were sad, the houses were sad, the 
 passers-by, the shops were sad. But this pain, this duU, 
 grinding pain, which did not leave him for a minute, 
 seemed, in connection with the doctor's obscure words, to 
 receive another, a more serious meaning. Ivan Ilich now 
 watched it with another, a heavy feeling. 
 
 He came home and began to tell Ms wife about it. 
 His wife listened to him, but in the middle of the conver- 
 sation his daughter entered, with a hat on her head ; she 
 was getting ready to drive out with her mother. She 
 made an eftort to sit down and listen to all that tiresome 
 talk, but did not hold out, and her mother, too, did not 
 stop to hear the end of it, 
 
 " Well, I am very glad," said his wife. " So now, be 
 sure and take the medicine regularly. Give me the 
 recipe, — I will send Gerasim to the apothecary's." 
 
 And she went out to get dressed. 
 
 He did not dare to draw breath while she was in the 
 room, but when she left, he heaved a deep sigh. 
 
 " Well," he said, " maybe it is, indeed, all right yet." 
 
 He began to take medicine, to carry out the doctor's 
 prescriptions, which were changed in consequence of the 
 urine investigation. But here it somehow happened that 
 in this investigation and in what was to follow after it
 
 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILfCH 37 
 
 things became mLxed up. It was impossible for him to 
 make his way to the doctor himself, and it turned out 
 that things were done differently from what the doctor 
 had ordered. Either the doctor had forgotten something 
 or told an untruth, or was hiding something from him. 
 
 But Ivan Ilich none the less began punctually to carry 
 out the doctor's instructions, and at first found some con- 
 solation in performing this duty. 
 
 Ivan Ilich's chief occupation, since his visit to the 
 doctor, became a punctual execution of the doctor's in- 
 structions as regards hygiene and the taking of medicine 
 and the watching of his disease and of all the functions 
 of his organism. People's diseases and health became his 
 chief interest. When they spoke in his presence of sick 
 people, of such as had died or were recuperating, espe- 
 cially of a disease which resembled his ow^n, he, trying to 
 conceal his agitation, listened, inquired, and made deduc- 
 tions as to his own disease. 
 
 The pain did not subside ; but Ivan Ilich made efforts 
 over himseK, in order to make himself believe that he 
 was feeling better. He was able to deceive himself so 
 long as nothing agitated him. But the moment he had 
 some unpleasantness with his wife, some failure in his 
 service, bad cards in vint, he immediately felt the full 
 force of his disease. Formerly he had borne these fail- 
 ures, hoping that he would mend what was bad, would 
 struggle and gain some success, would get a full hand ; 
 but now every failure sapped his strength, and cast him 
 into despair. He said to himself : " I had just begun to 
 mend, and the medicine had begun to act, when this ac- 
 cursed misfortune or unpleasantness befell me — " And he 
 was furious at the misfortune or at the people who caused 
 him an unpleasantness and were killing him, and he felt 
 that this anger was killing him, but was unable to keep 
 from it. It would seem that it must have become clear 
 to him that this embitterment against circumstances and
 
 38 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 
 
 people only intensified his disease, and that, therefore, he 
 ought to pay no attention to unpleasant incidents ; but 
 he made the very contrary reflection : he said that he 
 needed calm, and watched everything which impaired his 
 calm, and became irritable with every least impairment. 
 What made his condition worse was his reading books on 
 medicine and consulting doctors. His health declined so 
 evenly that he was able to deceive himself when he com- 
 pared one day with another, — there was little difference. 
 But when he consulted doctors, it seemed to him that he 
 was growing worse, and very rapidly at that ; but, in spite 
 of that, he constantly consulted doctors. 
 
 This month he called on another celebrity : the other 
 celebrity told him almost the same as the first celebrity, 
 but put the questions differently. The consultation with 
 this celebrity only increased Ivan Ilich's doubt and fear. 
 The friend of a friend of his, a very good doctor, deter- 
 mined the disease -in a still different manner, and, although 
 he promised a cure, he with his questions and assump- 
 tions still more confused Ivan Ilich and intensified his 
 doubts. A homceopathist determined the disease in a 
 still different way and gave him some medicine, and he 
 took it for a week, secretly from all. But at the end of 
 the week he felt no relief and lost his confidence in all 
 former treatments and in the present one, too, and so be- 
 came still more dejected. At one time a lady acquaint- 
 ance told him of a cure by means of holy images. Ivan 
 Ilich caught himself listening attentively and believing 
 the actuality of the fact. This incident frightened him. 
 
 " Is it possible I have mentally grown so feeble ? " he 
 said to himself. " Nonsense ! It's all bosh ! I must not 
 submit to my small faith, but, selecting one physician, 
 must strictly adhere to his treatment. I shall do so. It's 
 all over with that. I will not think, and will stick to 
 the one treatment until summer. We shall know what 
 to do after that. Now there is an end to wavering ! "
 
 THE DEATH OF IVAX ILICH 39 
 
 It was easy to say all that, but impossible to execute 
 it. The pain in his side was still annoying and seemed 
 to be increasing and growing more constant ; the taste in 
 his mouth grew more and more queer, — he thought a 
 disgusting smell came from his mouth, — and his appetite 
 and his strength grew weaker and weaker. It was im- 
 possible for him to deceive himself : something terrible, 
 new, and more significant than anything that had ever 
 taken place in his life was now going on in him. He 
 alone knew of it, and all those who surrounded him did 
 not understand it, or did not wish to understand it, and 
 thought that everything in the world was going on as 
 before. That tormented him more than anything. His 
 home folk, especially his wife and his daughter, who were 
 in the very heat of calls, he saw, did not understand 
 a tiling about it and were annoyed because he was so 
 cheerless and so exacting, as though it were his fault. 
 Though they tried to conceal this, he saw that he was an 
 obstacle to them, but that his wife had worked out for 
 herself a certain relation to his disease and held on to 
 it independently of what he said and did. This relation 
 was like this : 
 
 " You know," she would say to her friends, " Ivan 
 Ilich, like all good people, is unable strictly to take the 
 prescribed cure. To-day he will take the drops and eat 
 what he is ordered to eat, and will go to bed early ; to- 
 morrow, if I do not watch him, he will forget to take the 
 medicine, will eat some sturgeon (and he is not allowed to 
 eat that), and will sit up playing vint until one o'clock. 
 
 " ' When did I do it ? ' Ivan Ilich will say in anger. 
 ' Just this once at Peter Ivanovich's.' 
 
 " ' And yesterday at Shebek's.' 
 
 " ' It makes no difference, I cannot sleep from pain any- 
 way.' 
 
 " ' Whether from pain or from anything else, you will 
 never get well this way, and you only torment us.' "
 
 40 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 
 
 Praskovya F^dorovna's external relatiou to her hus- 
 band's ailment, which she expressed to him as much as 
 to others, was this, that Ivan llich had himself to blame 
 for this ailment, and that this whole ailment was a new 
 annoyance which he was causing his wife. Ivan Ilich 
 felt that that came involuntarily from her, but that did 
 not make it any easier for him. 
 
 In the court Ivan Ilich observed, or thought that he ob- 
 served, the same strange relation to himself : now it seemed 
 to him that people peeped at him as at a man who was soon 
 to make a place vacant ; now his friends began in a jest- 
 ing manner to tease him on account of his suspiciousness, 
 as though the fact that something terrible and horrible, 
 something unheard-of, which was taking place in him 
 and gnawing at him and drawing him somewhere, were 
 a most agreeable subject for jests. He was particularly 
 irritated by Schwarz, who with his playfulness, vivacity, 
 and conime il faut v;ays reminded him of what he had 
 been ten years before. 
 
 Friends come to have a game, and they sit down at the 
 table. The cards are dealt; the new cards are separated, 
 and the diamonds are placed with the diamonds, — seven 
 of them. The partner says, " Without trumps," and sup- 
 ports two diamonds. What else should one wish ? It 
 ought to be jolly and lively, — a clean sweep. And sud- 
 denly Ivan Ilich feels such a gnawing pain, such a bad 
 taste in his mouth, and it feels so queer to him to be able 
 with all that to find any pleasure in a clean sweep. 
 
 He looks at Mikhail Mikhaylovich, his partner, as he 
 with the hand of a sanguine man strikes the table and 
 politely and condescendingly refrains from sweeping in 
 the stakes and moves them up to Ivan Ilich, in order to 
 give liim the pleasure of taking them in, without going 
 to much trouble or stretching his hand far. 
 
 " Does he really think that I am so feeble that I can- 
 not stretch out my hand?" thinks Ivan Ilich, and he
 
 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILfCH 41 
 
 forgets what is trumps, and unnecessarily trumps his own 
 cards, and loses the clean sweep by three points, and, what 
 is more terrible still, he sees Mikhail Mikhaylovich suffer- 
 ing, and that makes no difference to him. And it is ter- 
 rible for him to think that it makes no difference to him. 
 
 All see that it is hard for him, and they say to him : 
 " We can stop, if you are tired. You had better rest." 
 
 Rest ? No, he is not in the least tired, — he will finish 
 the rubber. All are sad and silent. Ivau llich feels 
 that it is he who has cast this gloom over them, and he 
 cannot dispel it. They eat supper and leave, and Ivan 
 IKch is left alone with the consciousness that his life is 
 poisoned for him and poisons others, and that this poison 
 does not weaken him, but more and more penetrates all 
 his being. 
 
 And it was with this consciousness, in addition to the 
 physical pain, and with terror, that he had to lie down in 
 his bed, and often be unable from pain to sleep the greater 
 part of the night. In the morning he had to get up again, 
 go to the court, or, if not in court, stay at home all the 
 twenty-four hours of the day, each of which was a tor- 
 ment. And he had to hve by himself on the edge of 
 perdition, without a single man to understand or pity 
 him.
 
 V. 
 
 Thus passed a month, and two months. Before New 
 Year his brother-in-law arrived in the city, and stopped at 
 their house. Ivan Ihch was at court. Praskovya F^do- 
 rovna was out shopping. Upon entering his cabinet, Ivan 
 IHch found there his brother-in-law, a healthy sanguine 
 man, who was himself unpacking his satchel. Upon hear- 
 ing Ivan Ilich's steps, he raised his head and for a second 
 looked at him in silence. This glance disclosed every- 
 thing to Ivan Uich. The brother-in-law opened his 
 mouth to exclaim something in amazement, but held 
 himself back. This motion confirmed everything. 
 
 « Well, have I changed ? " 
 
 " Yes — there is a change." 
 
 And no matter how much Ivan Ilich afterward led his 
 brother-in-law up to talk about his appearance, his brother- 
 in-law kept quiet about it. Praskovya Fedorovna came 
 home, and the brother-in-law went to see her. Ivan Ilich 
 locked the door and began to look at himself in the mirror, 
 at first straight, and then from one side. He took the 
 photograph of himself and his wife, and compared it with 
 what he saw in the mirror. The change was tremendous. 
 Then he bared his arms as high as the elbow ; he looked 
 at them, pulled down the sleeves, sat down on an ottoman, 
 and grew darker than night. 
 
 " I must not, I must not," he said to himself. He went 
 up to the table, picked up a law case, and began to read 
 it, but was unable to do so. He opened the door and went 
 into the parlour. The door to the drawing-room was 
 closed. He went up to it on tiptoe, and began to listen. 
 
 42
 
 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 43 
 
 " No, you exaggerate it," said Praskovya F^dorovna. 
 
 " Exaggerate ? No. You do not see it, he is a dead 
 man, — look into his eyes. There is no light in them. 
 What is the matter with him ? " 
 
 " Nobody knows. Nikolaev " (that was the second 
 doctor) " said something, but I do not know what. Lesh- 
 chetitski " (that was the famous doctor) " said, on the 
 contrary — " 
 
 Ivan Ilich w^alked away and went to his room ; he lay 
 down and began to think : " The kidney, a floating kid- 
 ney." He recalled everything which the doctors had told 
 him about how it had torn itself away and was floating 
 around. He tried with an effort of the imagination to 
 catch tliis kidney, and to arrest and fasten it. So little 
 was needed for that, he thought. " No, I will call on 
 Peter Ivanovich before I do anything else." (This was 
 that friend whose friend was a doctor.) He rang the bell, 
 ordered the horse to be hitched up, and got himself ready 
 to go. 
 
 " Whither are you going, Jean ? '* asked his wife, with 
 a peculiarly sad and strangely kind expression. 
 
 This strangely kind expression made him furious. He 
 cast a gloomy glance at her. 
 
 " I have some business with Peter Ivanovich." 
 
 He drove to the house of his friend, who had a friend 
 who was a doctor. With him he drove to the doctor. He 
 found him at home, and conversed with him for a long 
 time. 
 
 By analyzing anatomically and physiologically the de- 
 tails of what, according to the doctor's opinion, was going 
 on in him, he understood it all. 
 
 There was a thing, just a little thing, in his blind gut. 
 All this might change for the better. Strengthen the 
 energy of one organ, weaken the activity of another, there 
 will take place a suction, and all will be well. He was a 
 little too late for dinner. He dined and conversed merrily,
 
 44 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 
 
 but could not for a long time go back to liis room to 
 attend to his business. Finally he went to his cabinet, 
 and immediately sat down to work. He read some cases 
 and worked, but the consciousness of the fact that he had 
 a reserved, important, confidential matter, with which he 
 would busy himself after he was through, did not leave 
 him. When he was through with work he recalled that 
 this confidential matter was his thoughts about the blind 
 gut. But he did not abandon himself to them : he went 
 to the drawing-room for tea. 
 
 There were guests there, and they talked, and played 
 the piano, and sang ; there was also the investigating 
 magistrate, his daughter's intended. Ivan Ilich, according 
 to Praskovya F^dorovna's remark, passed a jollier evening 
 than ever ; but he did not for a moment forget the fact 
 that he had some reserved, important thoughts about the 
 blind gut. 
 
 At eleven o'clock he excused himself, and went to his 
 room. Ever since the beginning of his disease he had 
 slept by himself, in a small room near his cabinet. He 
 went there, undressed himself, and took up a novel by 
 Zola, but did not read it, — he was thinking. In his 
 imagination took place the desired improvement in his 
 blind gut. There was a suction and a secretion, and the 
 regular activity was reestablished. 
 
 " Yes, that is all correct," he said to himself. " All one 
 has to do is to come to Nature's aid." 
 
 He thought of his medicine. He raised himself up, 
 took the medicine, and lay down on his back, watching 
 the beneficial effect of the medicine and the destruction 
 of his pain by it. 
 
 " Take it regularly and avoid deleterious influences, 
 that is all ; I am beginning to feel a little better, much 
 better." 
 
 He began to feel his side, but it did not pain to the 
 touch.
 
 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 45 
 
 "Yes, I do not feel it, — really it is much better uow." 
 
 He put out the light, and lay down on his side. The 
 blind gut is improving, and being sucked in. Suddenly 
 he experienced his old, dull, gnawing pain, — it was stub- 
 born, calm, and serious. In the mouth was the same 
 familiar, abominable taste. His heart was pinched, his 
 head was dizzy. 
 
 " My God, my God ! " he muttered, " again and agaiu, 
 and it will never stop." 
 
 Suddenly the matter presented itself to him from an 
 entirely different side. 
 
 " The bhnd gut, the kidney ! " he said to himself. " It 
 is not a question of the blind gut, nor of the kidney, but 
 of life and — death. Yes, there was life, and it is going 
 away and away, and I cannot retain it. Yes. Why 
 should I deceive myself ? Is it not evident to all outside 
 of me that I am dying ? The question is only in the 
 number of weeks and days — perhaps now. There was 
 light, but now it is darkness. I was here until now, but 
 now I am going thither ! Whither ? " 
 
 He was chilled, and his breath stopped. He heard only 
 the beats of his heart. 
 
 " I shall be no longer, so what will there be ? There 
 will be nothing. But where shall I be, when I am no 
 longer ? Can it be death ? No, I will not die." 
 
 He leaped up and wanted to light a candle ; he groped 
 about with trembling hands, dropped the candle w^ith 
 the candlestick On the floor, and again fell back on the 
 pillow. 
 
 " What's the use ? It makes no difference," he said 
 to himself, looking with open eyes into the darkness. 
 " Death, yes, death. And not one of them knows, or 
 wants to know, and they have no pity. They are play- 
 ing." (He was hearing beyond the door the peal of voices 
 and of a ritornelle.) "It makes no difference to them, 
 but they, too, will die. Foolishness ! First I, and they
 
 46 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 
 
 after me ; they will come to the same. And they are 
 making merry. Beasts ! " 
 
 Malice was choking him. He felt painfully and in- 
 tolerably oppressed. It could not be that all should be 
 fated to experience this terrible fear. He got up. 
 
 " Something is not quite right ; I must calm myself, I 
 must consider everything from the beginning." 
 
 And he began to consider. 
 
 " Yes, the beginning of the disease. I struck my side, 
 and I was all the time the same, to-day and to-morrow, 
 
 — I had a little pain, then more, then the doctors, then a 
 gnawing pain, then despair, again the doctors ; and I kept 
 coming nearer and nearer to the abyss. There is less 
 strength. Nearer and nearer. And I wore myself out, 
 
 — I have no light in my eyes. And there is death, and 
 I am thinking all the time of the blind gut. I am think- 
 ing of mending the gut, but this is death. Is it really 
 death ? " 
 
 Again he was assailed by terror : he breathed heavily, 
 and bent over, trying to find a match, and pressed with 
 his elbow against the foot-rest. The foot-rest was in his 
 way and caused him pain, so he grew angry at it and in 
 his anger pressed harder against it and threw it down. 
 In his despair he lost his breath and threw himself 
 down on his back, expecting death to come at once. 
 
 At this time the guests were- departing. Praskovya 
 F^dorovna was seeing them off. She heard something 
 fall, and entered the room. 
 
 " What is the matter with you ? " 
 
 " Nothing. I dropped it accidentally." 
 
 She went out and brought a candle. He was lying 
 down, breathing heavily and fast, like a man who had run 
 a verst, and looked at her with an arrested glance. 
 
 " What is the matter with you, Jean ? " 
 
 " Noth — ing. I — dropped — it." 
 
 " What is the use of telling her ? She will not under-
 
 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 47 
 
 stand it," he thought. She did not understand it indeed. 
 She lifted the foot-rest, lighted a candle for him, and hur- 
 ried away. She had to see a guest off. 
 
 When she came back he was still lying on his back, 
 looking at the ceiling. 
 
 " How are you ? Are you feehng worse ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 She shook her head, and sat awhile. 
 
 " Do you know, Jean ? I think it would be well to 
 send for Leshchetitski." 
 
 This meant that she wanted to send for the famous doc- 
 tor, and not to spare any expense. He smiled a sarcastic 
 smile, and said, " No." She sat awhile, and then went 
 up to him and kissed his brow. 
 
 He hated her with all the strength of his soul just as 
 she was kissing him, and he made an effort over himself 
 not to push her back. 
 
 " Good night. God will grant you to fall asleep," 
 
 " Yes."
 
 VI. 
 
 Ivan IiicH saw that he was dying, but he was not 
 only not used to this, but simply did not understand and 
 was absolutely unable to understand it. 
 
 That example of a syllogism which he had learned 
 from Kiesewetter's logic, " Caius is a man, men are mortal, 
 consequently Caius is mortal," had all his life seemed 
 true to him only in regard to Caius, but by no means to 
 him. That was Caius the man, man in general, and that 
 was quite true ; but he was not Caius, and not man in 
 general ; he had always been an entirely, entirely differ- 
 ent being from all the rest ; he had been Vanya with his 
 mother, with his father, Mitya, and Volodya ; with his toys, 
 the coachman, and the nurse ; then with Kateuka, with 
 all the joys, sorrows, and delights of childhood, boyhood, 
 youth. Had there ever existed for Caius that odour of 
 the striped leather ball, which Vanya had been so fond 
 of ? Had Caius kissed his mother's hand in the same 
 way, and had the silk of the folds of his mother's dress 
 rustled in the same way for Caius ? Had he been as 
 riotous about patties at the Law School ? Had Caius been 
 in love like him ? Had Caius been able to conduct a 
 session like him ? 
 
 " Caius is indeed mortal, and it is proper for him to 
 die, but for me, Vanya, Ivan Ilich, with all my feelings 
 and thoughts, for me it is an entirely different matter. 
 It cannot be proper for me to die. That would be too 
 terrible." 
 
 That was the way he felt about it. 
 
 48
 
 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 49 
 
 " If I were to die like Caius, I should know it, and an 
 inner voice would tell me so, but nothing similar has been 
 the case witli me, and I and all my friends understood 
 that it is not all the same as with Caius. But now it 
 is like this ! " he said to himself. " It is impossible ! 
 It cannot be, but it is so. How is this ? How is this to 
 be comprehended ? " 
 
 And he was unable to understand, and tried to dispel 
 this thought as being false, irregular, and morbid, and to 
 substitute for it other, regular, healthy thoughts. But this 
 thought, — not merely thought, but, as it were, reality, — 
 came back and stood before him. 
 
 And he invoked in the place of this thought other 
 thoughts in rotation, in the hope of finding a support in 
 them. He tried to return to former trains of thought, 
 which heretofore had veiled the thought of death from 
 him. But, strange to say, what formerly had veiled, con- 
 cealed, and destroyed the consciousness of death, now 
 could no longer produce this effect. Of late Ivan Ilich 
 passed the greater part of his time in these endeavours to 
 reestabhsh his former trains of feeling, which had veiled 
 death from him. 
 
 He said to himself, " I will busy myself with my serv- 
 ice, for have I not lived by it heretofore ? " and he went 
 to court, dispelling all doubts from himself ; he entered 
 into conversations with his associates, and seated himself 
 in his customary manner, casting a distracted, pensive 
 glance upon the crowd, and leaning with both his emaci- 
 ated hands on the rests of the oak chair, leaning over to 
 an associate, as on former occasions, moving up the case, 
 and whispering, and then, suddenly casting an upward 
 glance and seating himself straight, he pronounced the 
 customary words and began the case. But suddenly, in 
 the middle, the pain in his side, paying no attention to the 
 period of the development of the case, began its own 
 gnawing work. Ivan Ilich listened to it and dispelled
 
 50 THE DEATH OF IVAN I LICE 
 
 the thought of it, but it continued its work and came and 
 stationed itself right in front of him and looked at him, 
 and he was dazed, and the tire went out in his eyes, and 
 he began to ask himself again, " Is it possible it alone is 
 true ? " And his associates and his men under him saw 
 in surprise and sorrow that he, such a brilliant and shrewd 
 judge, was getting mixed and making blunders. He shook 
 himself, tried to come back to his senses, and somehow 
 managed to bring the session to a close, and returned 
 home with the sad consciousness that his judicial work 
 could not, as it had done of old, conceal from him what 
 he wished to be concealed, and that by means of his 
 judicial work he could not be freed from it. And, what 
 was worst of all, was this, that it drew him toward itself, 
 not that he might be able to do something, but only that 
 he might look at it, straight into its eyes, — that he might 
 look at it and, without doing anything, might suffer 
 unutterably. 
 
 And, while trying to escape this state, Ivan Ilich sought 
 consolation and other shields, and the other shields ap- 
 peared and for a short time seemed to save him, but very 
 soon they were again, not destroyed, but made trans- 
 parent, as though it penetrated through everything, and 
 nothing could shroud it. 
 
 During this last period he entered the drawing-room 
 which he himself had furnished, — that drawing-room 
 where he had fallen, for which he, — as he thought with 
 sarcasm and ridicule, — for the arrangement of which he 
 had sacrificed his life, for he knew that his disease had 
 begun with that hurt ; he entered and saw that there was a 
 nick in the table. He looked for the cause of it, and found 
 it in the bronze adornment of the album which was bent 
 at the edge. He took the album, an expensive one, — he 
 had made it himself with love, — and was annoyed at the 
 carelessness of his daughter and her friends, — here there 
 was a tear, and there the photographs were turned bottom
 
 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 51 
 
 side up. He brought it all carefully back into shape and 
 bent the adornment back again. 
 
 Then occurred to him the thought of transplanting all 
 this etahlissement with the albums to another corner, near 
 the flowers. He called up a lackey ; either his daughter 
 or his wife came to his rescue: they did not agree and 
 contradicted him, — he quarrelled and grew angry ; but 
 everything was good, for he did not think of it, — it was 
 not to be seen. 
 
 But just then his wife said, as he moved the things, 
 " Let the servants do it, you will only hurt yourself," and 
 suddenly it flashed above the screen, and he saw it. It 
 flashed by, and he still hopes that it will pass, but he in- 
 voluntarily listens to one side, — it is still seated there 
 and still causing him the same gnawing pain, and he can 
 no longer forget, and it looks at him quite clearly from 
 behind the flowers. What is this all for ? 
 
 " And it is true that I lost my life on this curtain, as 
 though m the storming of a fortress. Is it really so ? 
 How terrible and how stupid ! It cannot be ! It cannot 
 be, but it is so." 
 
 He went into his cabinet, and lay down there, and was 
 again left all alone with it, — face to face with it, — and 
 there was nothing he could do with it. All he had to do 
 was to look at it and grow cold.
 
 VTI. 
 
 How it all happened in the third month of Ivan Ilich's 
 disease is hard to tell, because it all happened impercep- 
 tibly step by step, but what happened was that his wife, 
 and his son, and the servants, and his acquaintances, and 
 the doctors, and, above all else, he himself knew that the 
 whole interest in him consisted for others in nothing but 
 the question how soon he would vacate the place, would 
 free the living from the embarrassment produced by his 
 presence, and would himself be freed from his sufferings. 
 
 He slept less and less : he was given opium, aud they 
 began to inject morphine into him. But this did not make 
 it easier fo-r him. The dull dejection which he experi- 
 enced in his half-sleeping state at first gave him rehef as 
 something new, but later it grew to be the same, and even 
 more agonizing, than the sharp pain. 
 
 They prepared particular kinds of food for him accord- 
 ing to the doctor's prescriptions ; but these dishes tasted 
 to him more and more insipid, and more and more abom- 
 inable. 
 
 Special appliances, too, were used for his evacuations, 
 and every time this was a torture to him, — a torture on 
 account of the impurity, the indecency, and the smell, 
 and from the consciousness that another person had to 
 take part in it. 
 
 But in this most disaoreeablc matter Ivan Ilich found 
 his consolation. The peasant of the buffet, Gerasim, 
 always came to carry out his vessel. Now Gerasim was a 
 clean, fresh young peasant, who had improved much on his 
 
 52
 
 THE DEATH OF lYAX ILICH 53 
 
 city food. He was always merry and precise. At first 
 the sign of this cleanly man, who was dressed in Eussian 
 fashion and did this detestable work, embarrassed Ivan 
 IHch. 
 
 One time, upon getting up from the vessel, and being 
 unable to hft up his trousers, he dropped down into a 
 soft chair and looked in terror at his bared, impotent 
 thighs with their sharply defined muscles. 
 
 Gerasim, in heavy boots, spreading about him the 
 agreeable odour of tar from his boots and of the freshness 
 of the winter air, stepped into the room with heavy tread. 
 He wore a clean hempen apron and a clean chintz shirt, 
 the sleeves of which were rolled up on his bare, strong, 
 youthful arms, and without looking at Ivan IKch, and 
 apparently repressing the joy of life which shone upon 
 his face, in order not to offend the patient, he walked over 
 to the vessel. 
 
 " Gerasim," Ivan Ilich said, in a feeble voice. 
 
 Gerasim trembled, apparently in fear of having done 
 something wrong, and with a rapid motion turned to the 
 patient his fresh, kindly, simple, youthful face, which was 
 just beginning to be covered with a beard. 
 
 " What do you wish ? " 
 
 " I suppose this is unpleasant for you. Excuse me. 
 I cannot help it." 
 
 " Not at all, sir." And Gerasim flashed his eyes and 
 displayed his youthful, white teeth. " Why should you 
 trouble yourself ? You are sick." 
 
 And with his strong, agile hands he did his usual work, 
 and walked out, stepping lightly. Five minutes later he 
 returned, stepping as lightly as before. 
 
 Ivan Ilich was sitting in the chair in the same 
 posture. 
 
 " Gerasim," he said, when Gerasim had put down the 
 vessel, which had been washed clean, " please, come here 
 and help me."
 
 54 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILfcH 
 
 Gerdsim went up to him. 
 
 " Lift me up. It is hard for me to do it all alone, and 
 I have sent Dmitri away." 
 
 Gerasim went up to him : with his strong arms he 
 embraced him as lightly as he stepped, raised him skil- 
 fully and softly, held him up, with one hand pulled up 
 his trousers, and wanted to put him down again in the 
 chair. But Ivan Ilich asked to be taken to the divan. 
 Gerasim without an effort, and as though without press- 
 ing against him, took him, almost carried him, to the 
 divan, and seated him on it. 
 
 " Thank you. How skilfully and well you do every- 
 thing." 
 
 Gerasim smiled again, and was on the point of leaving. 
 But Ivan Ilich felt so well with him that he did not want 
 to dismiss him. 
 
 " Be so kind as to push that chair up to me. No, that, 
 — under my feet. I feel more at ease when my legs 
 are raised." 
 
 Gerasim brought him the chair, which he put down 
 evenly on the floor without making a noise with it, and 
 raised Ivan Ilich's feet on the chair. It seemed to Ivan 
 Ilich that he felt more at ease while Gerasim was rais- 
 ing up his legs. 
 
 " I feel more at ease when my legs are higher," said 
 Ivan Ilich. " Put that pillow under me." 
 
 Gerasim did so. He raised the legs and put the pillow 
 down. Again Ivan Ilich felt better while Gerasim was 
 holding his legs. When Gerasim put them down, he 
 thought he felt worse. 
 
 " Gerasim," he said to him, " are you busy now ? " 
 
 " Not at all, sir," said Gerasim, who had learned from 
 city folk how to talk to gentlemen. 
 
 " What else have you to do ? " 
 
 " What else have I to do ? I have done everythiug, 
 and have only to chop some wood for to-morrow."
 
 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 6§ 
 
 " If SO, hold up my legs a little higher, — can you do 
 it?" 
 
 " Why not ? I can." 
 
 Gerasim raised his legs higher. And it seemed to Ivan 
 Ilich that in this position he did not feel any pain at all. 
 
 " And how about the wood ? " 
 
 "Do not trouble yourself. We shall get time for 
 it." 
 
 Ivjin Ilich ordered Gerasim to sit down and hold his 
 legs, and entered into a conversation with him. And, 
 strange to say, it seemed to him that he felt better so 
 long as Gerasim was holding his legs. 
 
 From that time on Ivan Ilich began to call in Gerasim, 
 and made Gerasim keep his legs on his shoulders, and 
 was fond of talking with him. Gerasim did this lightly, 
 gladly, simply, and with a goodness which affected Ivan 
 Ilich. Health, strength, vivacity in all other people 
 offended Ivan IHch ; but Gerasim 's strength and vivacity 
 did not sadden him, — it soothed him. 
 
 Ivan Ilich's chief suf!ering was from a lie. This he, 
 for some reason accepted by all, was this, that he was 
 only sick and not dying, and that he needed but to be calm 
 and be cured, and then all would go well. He knew full 
 well that, no matter what they might do, nothing would 
 come of it but still more agonizing suffering and death. 
 And he was tormented by this lie and by this, that they 
 would not confess what all, and he, too, knew, but insisted 
 on lying about him in this terrible situation, and wanted 
 and compelled him to take part in this lie. The lie, the 
 lie, this lie which was perpetrated on him on the day 
 previous to his death and which was to reduce this terrible, 
 solemn act of his death to the level of all their visits, 
 curtains, sturgeon at dinner, was dreadfully painful for 
 Ivan Ilich. And, strange to say, often, while they were 
 perpetrating their jests on him, he was within a hair's 
 breadth of shouting out to them, " Stop lying ! You know,
 
 66 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILfcH 
 
 and I, too, know that I am dying, — so stop at least your 
 lying." But he had never the courage to do it. 
 
 The horrible, terrible act of his dying, he saw, was by 
 all those who surrounded him reduced to the level of 
 an accidental unpleasantness and partly to that of an 
 indecency (something the way they treat a man who, 
 upon entering a drawing-room, spreads a bad odour), 
 through that very " decency " which he had been serving 
 all his life ; he saw that no one would pity him, because 
 no one wanted even to understand his position. Gerasim 
 was the only one who understood this position and pitied 
 him. And so Ivan Ilich never felt happy except when 
 he was with Gerasim. He felt well when Gerasim, 
 frequently whole nights at a stretch, held his legs and 
 would not go to bed, saying, " Please not to trouble your- 
 self, Ivan Illch, I shall get enough sleep yet ; " or when he, 
 passing over to " thou," suddenly added, " If thou wert 
 not a sick man it would be different, but as it is, why 
 should I not serve thee ? " 
 
 Gerasim was the only one who did not lie ; everything 
 proved that he alone understood what the matter was, 
 and did not consider it necessary to conceal it, but simply 
 pitied his emaciated, feeble master. Once, when Ivan 
 Ilich sent him away, he went so far as to say : 
 
 " We shall all of us die. Why should we not trouble 
 ourselves ? " with which he meant to say that he did not 
 find his labour annoying, for the reason that he was doing 
 it for a dying man, and that he hoped that in the proper 
 time some one would do the same for him. 
 
 Besides this lie, or in consequence of it, Ivan Ilich was 
 most annoyed by this, that no one pitied him the way he 
 wanted to be pitied ; at certain moments, after long suffer- 
 ings, Ivan Ilich wanted most of all, however much he was 
 ashamed to acknowledge the fact, that some one should 
 pity him like a sick child. He wanted to be petted, 
 kissed, and fondled, as they pet and console children.
 
 THE DEATH OF lYAN ILICH 57 
 
 He knew that he was an important member of the court 
 and that his beard was streaked gray, and that, therefore, 
 that was impossible ; but he none the less desired it. In 
 his relations with Gerasim there was something resembling 
 it, and so his relations with Gerasim gave him consolation. 
 Ivan Ilich feels like crying, and wants to be petted 
 and cried over ; and there comes his associate, member 
 Shebek, and, instead of crying and being petted, Ivan Ilich 
 assumes a serious, stern, pensive aspect, and from inertia 
 expresses his opinion on the decree of the court of cas- 
 sation, and stubbornly sticks to his view. This lie all 
 around him and in himself more than anything else 
 poisoned the last days of Ivan IKch's life.
 
 VIII. 
 
 It was morning. It was morning, because Gerasim 
 went away, and Peter the lackey came in his place : he 
 put out the candles, drew aside one curtain, and began 
 softly to fix up the room. Whether it was morning or 
 evening, Friday or Sunday, did not make the slightest 
 difference, — it was all the same : the gnawing, agonizing 
 pain, which did not subside for a minute ; the conscious- 
 ness of the hopelessly receding, but not yet receded life ; 
 the same impending, terrible, hateful death, which alone 
 was reahty, and still the same lie. Where could there be 
 here days, weeks, and hours of the day ? 
 
 " Do you command me to bring you tea ? " 
 
 " His order demands that gentlemen should drink tea 
 in the morning," he thought, but he said only : 
 
 « No." 
 
 " Do you not wish to go over to the divan ? " 
 
 "He has to tidy up the room, and I am in his way, — 
 I am an impurity, a nuisance," he thought, and all he said 
 was: 
 
 " No, leave me." 
 
 The lackey bustled a httle while. Ivan Ilich extended 
 his hand. Peter came up, ready to serve him. 
 
 " What do you wish ? " 
 
 " The watch." 
 
 Peter got the watch which was lying under Ivan Ilich's 
 hand, and gave it to him. 
 
 " Half-jjast eight. Have they not got up yet ? " 
 
 " Not yet, sir. Vasili Ivanovich " (that was his son) 
 
 " has gone to the gymnasium, and Praskovya F^dorovna 
 
 58
 
 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 59 
 
 has commanded that she be wakened, if you should ask 
 for her. Do you command me ? " 
 
 " No, don't." 
 
 " Maybe I had better try some tea ? " he thought. 
 
 " Yes, tea. Bring me tea." 
 
 Peter started to go out. Ivan Ilich felt terribly at 
 being alone. 
 
 " How can I keep him ? Yes, the medicine." 
 
 " Peter, give me the medicine." 
 
 " Why not ? Maybe the medicine will help me yet." 
 
 He took a spoonful and swallowed it. 
 
 "No, it will not help me. It is all nonsense and a 
 deception," he decided, the moment he had the famihar, 
 detestable, hopeless taste in his mouth. " No, I can no 
 longer believe. But the pain, the pain, what is it for ? 
 If it would only stop for just a minute." 
 
 And he sobbed. Peter came back. 
 
 " No, go. Bring me some tea." 
 
 Peter went away. When Ivan Ilich was left alone, he 
 groaned, not so much from pain, no matter how terrible 
 it was, as from despondency. " Always the same and the 
 same, all these endless days and nights. If it would only 
 come at once. What at once ? Death, darkness. No, 
 no. Anything is better than death ! " 
 
 When Peter came back with the tea on a tray, Ivan 
 Ilich for a long time looked distractedly at him, being 
 unable to make out who he was, or what he wanted. 
 Peter was confounded by this look. When Peter looked 
 confounded, Ivan Ilich came to his senses. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " the tea ; all right, put it down. Only 
 help me to get washed, and let me have a clean shirt." 
 
 And Ivan Ilich got up to wash himself. Stopping 
 occasionally, he washed his hands and face, cleaned, his 
 teeth, began to comb his hair, and looked into the mirror. 
 He felt terribly, especially so, because his hair lay flat 
 over his pale brow.
 
 60 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 
 
 As his shirt was being changed, he knew that he would 
 feel more terribly still if he looked at his body, and so he 
 did not look at himself. But all was ended. He put on 
 his morning-gown, covered himself with a shawl, and sat 
 down in a chair to his teti. For a minute he felt himself 
 refreshed, but the moment he began to drink the tea there 
 was again the same taste, and the same pain. He with 
 difficulty finished his glass and lay down, stretching his 
 legs. He lay down, and dismissed Peter. 
 
 Again the same. Now a drop of hope would sparkle, 
 and now a sea of despair would be agitated, and all the 
 time the pain, and the pain, and the despondency, and 
 again the same and the same. He felt terribly despondent 
 by himself and wanted to call some one in, but he knew 
 in advance that in the presence of others it would be 
 worse still. 
 
 " If I just had some morphine again, — I should forget. 
 I will tell him, the doctor, to think out something else. 
 It cannot go on this way, it cannot." 
 
 Thus an hour, two hours pass. But now there is the 
 bell in the antechamber. Perhaps the doctor. Indeed, it 
 is the doctor, fresh, vivacious, fat, jolly, with an ex- 
 pression which seems to say, " Now there you are all 
 frightened, but we will fix it aU in a minute." The 
 doctor knows that this expression is of no use here, but 
 he has put it on once for all and cannot take it off, like a 
 man who in the morning puts on his dress coat and goes 
 out calling. 
 
 The doctor rubs his hands briskly and in a consoling 
 manner. 
 
 " I am cold. It is a cutting frost. Just let me get 
 warmed up," he says with an expression which says that 
 all that is necessary is for him to get warmed up, and as 
 soon as he is warm he will fix it all. 
 
 " Well, how is it ? " 
 
 Ivan Ilich feels that the doctor wants to say, " How
 
 THE DEATH OF I VAX ILICH 61 
 
 are our affairs ? " but that he himself feels that it would 
 not do to speak in this manner, and so he says, " How did 
 you pass the night ? " 
 
 Ivan Ilich looks at the doctor with a questioning ex- 
 pression : 
 
 " Will you never feel ashamed of lying ? " 
 
 But the doctor does not want to understand the ex- 
 pression, and Ivan Ilich says : 
 
 " Just as terribly as ever. The pain does not pass 
 away, does not subside. If it would stop just a little ! " 
 
 " You patients are always like that. Well, sir, now, it 
 seems, I am all warmed up, and even most exact Pras- 
 kovya Fedorovna would not be able to object to my 
 temperature. Well, sir, good morning," and the doctor 
 presses his hand. 
 
 Throwing aside his former playfulness, the doctor be- 
 gins with a serious glance to investigate the patient, his 
 pulse, his temperature, and there begin tappings and 
 auscultations. 
 
 Ivan Ilich knows full well and indubitably that all 
 this is nonsense and mere deception, but when the doctor, 
 getting down on his knees, stretches out over him, leaning 
 his ear now higher up, and now lower down, and with a 
 significant expression on his face makes over him all 
 kinds of gymnastic evolutions, Ivan Ilich submits to it, as 
 he submitted to the speeches of the lawyers, though he 
 knew well that they were ranting all the time, and why 
 they were ranting. 
 
 The doctor was still kueehng on the divan, tapping at 
 something, when Praskovya Fedorovna's silk dress rustled 
 at the door, and there was heard her reproach to Peter for 
 not having announced to her the doctor's arrival. 
 
 She comes in, kisses her husband, and immediately 
 proceeds to prove that she got up long ago, and that only 
 by a misunderstanding did she fail to be present when the 
 doctor came.
 
 62 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 
 
 Ivan Ilich looks at her, examines her whole figure, and 
 finds fault with the whiteness, chubbiness, and cleanliness 
 of her hands and neck, the gloss of her hair, and the 
 sparkle of her vivacious eyes. He hates her with 
 the whole strength of his soul. Her touch makes him 
 suffer from an access of hatred toward her. 
 
 Her relation to him and his sickness is still the same. 
 As the doctor had worked out for himself a relation to his 
 patients, which he was unable to divest himself of, so she 
 had worked out a certain relation to him, — that he was 
 somehow not doing what he ought to do, and was himself 
 to blame for it, and she lovingly reproached him for it, — 
 and was unable to divest herself of this relation to him. 
 
 " Well, he pays no attention. He does not take the 
 medicine on time. Above all else, he lies down in a posi- 
 tion which, no doubt, is injurious to him, — with his 
 legs up." 
 
 She told the doctor how he made Gerasim hold up his 
 legs. 
 
 The doctor smiled a contemptuously kind smile : 
 
 " Well, what is to be done ? These patients at times 
 invent such foolish things, — but we can forgive them." 
 
 When the examination was ended, the doctor looked at 
 his watch, and Praskovya Fedorovna announced to Ivan 
 Ilich that she did not care what he would do, but she 
 had sent for a famous doctor, who in company with Mi- 
 khail Danilovich (so the ordinary doctor was called) woulc^ 
 make an examination and have a consultation. 
 
 " Don't object to this, if you please. I am doing this 
 for my own sake," she said ironically, giving him to 
 understand that she was doing everything for his sake, 
 and in this way did not give him the right to refuse her. 
 He was silent, and frowned. He felt that this he which 
 surrounded him was becoming so entangled that it was 
 getting hard to make out anything. 
 
 She was doing everything about him for her own sake,
 
 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 63 
 
 and she told him that she was doing for herself every- 
 thing that she really was doing for herself, as though 
 it were such an incredible thing that he ought to under- 
 stand it as the exact opposite. 
 
 Indeed, at half-past eleven the famous doctor arrived. 
 Again there were auscultations and significant conversa- 
 tions in his presence and in another room about the 
 kidney and the blind gut, and questions and answers 
 with such significant looks that instead of the real ques- 
 tion about life and death, which alone now stood before 
 him, there again came forward the question about the 
 kidney and the blind gut, which were not acting as they 
 ought to, and which Mikhail Danilovich and the celeb- 
 rity will for this reason attack and compel to get better. 
 
 The famous doctor departed with a serious, but not 
 with a hopeless, look. In reply to the timid question, 
 which Ivan Ilich directed to him with eyes raised to him 
 and shining with terror and hope, as to whether there 
 was any possibility of recovery, he replied that he could 
 not guarantee it, but that it was possible. The glance of 
 hope with which Ivan Ilich saw the doctor off was so 
 pitiful that, seeing it, Praskovj^a Fddorovna even burst 
 out into tears as she went out of the cabinet, in order to 
 give the famous doctor his fee. 
 
 The elation of spirit, produced by the doctor's en- 
 couragement, did not last long. There were again the 
 same room, the same pictures, curtains, wall-paper, bottles, 
 and the same paining, suffering body. Ivan Ilich began 
 to groan ; they gave him an injection, and he forgot him- 
 self. 
 
 When he came to, it was growing dark ; they brought 
 him his dinner. He took with difficulty some soup, and 
 again it was the same, and again nightfall. 
 
 After dinner, at seven o'clock, the room was entered by 
 Praskdvya Fedorovna, who was dressed as for an evening 
 entertainment, with swelling, raised up breasts, and traces
 
 64 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 
 
 of powder on her face. She had talked to him in the 
 morning of going to the theatre. Sarah Bernhardt was in 
 the city, and they had a box which he had insisted that 
 they should take. Now he forgot about it, and her attire 
 offended him. But he concealed his offence when he re- 
 called that he himself had insisted on their taking a box 
 and going, because this was for the children an educa- 
 tional, esthetic enjoyment. 
 
 Praskovya F(^dorovna came in satisfied with herself, 
 but seemingly guilty. She sat down for awhile, asked 
 him about his health, as he saw, merely to ask, but not 
 to find out, knowing that there was nothing to find out, 
 and began to speak of what she wanted to speak of, that 
 she would not go at all if the box had not been engaged, 
 and that with her were going Helfene, and their daughter, 
 and Petrishchev (their daughter's fianc^), and that it was 
 impossible to let them go by themselves. It really would 
 give her more pleasure to stay at home ; but he must be 
 sure and do in her absence according to the doctor's pre- 
 scription. 
 
 " Yes, Fed or Petrovich " (the fianc^) " wanted to come 
 in. May he ? And Liza." 
 
 " Let them come in." 
 
 The daughter came in. She was all dressed up, with 
 a bared youthful body, that body which caused him to 
 suffer so much ; but she exposed it. She was strong, 
 healthy, apparently in love, and vexed at the disease, 
 suffering, and death, which interfered with her happi- 
 ness. 
 
 There entered also F^dor Petrovich, in dress coat, with 
 his hair fixed h la Capoul, with a long sinewy neck, 
 tightly surrounded by a white collar, with an enormous 
 white chest and close-fitting trousers over powerful thighs, 
 with a white handkerchief drawn over his hand, and with 
 an opera hat. 
 
 After him imperceptibly crawled in the little gymnasiast,
 
 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILfCH 65 
 
 in a bran-new uniform, — poor fellow, — and with terrible 
 blue marks under his eyes, the meaning of which Ivan 
 Ilich knew. 
 
 His son always looked pitiful to him, and terrible was 
 his frightened and compassionate glance. Besides Gerasim, 
 it seemed to Ivan Ilich, Vasya was the only one who 
 understood and pitied him. 
 
 All sat down, and again asked about his health. There 
 ensued a silence. Liza asked her mother about the opera- 
 glass. Mother and daughter exchanged words about who 
 was at fault for having mislaid it. It was an unpleasant 
 incident. 
 
 F^dor Petrovich asked Ivan Ilich whether he had seen 
 Sarah Bernhardt. At first Ivan Ilich did not understand 
 what it was they were asking him, but later he said : 
 
 " No, and have you seen her already ? " 
 
 " Yes, in Adrieune Lecouvreur." 
 
 Praskovya Fedorovua said that she was particularly 
 good in this or that. Her daughter objected. There 
 ensued a conversation about the art and the realism of 
 her play, that very conversation which is always one and 
 the same. 
 
 In the middle of the conversation Fedor Petrovich 
 looked at Ivan Ilich, and grew silent. The others looked 
 at him, too, and grew silent. Ivan Ilich was looking with 
 glistening eyes ahead of him, apparently vexed at them. 
 It was necessary to mend all this, but it was impossible 
 to do so. It was necessary to interrupt the silence. No- 
 body could make up his mind to do so, and all felt terribly 
 at the thought that now the decent lie would somehow 
 be broken, and every one would see clearly how it all 
 was. Liza was the first to make up her mind. She 
 interrupted the silence. She wanted to conceal what all 
 were experiencing, but she gave herself away : 
 
 " If we are to go at all, it is time we started," she said, 
 looking at her watch, a present from her father, and she
 
 66 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 
 
 smiled at the young man a faint, significant smile about 
 something which they alone knew, and got up, causing 
 her dress to rustle. 
 
 All arose, said good-bye, and departed. 
 
 When they went out, it seemed to Ivan Ilich that he 
 was feeling easier : there was no lie, — it departed with 
 them, — but the pain was still left. The old pain, the 
 old terror made him feel neither harder, nor easier. It 
 was all worse. 
 
 Again minute after minute elapsed, and hour after 
 hour, and again the same, and again no end, and more 
 and more terrible the inevitable end. 
 
 " Yes, call Gerasim," he answered to Peter's question.
 
 IX. 
 
 His wife returned late in the night. She entered on 
 tiptoe, but he heard her. He opened his eyes and has- 
 tened to shut them again. She wanted to send Gerasim 
 away and to sit up with him. He opened his eyes, and 
 said: 
 
 " No, go." 
 
 " Do you suffer very much ? " 
 
 " It makes no difference." 
 
 " Take some opium." 
 
 He consented, and took some. She went away. 
 
 Until about three o'clock he was in agonizing oblivion. 
 It seemed to him that he with his pain was being shoved 
 somewhere into a narrow, black, and deep bag, and shoved 
 farther and farther, without coming out of it. And this 
 terrible act was accompanied by suffering. And he was 
 afraid, and wanted to go through the bag, and fought, and 
 helped along. And suddenly he tore away, and fell, and 
 woke up. The same Gerasim w^as sitting at his feet on 
 the bed, drowsing calmly and patiently. But Ivan Ilicli 
 was lying, his emaciated, stockinged feet resting on Gera- 
 sim's shoulders, and there was the same candle with the 
 shade, and the same uninterrupted pain. 
 
 " Go away, Gerasim," he whispered. 
 
 " Never mind, sir, I will sit up." 
 
 " No, go." 
 
 He took off his feet, and lay down sidewise on his arm 
 and began to feel pity for himself. He just waited for 
 Gerasim to go to the adjoining room, and no longer re- 
 strained himself, but burst out into tears, like a child. 
 
 67
 
 68 THE DExVTH OF IVAN ILICH 
 
 He wept on account of his helplessness, his terrible loneli- 
 ness, the cruelty of men, the cruelty of God, the absence 
 of God. 
 
 "Why hast Thou done all this? Why didst Thou 
 bring me to this ? Why, why dost Thou torment me so 
 terribly ? " 
 
 He did not expect any answer, and was weeping 
 because there was no answer and could be none. The 
 pain rose again, but he did not stir, did not call. He said 
 to liimself : 
 
 « Go on, strike me I But for what ? What have I 
 done to Thee ? For what ? " 
 
 Then he grew silent and stopped not only weeping, but 
 also breathiug, and became all attention : it was as though 
 he hstened, not to the voice which spoke with sounds, 
 but to the voice of his soul, to the train of thoughts 
 which rose in him. 
 
 " What do you want ? " was the first clear expression, 
 capable of being uttered in words, which he heard. 
 
 "What do you want? What do you want?" he 
 repeated to himself. " What ? Not to suffer. To live ! " 
 he answered. 
 
 And again he abandoned himself wholly to attention, 
 to such tense listening, that his pain even did not 
 distract him. 
 
 " To hve ? To live how ? " asked the voice of his soul. 
 
 " To live as I used to hve before, — well, pleasantly." 
 
 " As you lived before, well and pleasantly ? " asked a 
 voice. And he began in imagination to pass in review 
 the best minutes of his pleasant life. But, strange 
 to say, all these best minutes of his pleasant life now 
 seemed to him to be different from what they had seemed 
 to be before, — all of them, except the first recollections 
 of childhood. There, m childhood, there had been some- 
 thing really agreeable, with which it would be possible 
 to live if hfe should return ; but the man who had expe-
 
 THE DEATH OF IVAX ILICH 69 
 
 rienced those pleasant sensations was no more ; it was 
 like a recollection of somebody else. 
 
 As soon as there began that which resulted in the 
 present man, in Ivan Ilich, everything which then had ap- 
 peared as joys now melted in his sight and changed into 
 something insignificant and even abominable. 
 
 And the farther away from childhood and nearer to the 
 present, the more insignificant and doubtful were the joys. 
 This began with the law school. There had been there 
 something truly good ; there had been there merriment, 
 friendship, hopes. But in the upper classes these good 
 minutes had happened more rarely ; those were the rec- 
 ollections of the love of woman. Then all got mixed, and 
 there was still less of what was good. Farther on there- 
 was still less of what was good, and the farther, the less. 
 
 " The marriage — so sudden, and the disenchantment, 
 and the odour from my wife's mouth, and sensuality, and 
 hypocrisy ! And this dead service, and these cares about 
 the money, and thus passed a year, and two, and ten, and 
 twenty, — all the time the same. The farther, the deader. 
 It was as though I were going evenly down-hill, imagining 
 that I was going up-hill. And so it was. In public opinion 
 I went up-hill, — and just in that proportion did my life 
 vanish under me, — And now it is all done, — go and 
 die! 
 
 " So what is this ? Wliy ? Impossible. It cannot be 
 that life should be so senseless and so abominable ! And 
 if it has indeed been so abominable and meaningless, what 
 sense is there in dying, and in dying with suffering ? 
 Something is wrong. 
 
 " Perhaps I did not live the proper way," it suddenly 
 occurred to him. " But how can that be, since I did every- 
 thing that was demanded of me ? " he said to himself, and 
 immediately he repelled from himself this only solution 
 of the whole enigma of life and of death, as something 
 totally impossible.
 
 70 THE DEATH OF IVAX ILICH 
 
 " WTiat do you want now ? To live ? To live how ? 
 To live as you live in the court, when the bailifi' proclaims, 
 * The court is coming ! ' The court is coming, the 
 court is coming ! " he repeated to himself. " Here is the 
 court ! But I am not guilty ! " he shouted in anger. " For 
 what ? " And he stopped weeping and, turning his face 
 to the wall, began to think of nothing but this one thing : 
 " Why, for what is all this terror ? " 
 
 But, no matter how much he thought, he found no 
 answer. And when the thought occurred to him, and it 
 occurred to him often, that all this was due to the fact 
 that he had not lived in the proper way, he immediately 
 recalled all the regularity of his hfe, and dispelled this 
 strange thought.
 
 Two more weeks passed. Ivan Ilich no longer rose from 
 his divan. He did not want to lie in his bed, and lay 
 on the divan. Lying nearly all the time with his face to 
 the wall, he suffered in loneliness the same insoluble suf- 
 ferings, and in lonehness thought the same insoluble 
 thought. " What is this ? Is this really death ? " And 
 an inner voice answered him : " Yes, it is. " " What are 
 these torments for ? " and the voice answered : " For no 
 special reason." After that and outside of that there was 
 nothing. 
 
 From the very beginning of his sickness, from the first 
 time that he went to see the doctor, his life was divided 
 into two opposite moods which gave way to one another : 
 now it was despair and the expectancy of incredible and 
 terrible death, and now hope and an absorbing observa- 
 tion of the activity of his body. Now there was before 
 his eyes nothing but his kidney or gut, which had for the 
 time being deflected from the fulfilment of its obhgations, 
 and now it was the one incomprehensible, terrible death, 
 from which it was impossible to be freed in any way 
 whatever. 
 
 These two moods alternated from the very beginning of 
 his sickness ; but the farther his disease proceeded, the 
 more doubtful and fantastic did his imagination grow in 
 respect to the kidney, and the more real came to be the 
 consciousness of impending death. 
 
 He needed but to recall what he had been three 
 months before and what he now was, to recall how 
 
 71
 
 72 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 
 
 evenly he had been going down-hill, in order that every 
 possibihty of hope should be destroyed. 
 
 During the last stage of the lonehness in v^hich he 
 was, lying with his face turned to the back of the divan, 
 of that loneliness amidst a populous city and his numer- 
 ous acquaintances and his family, — a loneliness fuller 
 than which can nowhere be found, — neither at the 
 bottom of the sea, nor in the earth, — during the last 
 stages of this terrible loneliness Ivan llich lived in his 
 imagination only in the past. One after another there 
 arose before him pictures of his past. They always began 
 with what was nearest in time and ran back to what was 
 most remote, to childhood, and there they stopped. If 
 Ivan llich thought of the stewed prunes which he was 
 offered, to-day to eat, he recalled the raw, wrinkled French 
 prunes of his childhood, their particular taste, and the 
 abundance of saliva when he reached the stone, and side 
 by side with this recollection of the taste there ai'ose a 
 whole series of recollections from that time, — the nurse, 
 the brother, the toys. 
 
 "I must not think of this, — it is too painful," Ivan 
 Ilich said to himself, and again transferred himself to the 
 present. A button on the back of the divan and wrin- 
 kles in the morocco. "The morocco is expensive, — not 
 durable, — there was a quarrel on account of it. It was 
 a different kind of morocco, and a different quarrel, when 
 we tore father's portfolio, and were punished, and mother 
 brought us patties." And again his thoughts stopped at 
 his childhood, and again he felt a pain, and tried to dis- 
 pel it and to think of something else. 
 
 And again, together with this train of his recollections, 
 another train of recollections passed through his soul as 
 to how his disease increased and grew. Again it was the 
 same : the farther back, the more there was of life. There 
 was more good in life and more of Life itself. Both 
 blended.
 
 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILfCH 73 
 
 " Just as my suffering is growing worse and worse, so 
 my whole life has been getting worse and worse," he 
 thought. There was one bright point there behind, in 
 the beginning of life, and then everything grows blacker 
 and blacker, and goes faster and faster. " In inverse pro- 
 portion to the square of the distance from death," thought 
 Ivan Ilich. And this representation of a stone flying 
 downward with increasing rapidity fell into his soul. 
 Life, a' series of increasing sufferings, flew more and more 
 rapidly toward its end, a most terrible suffering. " I 
 fly — " He trembled, and shook, and wanted to resist ; 
 but he knew that it was useless to resist, and again he 
 looked at the back of the divan with eyes weary from 
 looking, which could not help but look at w-hat was in 
 front of him, and he waited and waited for that terrible 
 fall, push, and destruction. 
 
 " It is impossible to resist," he said to himself. " But 
 if I only understood what it is all for. And this is im- 
 possible. One might be able to explain it, if it could be 
 said that I had not lived properly. But that can by no 
 means be asserted," he said to himself, as he recalled all 
 the lawfulness, regularity, and decency of his life. " It is 
 impossible to admit this," he said to himself, smiling with 
 his lips, as though some one could see this smile of his 
 and be deceived by it. " There is no explanation ! Tor- 
 ment, death — Why ? "
 
 XI 
 
 Thus passed two weeks. During these weeks there 
 took place an event which had been desired by Ivan Ilich 
 and his wife. Petrishchev made a formal proposal. This 
 happened in the evening. On the following day Praskovya 
 r^dorovna entered her husband's room, wondering how 
 she should announce F^dor Petrovich's proposal to Ivan 
 IHch, but that very night Ivan Ihch had taken a turn for 
 the worst. Praskovya Fedorovna found him on the same 
 divan, but in a new position. He was lying on his back 
 and groaning and looking in front of him with an arrested 
 glance. 
 
 She began to speak of the medicines. He transferred 
 his look to her. She did not finish saying what she had 
 begun, — such malice, especially to her, was expressed in 
 this glance. 
 
 " For Christ's sake, let me die in peace," he said. 
 
 She wanted to go away, but just then her daughter 
 entered, and she went up to him to greet him. He looked 
 at his daughter in the same way as at his wife, and in 
 reply to her questions about his health he said dryly to 
 her that he would soon free them all from himself. Both 
 grew silent and, after sitting awliile, went out. 
 
 " In what way is it our fault ? " Liza said to her 
 mother. " It is as though we had done something. I 
 am sorry for papa, but why does he torment us ? " 
 
 The doctor arrived at the usual hour. Ivan Ilich 
 answered him, " Yes, no," without taking his glance of 
 fury from him, and finally said : 
 
 74
 
 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 75 
 
 '* You know yourself that nothing will help me, so let 
 it go." 
 
 " We can alleviate your suffering," said the doctor. 
 
 " You cannot do that, either, — let it go." 
 
 The doctor went into the drawing-room and informed 
 Praskdvya F^dorovna that he was in a very bad state, 
 and that there was one means, — opium, — in order to 
 alleviate the sufferings, which must be terrible. 
 
 The doctor said that his physical suffering was terrible, 
 and that was true ; but more terrible than his physical 
 suffering was his moral suffering, and in this lay his chief 
 agony. 
 
 His moral suffering consisted in this, that on that night, 
 as he looked upon Gerasini's sleepy, good-natured face 
 with its prominent cheek-bones, it suddenly occurred to 
 him, " What if indeed my whole life, my conscious hie, 
 was not the right thing ? " 
 
 It occurred to him that what before had presented itself 
 to him as an utter impossibility, namely, that he had 
 passed all his hfe improperly, might after all be the truth. 
 It occurred to him that those faint endeavours at strug- 
 gling against that which was regarded as good by persons 
 in superior positions, faint endeavours which he had im- 
 mediately repelled from himself, might be real, while 
 everything else might be the wrong thing. He tried to 
 defend all this to himself. And suddenly he felt the 
 weakness of everything which he was defending, and 
 there was nothing to defend. 
 
 " And if this is so," he said to himself, " and I go away 
 from hfe with the consciousness of having ruined every- 
 thing which was given me, and that it is impossible to 
 mend it, what then ? " 
 
 He lay down on his back and began to pass his life in 
 review in an entirely new fashion. When, in the morn- 
 ing, he saw the lackey, then his wife, then his daughter, 
 then the doctor, every one of their motions, every word of
 
 76 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 
 
 theirs coufirmed for him the terrible truth which had 
 beeu revealed to him the night before. In them he saw 
 himself, all that he had been living by, and saw clearly 
 that all that was not the right thing, that it was all a 
 terrible, huge deception, which concealed both life and 
 death. This consciousness increased, multiplied tenfold 
 his physical sufferings. He groaned and tossed about and 
 picked at liis clothes. It seemed to him that his clothes 
 choked and suffocated him. And for this he hated them. 
 
 He was given a big dose of opium and he fell into 
 oblivion, but at dinner the same began once more. He 
 drove all away from himself, and tossed from one place 
 to another. 
 
 His wife came to him, and said : 
 
 " Jean, my darling, do this for me." (" For me ? ") " It 
 cannot hurt, and frequently it helps. Healthy people 
 frequently do it." 
 
 He opened his eyes wide. 
 
 " What ? Communion ? What for ? It is not neces- 
 sary ! Still — " 
 
 She burst out weeping. 
 
 " Yes, my dear ? I will send for our priest, — he is 
 such a nice man." 
 
 " All right, very well," he muttered. 
 
 When the priest came and took his confession, he soft- 
 ened, seemed to feel a relief from his doulits, and so from 
 his suffering, and for a moment was assailed by hope. 
 He began once more to think of his blind gut and the 
 possiljility of mending it. He took his communion with 
 tears in his eyes. 
 
 When, after the communion, he was put down on the 
 bed, he for a moment felt easier, and again there appeared 
 hope of hfe. He began to think of the operation which 
 had been proposed to him. " I want to live, to live," he 
 said to himself. His wife came back to congratulate 
 him ; she said the customary words, and added ;
 
 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH / / 
 
 " Truly, are you not feeling better ? " 
 
 Without looking at her, he said, " Yes." 
 
 Her attire, her tigure, the expression of her face, the 
 sound of her voice, — everything told him one and 
 the same thing : " It is not the right thing. Everything 
 which you have lived by is a lie, a deception, which con- 
 ceals from you hfe and death." The moment he thought 
 so, there arose his hatred, and with his hatred came 
 physical, agonizing sufferings, and with the sufferings the 
 consciousness of inevitable, near perdition. Something 
 new had taken place : something began to screw up and 
 shoot, and to choke him. 
 
 The expression of his face, when he uttered, " Yes," was 
 terrible. Having said this " Yes," he looked straight into 
 her face and with unusual rapidity for his weakness 
 turned his face downward, and called out : 
 
 " Go away, go away, leave me alone ! "
 
 XII. 
 
 From this moment there began that cry which lasted for 
 three days and was so terrible that it was not possible to 
 hear it without horror through two doors. At the mo- 
 ment when he answered his wife, he understood that he 
 was lost, that there was no return, that the end had come, 
 the real end, and yet his doubt was not solved, — it 
 remained the doubt it had been. 
 
 " Oo ! Oo ! Oo ! " he cried, in various intonations. He 
 had begun to cry, " I do not want to ! " and continued to 
 cry the sound " oo." 
 
 During the three days, in the course of which time did 
 not exist for him, he fluttered about in that black bag 
 whither an invisible, invincible force was shoving him. 
 He struggled as a prisoner condemned to death struggles 
 in the hands of the hangman, knowing that he cannot be 
 saved ; and with every minute he felt that, in spite of all 
 the efforts of the struggle, he was coming nearer and 
 nearer to what terrified him. He felt that his suffering 
 consisted in his being shoved into that })lack hole, and 
 still more in his not being able to get through it. What 
 hindered him from crawhng through was the conscious- 
 ness of this, that his life was good. This justification of 
 his life grappled him and did not allow him to get on 
 and tormented him more than anything. 
 
 Suddenly a certain force pushed him in the chest and 
 in the side, and still more compressed his throat, and he 
 fell into the hole, and there, at the end of the hole, there 
 was some light. What happened to him was what 
 happens in a railway car, when a man thinks that he is 
 
 78
 
 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 79 
 
 riding forward, while he is ridiug backward, and suddenly 
 discovers the real direction. 
 
 " Yes, it was all the wrong thing," he said to himself, 
 " but that is nothing. It is possible, it is possible to do 
 the right thing. What is the right thing ? " he asked 
 himself, and suddenly grew quiet. 
 
 This happened at the end of the third day, two hours 
 before his death. At just this time the little gymnasiast 
 stole quietly up to his father, and walked over to his bed. 
 The dying man was crying pitifully and tossing about his 
 hands. His hand fell on the head of the little gymnasiast. 
 The little gymnasiast caught it and pressed it to his lips, 
 and burst out weeping. 
 
 Just then Ivan Ilich tumbled in and saw the light, and 
 it was revealed to him that his life had not been what it 
 ought to have been, but that it was stiU possible to mend 
 it. He asked himself : " What is the right thing ? " and 
 he grew silent, and hstened. Here he felt that some one 
 was kissing his hand. He opened his eyes and glanced 
 at his son. He was sorry for him. His wife came up 
 to him. He glanced at her. She looked at him with a 
 desperate expression, her mouth being wide open and the 
 tears remaining unwiped on her nose. He was sorry for 
 her. 
 
 " Yes, I am tormenting them," he thought. " They are 
 sorry, but they will be better off when I am dead." That 
 was what he meant to say, but he did not have the 
 strength to utter it. " However, what is the use of talk- 
 ing ? I must do," he thought. He indicated his son to 
 his wife with his glance, and said : 
 
 " Take him away — am sorry — and you, too — " 
 
 He wanted to add," Forgive," but said," Forgigive," and 
 being unable to correct himself, he waved his hand, know- 
 ing that who needed would understand. 
 
 Suddenly it became clear to him that what had been 
 vexing him and could not come out, now was coming out
 
 80 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILICH 
 
 all at once, from two sides, from ten sides, from all sides. 
 They were to be pitied ; it was necessary to do something 
 to save them pain, to free them and free himself from 
 these sufferings. 
 
 " How good and how simple ! " he thought. " And the 
 pain ? " he asked himseK. " What of it ? Well, pain, 
 where are you ? " 
 
 He began to listen. 
 
 " Yes, here it is. Well, let it pain." 
 
 " And death ? Where is it ? ' 
 
 And he sought his former customary fear of death, and 
 could not find it. 
 
 " Where is it ? What death ? " 
 
 There was no fear, because there was also no death. 
 
 Instead of death there was a light. 
 
 " So this it is ! " he suddenly spoke out in a loud voice, 
 " What joy ! " 
 
 For him all this took place in one moment, and the 
 significance of this moment no longer changed. But for 
 those who were present the agony lasted two hours longer. 
 Something palpitated in his heart, and his emaciated body 
 jerked. Theu the palpitation and the rale grew rarer and 
 rarer. 
 
 " It is ended ! " some one said over him. 
 
 He heard these words and repeated them in his soul. 
 
 " Death is ended," he said to himself. " It is no more." 
 
 He inhaled the air, stopped in the middle of his breath, 
 stretched himself, and died. 
 
 March 22, 1886.
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 Or, " When the Claw Is Caught the Whole Bird 
 
 Is Lost" 
 
 1886
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS OF ACT I. 
 
 Peter, a rich peasant, forty-two years of age ; married for 
 the second time ; sickly. 
 
 Anisya, his wife, thirty-two years of age; a dandyish 
 woman. 
 
 Akulina, Peter's daughter by his first marriage, sixteen 
 years of age ; hard of hearing and silly. 
 
 Anyutka, a second daughter, ten years old. 
 
 NiKiTA, their hired hand, twenty-five years old ; a fop. 
 
 Akim, Nikita's father, fifty years old ; homely, and God- 
 fearing. 
 
 Matrena, his wife, fifty years old. 
 
 Marina, an orphan girl, twenty-two years old.
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Tlie action takes place in a large village, in autumn. The 
 scene represents the inside of Peters spacious hat. 
 Peter is seated on a bench, mending a horse-collar. 
 Anisya and Akulina are spinning. 
 
 Scene I. Peter, Anisya, and Akulina {the last two 
 
 singing together). 
 
 Peter (looking through the wi7idoio). The horses have 
 crone away again. Before we know it the colt will be 
 killed. Nikita ! Oh, Nikita ! Are you deaf ? {Listens. 
 To the women.) Stop your singing, — I can't hear a 
 thing ! 
 
 Nikita's voice, in the yard. What ? 
 
 Peter. Drive in the horses ! 
 
 Nikita's voice. I will ! Only give me a chance ! 
 
 Peter {shaking his head). Oh, these hired hands ! If 
 I were a well man, I would not have one for the world. 
 There is only worry with them. {Gets up and sits down 
 again.) Nikita ! I shall get no answer. I wish one 
 of you would go. Akulina, go and drive them in ! 
 
 Akulina. What, the horses ? 
 
 Peter. What else did I say ? 
 
 Akulina. Right away. {Exit.) 
 
 Scene II. Peter and Anisya. 
 
 Peter. The young scamp is not much of a farmer. 
 It takes him an age to do a thing. 
 
 Anisya. You aren't very lively yourself. From the 
 
 84
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 85 
 
 oven to the bench, that's as far as you can go. You are 
 only hard on people. 
 
 Peter. If I were not hard on you, I should not be 
 able to find a thing in a year. Oh, what people ! 
 
 Anisya. You make one attend to a dozen things at 
 once, and you scold all the while. It is easy enough to 
 command when you are lying on the oven. 
 
 Peter (sighing). If it were not for this sickness of mine 
 I should not keep him a day. 
 
 Akulina's voice hehind the scene. Here, horsy, here, 
 horsy ! (One hears the neighing of a colt and horses run- 
 ning in through the gate. The gate creaks.) 
 
 Peter. All he knows is to prattle. Pteally, I would 
 not keep him. 
 
 Anisya {mocking him). I won't keep him. Move 
 about and then talk ! 
 
 Scene III. The same and Akulina. 
 
 Akulina (entering). I had the hardest time driving 
 them in. The dappled gray — 
 
 Peter. And where is Nikita ? 
 
 Akulina. jSTikita ? He is standing in the street. 
 
 Peter. What is he standing there for ? 
 
 Akulina. What is he standing there for ? He is 
 standing around the corner, and is talking. 
 
 Peter. I can't get anything out of her. With whom 
 is he talking ? 
 
 Akulina (^not hearing him). Wliat ? (Peter waves his 
 hand to Akulina ; she goes hack to her spinning.) 
 
 Scene IV. The same and Anyutka. 
 
 Anyutka (running in. To her mother). Nikita's 
 parents have come to see him. Indeed, they are taking 
 him home to get married.
 
 86 THE rOWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 Anisya. Are you telling the truth ? 
 
 Anyutka. May I die on the spot if I am not ! (Laugh- 
 ing.) I was going by when Nikita called me : " Good- 
 bye," says he, " Anna Petrovna ! Come to my wedding ! 
 I," says he, " am going away from you." And he 
 laughed. 
 
 Anisya (to her husband). They are in great need of 
 you. There he is going away of his own accord. And 
 you say : " I'll drive him away ! " 
 
 Peter. Let him go. I will find somebody else. 
 
 Anisya. But haven't you paid the money in advance ? 
 (Anyutka walks up to the door and listens to 
 what they are saying. Exit.) 
 
 Scene V. Anisya, Peter, and Akulina. 
 
 Peter (frowning). What money he owes me he will 
 work ofi" in the summer. 
 
 Anisya. Yes, you are only too glad to let him go. 
 You save so much. In winter you want me to do all the 
 work by myself, like a horse. The girl is not much good 
 for work, and you will be lying on the oven. I know 
 you! 
 
 Peter. What sense is there in wagging your tongue 
 for notliiug ? 
 
 Anisya. The yard is full of cattle. You did not sell 
 the cow, and you have left all the sheep for winter. There 
 is enough work to do to feed and water them, and you 
 want to send the hired hand away. I am not going to do 
 a man's work ! I will lie down on the oven, as you do, 
 and let everything go to perdition, — I don't care what 
 you do. 
 
 Peter (to Akulina). Go for the feed ! I think it is 
 time. 
 
 Akulina. For the feed? All right. (Puts on a caftan 
 and takes a rope.)
 
 THE POWER OF DARKLESS 87 
 
 Anisya. I will not work for you 1 You may be sure 
 I won't. Go and work yourself. 
 
 Petek. Stop. Don't carry on like a crazy sheep ! 
 
 Anisya. You are yourself a mad dog ! There is no 
 work in you, and I don't get any joy out of you. You 
 do nothing but eat all the time. A lazy dog you are, upon 
 my word. 
 
 Peter (sjnts out and puts on his coat). Pshaw, the 
 Lord be merciful to you ! I must go and find out what 
 is up. (Exit.) 
 
 Anisya (crying after him). Rotten, long-nosed devil ! 
 
 Scene VL Anisya and Akulina. 
 
 Akulina. Why are you scolding father ? 
 
 Anisya. Shut up, you fool ! 
 
 Akulina (ivalking up to the door). I know why you 
 are. You are yourself a fool, and a dog. I am not afraid 
 of you. 
 
 Anisya. What do you say ? {Jumps up and looks 
 around for something to throiv at her.) If you don't look 
 out I will hit you with the plough-handle. 
 
 Akulina (opening the door). You are a dog, a devil, 
 that's what you are ! A devil, a dog, a dog, a devil ! 
 (Buns awag.) 
 
 Scene VIL Anisya (alone). 
 
 Anisya (in thought). " Come to the wedding," says 
 he. What are they up to ? To marry him ? Look out, 
 Nikita ! If that is your trick, I will — I cannot live 
 without liim. I will not let him. 
 
 Scene VIII. Anisya and Nikita. 
 
 NiKlTA (enters, looking about him. Seeing that Anisya 
 is alone, he tvalks over to her. In a whisper). What am
 
 88 THE POWER OF DARK'N'ESS 
 
 I to do, my dear ? Father has come to take me away. 
 He commauds me to go home. " We want to marry you 
 by all means," says he, " and have you stay at home." 
 
 Anisya. Well, get married. What is that to me ? 
 
 NiKiTA. I declare ! I was hoping to consult with 
 you, and you tell me to get married ! What is the mat- 
 ter ? ( Winking.) Or have you forgotten ? 
 
 Anisya. Get married. What do I care ? 
 
 NiKiTA. What are you snorting about ? I declare ! 
 She won't let me pat her. What is the matter with 
 you ? ^ 
 
 Anisya. As to your wishing to leave, go if you want 
 to ! I don't need you ! That is what I have to say to 
 you. 
 
 NiKiTA. Stop, Anisya. Did I say I wanted to forget 
 you ? Not on my life. I sha'n't leave you for anything. 
 I was thinking like this : let them marry me, but I will 
 come back to you. If they will only not keep me at 
 home ! 
 
 Anisya. You won't be of much use to me when you 
 are married. 
 
 Nikita. But what am I to do, my dear ? It is not 
 possible to oppose father's will. 
 
 Anisya. You are putting it on your father, but it is 
 your trick. You have been carrying on all the time with 
 your sweetheart, Marina. It is she who has put you on 
 to it. I see now why she came here the other day. 
 
 NiKiTA. Marina ? What do I care for her ? I can't 
 help her sticking to me ! 
 
 Anisya. Then why did your father come ? You told 
 him to. You have deceived me ! ( Weeping.) 
 
 JSTiKiTA. Anisya, do you believe in God, or not ? I 
 have not even dreamt of this. I have absolutely no 
 knowledge of it. My dad thought it all out himself. 
 
 Anisya. If you did not want it yourself, could they 
 catch you in a sling ?
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 89 
 
 NiKiTA. I have considered that it is impossible to 
 oppose father's will, although I have no desire to marry. 
 
 Anisya. Eefuse, and that's all. 
 
 NiKiTA. There was a fellow who did refuse, and so 
 they gave him a walloping. I do not want that either : 
 they say it is tickhsh — 
 
 Anisya. Stop jesting. Listen, Nikita: if you are 
 going to take IMarina for a wife, I do not know what I 
 shall do to myself. I will take my life ! I have sinned, 
 and have violated the Law, but that cannot be remedied 
 now. If you go away, I will do harm to myself — 
 
 Nikita. Why should I want to go away ? I could 
 have gone long ago, if I had wanted to. The other day 
 Ivan Sem^nych offered me a coachman's place. What a 
 fine life that would be ! But I did not go, for I consid- 
 ered that others hke me. If you did not love me, that 
 would be a different matter. 
 
 Anisya. Keep this in mind ! The old man can't live 
 long, and so, I think, w^e might be able to cover up our 
 sin. I thought I might wed you, and you would be the 
 master. 
 
 Nikita. What is the use saying this ? What differ- 
 ence does it make to me ? I work as though for i^yself. 
 My master likes me, and, of course, my mistress loves me. 
 But I can't help women's liking me, — that's all. 
 
 Anisya. Will you love me ? 
 
 NiKiTA {embracing her). Like this 1 You are deep in 
 my heart — 
 
 Scene IX. The same and Matrena {entering and cross- 
 ing herself before the images for a long time. Nikita 
 and Anisya rush away from each other). 
 
 Matrena. I have neither seen nor heard a thing. 
 You have been disporting with the woman, — what of it ? 
 A calf, you know, likes to play, too. Why not ? You
 
 90 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 are young yet. My son, the master has been asking for 
 you in the yard. 
 
 NiKiTA. I just came to get the axe. 
 
 Matrena. I know, I know, my friend, what kind of 
 an axe you mean. That kind of an axe is mostly near 
 women. 
 
 NiKiTA (bending doivn and picking up the axe). Well, 
 mother, do you really intend marrying me off ? I con- 
 sider it all useless. And, then, I have no desire. 
 
 Matrena. My darling, what is the use of marrying ? 
 You had better go on living as you do, but it is the old 
 man who wants it. Go, my dear, we will fix matters 
 without you. 
 
 NiKiTA. This is remarkable : now I am to marry, and 
 now again I am not. I can't make it out at all. {Exit.) 
 
 Scene X. Anisya and Matrena. 
 
 Anisya. Well, Aunt Matrena, do you really want to 
 get him married ? 
 
 Matrena. What are we to marry him with, my dear ? 
 We have no means, you know. My old man is just a- 
 talking, without any sense whatsoever. He keeps insist- 
 ing that he should marry. But this is a matter above 
 his mind. Horses, you know, do not gallop away from 
 oats, and people ought not to look out for other things, 
 while they have something good at hand, — just so it is 
 in this case. Can't I see (winking) what is up here ? 
 
 Anisya. Why should I conceal it from you. Aunt 
 Matrena ? You know everything. I have sinned : I love 
 your son. 
 
 Matrena. You did tell me some news : Aunt Matrena 
 did not know it. But I tell you, woman. Aunt Matrena 
 is sly, oh, so sly. Let me tell you my dear, — Aunt 
 Matrena can see a yard below ground. I know every- 
 thing, my dear ! I know what women want sleeping
 
 THE POWER OF DAKKNESS 91 
 
 powders for, I have brought some. ( Unties the knot in 
 her handkerchief and takes out some powders in a piece of 
 paper.) What is good for me, I see ; and what I ought 
 not to know, I neither see nor hear. That's the way it is 
 with me. Aunt Matrena was once young herself. You 
 see, one must know how to get along with a fool. I know 
 all the ropes. I see, my dear, your old man is pretty far 
 gone. What strength has he ? Stick a fork into him, 
 and no blood will come out. I think you will bury 
 him by spring. You will have to take somebody on your 
 farm. And is not my son as good a peasant as any ? 
 Then, what advantage could 1 gain from driving him away 
 from a good thing ? You do not suppose I am my son's 
 enemy ? 
 
 Anisya. If he only would not leave us. 
 
 Mateena. He will not, my birdie. That is all non- 
 sense. You know my old man. His brain is all cracked. 
 At times he tills it up, and braces it with a post that 
 you can't knock out from under him. 
 
 Anisya. What caused all this ? 
 
 Mateena. You see, my dear, my boy has a weakness 
 for women, and, it must be said, he is a fine-looking 
 fellow. So, you see, he has worked on the raiboad. At 
 that time a certain orphan girl was serving there as a 
 cook, and she was all the time after him. 
 
 Anisya. Marina ? 
 
 Mateena. The same, — may she be paralyzed. I do 
 not know whether anything happened or not, only my 
 old man found it out. He heard it from others, or she 
 herself told him — 
 
 Anisya. But she was bold, — that accursed one ! 
 
 Mateena. So my old man — the stupid fellow he is 
 — insists upon my son's marrying her so as to cover the 
 sin. " We will take our boy home," says he, " and get 
 him married." I tried every way to dissuade him, but all 
 in vain. Well, thought I, let it be. I will try in a dif-
 
 92 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 fereut manner. These fools, my dear, have to be enticed. 
 You have to pretend to agree with them, but the moment 
 it comes to business, you switch them off. A woman, you 
 see, comes a-flying down from the oven, having thought 
 out a hundred thoughts — so how is he to find it out? 
 " Yes, old man," says I, " that is good ; only we must con- 
 sider it well. Come," says I, " let us go to our son, and 
 let us consider the matter with Peter Ignatych. Let us 
 hear what he has to say." And this is why we have 
 come. 
 
 Anisya. Oh, aunty, what will happen now ? If his 
 father commands him ? 
 
 Matrena. Commands? To the dogs with his com- 
 mand. Don't have any fears ! It will not happen. I 
 will soon thresh out the whole matter with your old man, 
 so that nothing will be left of it. This is the very reason 
 why I have come aloug with him. How stupid it would 
 be for me to have my son marry a slut, while he is living 
 in happiness here, and happiness is ahead of him ! I am 
 not such a fool as all that. 
 
 Anisya. Marina has been coming to see him here, too. 
 Would you believe it, aunty, — when I was told that he 
 was to get married, I felt as though somebody had stuck 
 a knife into my heart. I thought he had a liking for her. 
 
 Matrena. Not at all, my dear. He is not such a 
 fool. He would not think of loving a homeless vaga- 
 bond. You must know Nikita is a clever fellow. But 
 you, my dear, have no fear ! We sha'n't take him away 
 in a lifetime. We will not marry him off. As long as 
 you let him have money, let him stay here. 
 
 Anisya. I feel that if Nikita went away I should not 
 want to live. 
 
 . Matrena. That is the way with young people ! And 
 it is no wonder. You are a healthy young woman, and 
 have to live with such a worthless rag — 
 
 Anisya. Believe me, aunty, I am tired, dreadfully
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 93 
 
 tired of my old man, that long-nosed dog. I wish my 
 eyes did not see him. 
 
 Matrena. Yes, that is the way it goes. Come, see 
 this, (/ti a ivhisper, looking arovMcl.) You see I went 
 to see an old man for some powders, and he gave me two 
 kinds. Look here. " This," says he, " is a sleeping pow- 
 der. Give him one," says he. " It will make him sleep 
 so hard that you can do anything you please. And this," 
 says he, " is such a drug that if you give it in a drink it 
 cannot be discovered, but its strength is great. It is to be 
 given seven times," says he, " and every time a pinchful. 
 Eepeat it seven times. And freedom," says he, " will soon 
 come to her." 
 
 Anisya. Oh, oh, oh ! What is this ? 
 
 Matrena. " It leaves no traces," says he. He took a 
 rouble for it. " I can't do it for less," says he. Because, 
 you see, it is hard to get. My dear, I gave him my 
 money for it. I thought to myself I would take it down 
 to Anisya, whether she wanted it or not. 
 
 Anisya. Oh, oh ! But maybe something bad will 
 come of it ? 
 
 Matrena. What bad can there be, my dear ? It 
 would be different if your husband were a healthy man ; 
 but as it is he barely lives. He is not a live fellow. 
 There are many such. 
 
 Anisya. Oh, my wretched head ! I am afraid, aunty, 
 there might be some sin in it. No, I do not like it. 
 
 Matrena. I can take it back. 
 
 Anisya. Are these to be dissolved in water, like the 
 other ? 
 
 Matrena. " In tea," says he, " it is better. It can't 
 be detected," says he. " They leave no smell, nothing." 
 He is a clever fellow. 
 
 Anisya (taking the powders). Oh, my wretched 
 head ! Would I have thought of such things if my hfe 
 were not so hard ?
 
 94 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 Matkena. Don't forget the rouble. I promised the 
 old fellow I would bring it to him. He is worried 
 about it. 
 
 Anisya. Of course. {Goes to a coffer and conceals the 
 poivders.) 
 
 Matkena. You must keep them so, my dear, that 
 
 people do not find them out. If, God forfend, something 
 
 should be discovered, say they are for cockroaches. 
 
 {Takes the rouble.) They are also good for cockroaches — 
 
 "^ (^Interrupts her speech.) 
 
 Scene XL The same, Peter, and Akim. 
 
 Akim (enter. Crosses himself before the image). 
 
 Peter {enter. Sits down). So what is it, Uncle 
 Akim? 
 
 Akim. 'Twere better, Ignatych, 'twere better, so to 
 speak — for, otherwise, you know, it may lead to badness 
 — I should hke, so, to take my son away, for work. And 
 if you permit it, so — 'Twere better — 
 
 Peter. All right, all right. Sit down, and let us have 
 a chat. {Ahim sits down.) Well ? Do you want to get 
 him married ? 
 
 Matrena. As for marrying, Peter Ignatych, we can 
 put it off. You know yourself, Ignatych, what want we 
 live in. We have barely enough to live on, so how are 
 we to get him married ? How are we to marry him ? 
 
 Peter. Consider what is best. 
 
 Matrena. There is no hurry about getting married. 
 It is like this : it is not a raspberry that will drop off. 
 
 Peter. It is a good thing to get married. 
 
 Akim. I should like to, so to speak — Because, so to 
 speak — there is some work in the city, some profitable 
 work I have there, you know. 
 
 Matrena. Work ! To clean privies. When he came 
 home the other day, pshaw, I just vomited and vomited !
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 95 
 
 Akim. That is so : at first, so to speak, it takes your 
 breath away ; but when you get used to it, it is all right. 
 It is just like the swills, so to speak, very much like it. 
 And as to the smell, so to speak, fellows like us must not 
 be offended by it. We can change our clothes, for all 
 that. I wanted Nikita to go home and, so to speak, look 
 after things. Let him look after the house, and so I will 
 earn something in town — 
 
 Peter. You want to leave your son at home, — that 
 is all right. But how about the money you have taken 
 on account ? 
 
 Akim. That's so, that's so, Ignatych. You have said 
 that correctly, so to speak, because if you have hired 
 yourself out you have sold yourself, and you have to 
 abide by it, so to speak. But, if he could get married, 
 so to speak, would you let him off for awhile ? 
 
 Petee. There is no objection to that. 
 
 Matrena. Only we do not agree upon it. I will lay 
 everything before you, Peter Ignatych, as I would before 
 God, You will judge between my old man and me. He 
 has taken it into his head to marry him off. And to 
 whom is it he marries him ? If she w^ere a decent girl, 
 I would not be my son's enemy ; but this one has a 
 fault. 
 
 Akim. Now this is not right. You are accusing the 
 girl for nothing, so to speak, for nothing. Because this 
 girl has been wronged by my son do you see. The same 
 girl, you see. 
 
 Peter. How has she been wronged ? 
 
 Akim. It appears, so to speak, she has been wronged 
 by Nikita, — by Nikita, you see. 
 
 Matrena. Stop a moment. I can express myself 
 better than you, so let me tell it. You know yourself 
 that our son used to work on the railroad before he came 
 to your house. Now a girl, Marina by name, who was 
 a cook for the workmen, — she is not very clever, — has
 
 96 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 been after him. This same girl accuses our son Nikita 
 of having betrayed her, 
 
 Peter. That is not good. 
 
 Matkena. She is herself not much good. She, the 
 slut, is running around among people. 
 
 Akim. Again, old woman, you are not saying so, not 
 at all so, so to speak, not so — 
 
 Matrena. All my eagle here can say is " so, so," but 
 what that " so " is, he does not know himself. Peter Igna- 
 tych, ask other people about this girl, and you will hear 
 the same as I have been telling you. She is a homeless 
 vagabond. 
 
 Peter {to Akim). If it is like that. Uncle Akim, there 
 is no reason for liis marrying her. A daughter-in-law is 
 not a bast shoe that you can take off your leg. 
 
 Akim (excitedly). It is false, old woman, just so, what 
 you say about the girl is false. Because the girl is very 
 good, so, very good, so to speak, I am sorry for her, so to 
 speak, for the girl. 
 
 Matrena. He is just like Maremyana the mendicant, 
 who weeps for the whole world, and sits breadless at 
 home. You are sorry for the girl, but you are not sorry 
 for your son. Tie her around your neck, and walk 
 about with her. What good is there in talking such 
 nonsense ? 
 
 Akim. No, it is not nonsense. 
 
 Matrena. Don't interrupt me ! Let me finish ! 
 
 Akim (interrupting her). No, it is not nonsense. You 
 are coming back to yourself, so to speak, whether you are 
 speaking of the girl or of yourself ; you are coming back 
 to yourself, but God will come back to His own, that's so. 
 And so it is in this case. 
 
 Matrena. Oh, it only makes my tongue ache to speak 
 with you. 
 
 Akim. She is a hard-working girl, and, so to speak, 
 looking weU after herself, so to speak. And, so, in our
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 97 
 
 poverty she would be a gi-eat hand for us. The wedding 
 expense is not great ; but the wrong done is great to the 
 girl, so to speak. The girl is an orphan, that's it. And 
 there was a wrong done. 
 
 Matrena. They all tell the same story. 
 
 Anisya. Uncle Akim, you ought to hear what we 
 women have to say. We can tell you something. 
 
 Akim. Lord, Lord ! Is not the girl a human being ? 
 Before God, so to speak, she is a human being, too. What 
 do you think ? 
 
 Matkena. There is no stopping him — 
 
 Peter. Uncle Akim, you cannot believe everything 
 the girls say. The young fellow is alive. He has some- 
 thing to say about it. Let us send for him and ask him 
 whether it is true. He will not ruin a soul. Call the 
 young fellow ! {Anisya gets up.) Tell him his father 
 wants to see him. {Anisya exit.) 
 
 Scene XII. The same, without Anisya. 
 
 Mateena. Now, our protector, this was a wise judg- 
 ment to let the son decide. Nowadays they don't get 
 people married by force. The young man ought to be 
 considered. He will not be willing to marry her for any- 
 thing in the world, for that would only disgrace him. It 
 is my opinion that he had bettej: stay with you and 
 serve his master. There is no reason for taking him 
 away in the summer, — we can hire somebody. You 
 give us ten roubles, and let him stay with you. 
 
 Peter. That is still ahead. Let us take every- 
 thing in order. First end one thing, and then take up 
 another. 
 
 Akim. I have been saying all this, Peter Ignatych, 
 because, so to speak, things happen like this : You, so to 
 speak, arrange matters so as to be best for yourself, and 
 so forget about God. You think it is better to look out
 
 98 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 for yourself, but, behold, you have only burdened your- 
 self with trouble. We, so to speak, think that it is better 
 without considering God, but it is worse. 
 
 Peter. Of course, we must think of God. 
 
 Akim. It is really worse ; but if everything is done 
 according to the Law, according to God's way, it, so to 
 speak, makes your heart glad. It, so to speak, was before 
 me like a dream. And so I guessed, so to speak, that I 
 had better get my son married, in order, so to speak, to 
 save him from sin : and so he will be at home, so 
 to speak, according to the Law, while I will try, so to 
 speak, to find something to do in town. It is a work 
 of love, and it is proper. According to God's way, so to 
 speak, it is better. And she is an orphan at that. For 
 example, last year they took some wood from the clerk 
 in just such a manner. They thought they would cheat 
 him. And so they did, but God, so to speak, they did 
 not cheat, well, and — 
 
 Scene XIIL The same, Mkita, and Anyutka. 
 
 NiKiTA. Did you call me ? (Sits down, and takes out 
 his tobacco^ 
 
 Petek {softly and reproacJifully). Don't you know 
 the proprieties ? Your father sent for you, and you take 
 out your tobacco, and seat yourself. Come here, and 
 stand up ! 
 
 (Nikita stands up near the table, leaning care- 
 lessly against it, and smiling.) 
 
 Akim. There is, so to speak, Nikita, a complaint 
 against you. 
 
 Nikita. Who complains ? 
 
 Akim. Who ? A girl, an orphan, so to speak, com- 
 plains. There is a complaint against you, so to speak, 
 from that same Marina. 
 
 Nikita (laughing). Marvellous ! What kind of a com-
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 99 
 
 plaint is it ? Who has told you about it ? Maybe she 
 herseK ? 
 
 Akim. I am now putting the questions, so to speak ; 
 and you must give the answers, so to speak. Did you tie 
 yourself, so to speak, with the girl ? 
 
 NiKiTA. I can't positively make out what it is you 
 are asking. 
 
 Akim. That is foolishness, so to speak, foolishness, I 
 say ; was there any foohshness between her and you, so to 
 speak ? 
 
 NiKiTA. How do you mean it? Feeling lonely, I 
 passed the time with the cook : I would play the accor- 
 dion, and she would dance. What other foohshness do 
 you mean ? 
 
 Peter. Nikita, don't beat about the bush. Answer 
 straight to your father's questions. 
 
 Akiji {solemnly). Nikita ! You may conceal it from 
 men, but you will not conceal it from God. Nikita, you 
 must not, so to speak, lie ! She is an orphan, so to speak, 
 and it is easy to offend her. She is an orphan, so to 
 speak. You tell me how it was. 
 
 Nikita. I have nothing to tell. I am positively tell- 
 ing you everything, and there is nothing to tell. {Getting 
 excited.) Of course, she may tell anything she pleases. 
 Say anything you wish, — it does not affect me. Why 
 did she not tell on F^dka Mikishkin ? How is it nowa- 
 days ? A person may not jest even. Nothing prevents 
 her talking. 
 
 Akim. O Nikita, look out ! The lie will come to the 
 surface. Was there anything or not ? 
 
 Nikita {aside). I declare he is persistent! {To Akim.) 
 I told you that I know nothing. There has been nothing 
 between us. {Angrily.) May Christ not allow me to come 
 off this plank. {Crosses himself.) I know absolutely 
 nothing. {Silence. Nikita proceeds more excitedly.) Why 
 do you insist on my marrying her ? This is really a scandal
 
 100 THE POWEE OF DARKNESS 
 
 There is no law to compel a man to marry against his 
 will. I have sworn that I know nothing. 
 
 Matrena {to her hushand). You foolish, stupid man ! 
 You believe everything they tell you. You have dis- 
 graced your sou for nothing. Better let him stay with 
 the master, as he has been doing. The master will now 
 give us ten roubles in advance. When the time comes — 
 
 Peter. Well, how is it now. Uncle Akim ? 
 
 Akim (clicking his tongue, to his son). Look out, 
 Nikita ! A tear of offence does not flow past, but, so to 
 speak, upon a man's head. Look out, or the same will 
 happen with you. 
 
 NiKiTA. I have nothing to look out for. You had 
 better look out yourself. (Sits down?) 
 
 Anyutka. I shall run and tell mother. {Runs 
 away?) 
 
 Scene XIV. Peter, Akim, Matrena, and Nikita. 
 
 Matrena {to Peter). So this is all there is to it, Peter 
 Ignatych. He is a riotous fellow : if something gets into 
 his head, you can't drive it out. We have troubled you 
 in vain. Let my son live with you as he has heretofore. 
 Keep my son, — he is your servant. 
 
 Peter. How is it now. Uncle Akim ? 
 
 Akim. I did not force my son, — if only it is not so ! 
 I wanted, so to speak — 
 
 Matrena. You don't know yourself what you are 
 talking about. Let him stay here, as he has until now. 
 Our son does not want to go to the house. And we do 
 not need him : we shall get along without him. 
 
 Peter. I must say this much. Uncle Akim : if you 
 take him away for the summer, I do not need him in 
 winter. If he is to stay here, it must be for a year. 
 
 ]\Iatrena. He will hire out for a year. If w'e need 
 anybody during harvest time, we shall hire somebody.
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 101 
 
 Let our son stay here, and you give us ten roubles 
 now — 
 
 Petek. Is it, then, for another year ? 
 
 Akim (sighiny). Well, if it has to be, I suppose, so to 
 speak. 
 
 Matrena. Again for a year, from the Saturday of St. 
 Demetrius. You will not offend us about the price, but 
 in the meantime let us have ten roubles. Excuse us now. 
 {Rises and hows.) 
 
 Scene XV. The same, Anisya, and Anyutka. 
 
 Anisya {sits down at a distance away). 
 
 Peter. Well ? If it is thus, let us go to the inn and 
 celebrate the occasion. Come, Uncle Akim, and have 
 some brandy. 
 
 AkIxM. I do not drink, that is, no liquor. 
 
 Peter. Well, then you will have some tea. 
 
 Akim. Tea is my weakness. I will take some. 
 
 Peter. And the women, too, will drink tea. You, 
 Nikita, drive in the sheep, and pick up the straw. 
 
 NiKiTA. All right. {All exeunt, except Nikita. It is 
 groiviny dark.) 
 
 Scene XVI. Nikita alone. 
 
 NiKiTA {liyhting a ciyarette). I declare, they insisted 
 upon my telling them how I passed my time with the 
 girls. It would take a long time to tell about that. 
 " Marry her," says he. If I were to marry them all, I 
 should have plenty of wives. What sense is there in my 
 marrying, when I am living better than any married man, 
 and people envy me ? It was as though somebody pushed 
 me to swear by the holy image. And thus I put a 
 stop to the whole matter. They say it is dangerous to 
 swear to an untruth. That is all foolishness, — nothing 
 but talk. That is all.
 
 102 THE POWER OF DAEKNESS 
 
 Scene XVII. Nikita and Akulina. 
 
 Akulina {enter, in caftan. Puts down the rope, takes 
 off her caftan, and goes into the storeroom). Why don't 
 you strike a light ? 
 
 Nikita. To look at you ? I can see you without a 
 light. 
 
 Akulina. Go to ! 
 
 Scene XVIII. The same and Anyutka. 
 
 Anyutka (running in, in a whisper to NiMta). 
 Nikita, go quickly, there is some one asking for you 
 truly. 
 
 Nikita. Who ? 
 
 Anyutka. Marina from the railroad. She is standing 
 around the corner. 
 
 Nikita. You are fibbing. 
 
 Anyutka. Truly. 
 
 Nikita. What does she want ? 
 
 Anyutka. She wants you to come out. " I have but 
 a word to say to Nikita," says she. I began to ask her 
 what it was, but she would not tell me. She asked me 
 whether it was true that you are going to leave us. I told 
 her that it was not true, that your father wanted to take 
 you home and get you married, but that you had refused, 
 and would stay another year with us. Then says she : 
 " Send him to me, for Christ's sake. I must by all means 
 speak one word to him." She has been waiting for quite 
 awhile. Go to her. 
 
 Nikita. God be with her, — I won't go. 
 
 Anyutka. She says that if you do not come she 
 will go into the house to you. " Truly, I will," says 
 she. 
 
 Nikita. Never mind. She will stay there awhile, 
 and then she will go away.
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 103 
 
 Anyutka. She asked me whether they wanted to 
 marry you to AkuKna. 
 
 Akulixa (walks up to NiHta, hack of her spinning- 
 wheel). Who is to marry Akulina ? 
 
 Anyutka. Nikita. 
 
 Akulina. I declare ! Who says so ? 
 
 Nikita. Evidently people say so. {Looks at her and 
 laughs.) Akulina, will you marry me ? 
 
 Akulina. You ? Sometime ago I might have mar- 
 ried you perhaps, but now I won't. 
 
 Nikita. Why not now ? 
 
 Akulina. Because you will not love me. 
 
 Nikita. Why not ? 
 
 Akulina. Because you are told not to. (Laughs.) 
 
 Nikita. Who tells me not to ? 
 
 Akulina. My stepmother. She is scolding all the 
 time, and all the time watching you. 
 
 Nikita (laughing). I declare ! But you are shrewd. 
 
 Akulina. Who, I ? Why shrewd ? Am I blind ? She 
 gave father a terrible tongue-lashing to-day, that big- 
 snouted witch. {ExAt to the storeroom.) 
 
 Anyutka. Nikita! Look there. {Looks through the 
 window.) She is coming. Truly, she is. I am going 
 away. {Exit.) 
 
 Scene XIX. Nikita, Akulina {in the storeroom), and 
 
 Marina. 
 
 Makina {enter). What are you doing with me ? 
 
 Nikita. What am I doing ? Nothing. 
 
 Maeina. You want to abandon me. 
 
 Nikita {getting up, angrily). WTiat good is there in 
 your coming ? 
 
 Maeina. Ah, Nikita ! 
 
 Nikita. Eeally, you are all queer — What did you 
 come for ?
 
 104 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 Marina. Nikita ! 
 
 NiKiTA. What about Nikita ? I am Nikita. "What do 
 you want ? Come now, talk ! 
 
 Marina. I see you want to give me up and forget me. 
 
 Nikita. What is there to remember ? You don't 
 know yourseK. There you were standing around the 
 corner, and you sent Anyutka for rue. I did not come, 
 so you ought to have known that 1 did not want you, very 
 simply. Go away now ! 
 
 Marina. You don't want me ! Now you don't want 
 me. And I believed you that you would love me. First 
 you ruin me, and then you do not want me. 
 
 Nikita. You are saying all this to no purpose and in 
 vain. You have been talking to my father, too. Do me 
 a favour and go away. 
 
 Marina. You know yourself that I have not loved 
 anybody but you. I would not feel any worse for it, if 
 you did not marry me. I am not guilty of anything 
 before you, so why do you no longer love me ? Why ? 
 
 Nikita. There is no sense in threshing out all this. 
 Go away ! foolish women ! 
 
 Marina. I am not pained because you have deceived 
 me, having promised to marry me, but because you no 
 longer love me. And not so much because you no longer 
 love me as because you have exchanged me for another, — 
 I know for whom. 
 
 Nikita {angrily walks up to her). What good is there 
 in discussing matters with a woman ? She won't listen 
 to reason. Go away, I say, or something bad will come 
 of it. 
 
 Marina. Something bad ? Well, you will beat me ? 
 Strike me ! Don't turn your face away. Nikita ! 
 
 Nikita. It is not good. People might come upon us. 
 What good is there in such useless talk ? 
 
 Marina. So this is the end. What has been is not 
 to be. You command me to forget. Remember, Nikita !
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 105 
 
 I had guarded my maiden honour hke the apple of my 
 eye ; you have ruined me for nothing, — you have de- 
 ceived me. You have not taken pity on an orphan (weep- 
 ing) ; you have abandoned me. You have killed me, but 
 I wish you no evil. God be with you ! If you find some 
 one better, you will forget me ; if some one worse, you 
 will think of me — You will think of me, Nikita ! 
 Good-bye, if it has to be so, I have loved you so much ! 
 Good-bye for the last time. ( Wants to embrace him, and 
 grasps his head.) 
 
 Nikita (tearing himself away). Oh, what a bother 
 you are ! If you do not go away, I will, and you can stay 
 here. 
 
 Maeina (crying aloud). You are a beast 1 (/w the 
 door.) God will not give you happiness ! {Goes away 
 weeping. ) 
 
 Scene XX. Nikita and Akulina. 
 
 Akulina (coming out of the storeroom). You are a 
 dog, Nikita ! 
 
 Nikita. How so ? 
 
 Akulina. How she wept ! ( Weeps.) 
 
 Nikita. What is the matter with you ? 
 
 Akulina. What ? You have wronged her. You will 
 . wrong me the same way, you dog! (^Goes into the store- 
 room.) 
 
 Scene XXL Nikita alone. 
 
 Nikita (^after a silence). It is a muddle. I love 
 women like sugar ; but when you have sinned with them 
 it is terrible 1 
 
 Curtain.
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS OF ACT 11. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 NlKITA. 
 
 Anisya. 
 
 Matrena. 
 
 Akulina. 
 
 Sponsor, a neighbour. 
 
 Anyutka. 
 
 People. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 The scene represents a street and Peter's hut. On the left 
 of the spectators is the hut in two parts, and the vesti- 
 bule, tvith a porch in the middle ; on the right are the 
 gate and a corner of the yard. In tlie corner of the 
 yard Anisya is beating hemp. Six months have passed 
 since the first act. 
 
 Scene I. Anisya alone. 
 
 Anisya {stops working, and listens). He is again growl- 
 ing. He must have climbed down from the oven. 
 
 Scene II. Anisya and Akulina {enter, tvith pails on a 
 
 yoke). 
 
 Anisya. He is calling. Go and see what is the matter 
 with him ! Hear him howling ! 
 Akulina. What about you ? 
 Anisya. Go, I tell you ! {Akulina goes into the hut.) 
 
 Scene III. Anisya alone. 
 
 Anisya. He is wearing me out : he will not tell me 
 where the money is, and that is the end of it. The other 
 day he was in the vestibule, so he must have hidden it 
 
 100
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 107 
 
 there. Now I do not know myself where. He is evidently 
 afraid to part from it. It must be somewhere in the 
 house. If only I could find it. He did not have it with 
 him yesterday. He has completely worn me out. 
 
 Scene IV. Anisya and Akulina (who comes out, tying her 
 kerchief on her head). 
 
 Anisya. Where are you going ? 
 
 Akulina. Where ? He told me to call Aunt Marfa. 
 " Go and call sister," says he. " I am dying," says he, " and 
 I want to tell her something." 
 
 Anisya (aside). He is calling his sister. Oh, my 
 wretched head 1 He, no doubt, wants to give it to her. 
 What am I to do ? Oh \ (To Akulina.) Don't go! 
 Where are you going ? 
 
 Akulina. For aunty. 
 
 Anisya. Don't go, I say. I will go myself, and you 
 take the washing to the river. Else you will not get 
 done before evening. 
 
 Akulina. But he told me to go. 
 
 Anisya. Go where I tell you. I told you I would go 
 myself for Marfa. Take the shirts down from the fence. 
 
 Akulina. The shirts ? But I am afraid you won't go. 
 He told me to. 
 
 Anisya. I told you I would. Where is Anyutka ? 
 
 Akulina. Anyutka ? She is watching the calves. 
 
 Anisya. Send her here : the calves won't run away. 
 (Akulina takes ujp the washing and goes out.) 
 
 Scene V. Anisya alone. 
 
 Anisya. If I don't go, he will curse me. If I do, he 
 will give his sister the money. All my labours will be 
 lost. I don't know what to do. My head is bursting. 
 (Contimies to work.)
 
 108 THE POWEK OF DAKKXESS 
 
 Scene VI. i^nisya and Matr^na (entering ivith a staff 
 and a bundle, as though from a journey). 
 
 Mateena. God bless you, my dear ! 
 
 Anisya (looking around, throivs down her ivo7'k and 
 claps her hands from joy). I did not expect you, aunty. 
 God has sent me a precious guest in proper time. 
 
 Matrena. What is up ? 
 
 Anisya. I am all mixed up. It is just terrible ! 
 
 Matrena. I understand he is still alive. 
 
 Anisya. Don't mention it. He is neither alive nor 
 dead. 
 
 Matrena. Has he given up his money to any one ? 
 
 Anisya. He has just sent for his sister Marfa. No 
 doubt, he wants to talk to her about the money. 
 
 Matrena. Of course. But has he not in the mean- 
 time given it to anybody ? 
 
 Anisya. No. I have been watching him hke a 
 hawk. 
 
 Matrena. Where is it ? 
 
 Anisya. He will not tell, and I cannot find out. He 
 is hiding it now in one place, now in another, and I can't 
 do anything in Akulina's presence. She is a silly girl, 
 but she keeps a sharp lookout. Oh, my head ! I am all 
 worn out. 
 
 Matrena. Oh, my dear, if he gives the money away 
 to any oue but you, you will have to weep all your life. 
 They will kick you out of the farm with nothing. You 
 have worried your life away with an unpleasant man, and 
 now you will have to go a-begging as a widow. 
 
 Anisya. Don't say that, aunty ! My heart is acliing, 
 and I do not know what to do, and there is nobody who 
 can advise me. I told Nikita about it, but he is afraid 
 to take part in it. He told me yesterday that it was 
 under the floor. 
 
 Matrena. Well, did you go to see ?
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 109 
 
 Anisya. It is impossible, — he is there himself. I 
 notice that he sometimes has it on his person, and some- 
 times hides it. 
 
 Matkexa. Remember, woman : once you make a 
 mistake, you will not correct it in a lifetime. {In a 
 •whisper.) Well, did you give him the strong tea ? 
 
 Anisya. Oh ! ( Wants to answer, hut, seeing her neigh- 
 hour, groivs silent.) 
 
 Scene VII. The same and Sponsor (ivho passes near the 
 hut and listens to the voice calling in the house). 
 
 Sponsor (to Anisya). Friend ! Anisya, oh, Anisya I 
 Your man is calling ! 
 
 Anisya. He is just coughing, though it sounds as 
 though he were calling. He is in a pretty bad shape. 
 
 Sponsor (walking up to 3fatrena). Good day, mother ! 
 Whence does God bring you ? 
 
 Matrena. From the farm, my dear. I have come to 
 see my son and to bring him some shirts. One naturally 
 thinks of one's own child. 
 
 Sponsor. Yes, that is so. (To Anisya.) Friend, I 
 wanted to bleach the linen, but 1 thought it was too early 
 yet. The people have not begun to bleach yet. 
 
 Anisya. What is the use in hurrying ? 
 
 Matrena. Well, has he made his confession ? 
 
 Anisya. Certainly. The priest was here yesterday. 
 
 Sponsor (to Matrena). I saw him yesterday, and I 
 can't see what his soul is holding on to. He is so 
 haggard. The other day, motherkin, he was almost dead, 
 and they placed him under the images. They were already 
 lamenting over him, and were getting ready to wash him. 
 
 Anisya. He came to and got up again. Now he is 
 walking about. 
 
 Matrena. Well, are you going to give him the ex- 
 treme unction ?
 
 110 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 Anisya. People ask us to. If he is alive to-morrow, 
 we will send for the priest. 
 
 Sponsor. It must be hard for you, Anisya ! The 
 proverb says not in vain : Not he who is ailing is sick, 
 but he who watches over the ailment. 
 
 Anisya. If there were only an end to it ! 
 
 Sponsor. Of course. It is no small matter to see him 
 dying for a year. He has tied your hands. 
 
 Matrena. Bitter is a widow's lot. It is all right if 
 she is young, but who will pity her in her old age ? Old 
 age is no joy. Look at me ! I have walked but a short 
 distance, and I am so tired that my feet are numb. Where 
 is my son ? 
 
 Anisya. He is ploughing. Come in. We shall have 
 the samovar ready, and you will ease your heart with 
 some tea. 
 
 Matrena (sits doivn). I am dreadfully tired, my dear 
 ones. You must be sure and give him the extreme unction. 
 People say it is good for the soul. 
 
 Anisya. Yes, we shall send for him to-morrow. 
 
 Matrena. It will be better so. We have had a wed- 
 ding, my dear. 
 
 Sponsor. What, a wedding in spring ? 
 
 Matrena. There is evidently good sense in the prov- 
 erb : Night is too short for a poor man to marry. Sem^n 
 Matvy^evich has married Marina. 
 
 Anisya. So she has found her happiness ! 
 
 Sponsor. He is a widower, so she has married him for 
 the children. 
 
 Matrena. There are four of them. What decent girl 
 would marry him ? So he has taken her. She is happy. 
 We drank a glass, — you see it was not strong liquor, — 
 because they poured it out for me. 
 
 Sponsor. I declare ! Has he any means ? 
 
 Matrena. So far they are getting on well. 
 
 Sponsor. That's so, who would want to marry a man
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 111 
 
 with children ? Take, for example, our Mikhaylo. He is 
 a tine man, motherkin — 
 
 A Peasant's Voice, Oh, Mavra, whither has the 
 devil taken you ? Go and drive in the cow. {Neigh- 
 bour exit.) 
 
 Scene VIII. Anlsya and Matr^na. 
 
 Matrena (ivhile the neiylihour is leaving, she speaks 
 in an even voice). She has been married sinfully, my 
 dear ; at least the silly woman will not be think- 
 ing about Nikita. {Suddenly changing her voice to a 
 whisper.) She is gone ! Well, did you give him the 
 tea? 
 
 Anisya. Don't mention it. I wish he would die with- 
 out it. He is not dying anyway, and I have taken a 
 sin upon my soul. Oh, my head ! Why did you give me 
 those powders ? 
 
 Matrena. What about the powders ? My dear, those 
 are sleeping powders, and why not give them ? There is 
 no harm in them. 
 
 Anisya. I am not speaking of the sleeping powders, 
 but of the other, the whitish powders. 
 
 Matrena. But those, my dear, are medicinal powders. 
 
 Anisya {sighing). I know ; but it makes me tremble. 
 He has worn me out. 
 
 Matrena. Well, how many times have you given it 
 to him ? 
 
 Anisya. Twice. 
 
 Matrena. Did they have any effect ? 
 
 Anisya. I put my lips to the tea, — it is slightly bit- 
 ter. He drank it with the tea, and said : " I loathe the 
 tea, too." And I said : " Everything tastes bitter to an 
 ill man." But it made me shudder, aunty. 
 
 Matrena. Don't think of it ! It is not good to think 
 of it.
 
 112 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 AisiSYA. I wish you had not given it to me, and had 
 not tempted me to sin. It makes me shudder when I 
 think of it. Why did you give them to me ? 
 
 Matkena. Don't say that, my dear! Christ be with 
 you ! Don't put it on me ! Woman, it will not do to 
 take it off a guilty head and put it on an innocent 
 one. When it comes to anytliing, I shall stand aside. I 
 sha'n't know a thing : I will kiss the cross that I have not 
 given any powders and that I have not seen any, and that 
 I have heard of no powders. Woman, think for yourself ! 
 We were talking the other day about you and how you are 
 suffering. Your stepdaughter is a fool, and your husband 
 is rotten, — a real curse. What will one not do with such 
 a life ? 
 
 Anisya. I sha'n't deny it. Such a life will only make 
 me hang myself or kill him. What life is this ? 
 
 Matrena. That's it. There is no time to lose. You 
 must find the money, and give him the tea to drink. 
 
 Anisya. Oh, my wretched head ! I do not know my- 
 self what to do, and I feel so much afraid : I wish he 
 would die by himself. I do not wish to take the sin upon 
 me. 
 
 Matrena (angrily). Why does he not reveal his 
 money? Does he intend to take it with liim, so that 
 no one may get it ? Is it proper ? God forfend that 
 such a lot of money should be lost for nothing. Is 
 not this a sin ? What is he doing ? Is it not a shame 
 to look at him ? 
 
 Anisya. I do not know. He has worn me out com- 
 pletely. 
 
 Matrena. Why don't you know ? The thing is clear 
 enough. If you don't look out now, you will repent it all 
 your life. He will give the money to his sister, and you 
 wiU be left without any.. 
 
 Anisya. Oh, oh ! He has sent for her, and I have to 
 go and fetch her !
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 113 
 
 Matkena. Wait awhile ! First have the samovar 
 ready. We will fill him with the tea, and then we will 
 look him all over, — maybe we shall find the money. 
 
 Anisya. Oh, oh ! I am afraid something might 
 happen. 
 
 Matrena. What will happen ? What are you wast- 
 ing your time for ? You are having your eyes all the 
 time on the money, but it does not get into your hands. 
 Go and do as I tell you I 
 
 Anisya. So I will have the samovar made. 
 
 Matrena. Go, my dear, and do things so as not to 
 have cause for regret later. That's it ! {Anisya walks 
 away ; Matrena calls after her.) By the way, don't tell 
 Nikita about it. He is silly about such things ! God 
 forfend that he should find out about the powders. God 
 knows what he will do if he hears of it. He is compas- 
 sionate : he could not kill a chicken even. Don't tell 
 him ! He will not consider it rightly. (Stops in terror ; 
 Peter appears on the threshold.) 
 
 Scene IX. The same and Peter {holding on to the wall^ 
 crawls out on the porch and calls in a weak voice). 
 
 Peter. Will you ever hear me ? Oh, oh ! Anisya, who 
 is here ? {Falls down on the bench.) 
 
 Anisya {coming out from around the corner). What 
 did you come out for ? Why did you not stay where you 
 were ? 
 
 Peter. Has the girl gone for Marfa ? 'Tis hard — 
 Oh, if death would only come ! 
 
 Anisya. She is busy : I sent her to the river. Give 
 me a chance, and I will go there myself. 
 
 Peter. Send Anyiitka. Where is she ? Oh, 'tis hard ! 
 Oh, my death ! 
 
 Anisya. I have sent for her. 
 
 Peter. Oh, where is she ?
 
 114 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 Anisya. Where is she ? The paralysis take her ! 
 
 Petp:k. Oh, I have no strength. It burns me within. 
 I feel as though they were turning an auger within me. 
 Why did you abandon me like a dog ? There is nobody 
 to give me a drink. Oh, send Anyutka to me ! 
 
 Anisya. Here she is. Anyutka, go to father ! 
 
 Scene X. The same and Anyutka {running in. Anisya 
 walks around the corner). 
 
 Peter. Go, oh, to Aunt Marfa ! Tell her, father 
 wants her to come : he needs her. 
 
 Anyutka. Well ? 
 
 Peter. Wait. Tell her I need her at once. Tell 
 her I am dying. Oh, oh ! 
 
 Anyutka. I will take my kerchief and will go there 
 at once, (Exit running.) 
 
 Scene XL Peter, Anisya, and Matr^na. 
 
 Matrena {winking). Well, woman, remember your 
 business ! Go into the hut and hunt everywhere ! Hunt, 
 as a dog hunts for fleas ! Turn everything upside down, 
 and I will go through him here at once. 
 
 Anisya {to Matrena). I have more courage when you 
 are around. ( Walks up to the porch. To Peter.) Don't 
 you want the samovar ? Aunt Matrena has come to see 
 her son, — so you drink tea with her. 
 
 Peter. All right, have it made ! {Anisya goes into 
 the vestibule.) 
 
 Scene XII. Peter and Matrena {walking over tc the 
 
 porch). 
 
 Peter. Good day I 
 
 Matrena. Good day, benefactor! Good day, my dear! 
 You are evidently sick. My old man is very sorry for
 
 THE POWER OF DARKXESS 115 
 
 you. He told me to go and find out how you were. He 
 sent his regards, (^oivs again.) 
 
 Peter. I am dying. 
 
 Matkena. As I look at you, Ignatych, I see that 
 suffering is not abroad in the woods, but keeping close to 
 people. You are thin, my dear, very thin, as I see. Sick- 
 ness does not make one look better, that is evident. 
 
 Peter. My death has come. 
 
 Matrexa. Well, Peter Ignatych, that is God's will. 
 You have confessed, and you will receive the extreme 
 unction, if God grants it. You have a clever wife, thank 
 God, and you will be buried in honour, and mass will be 
 said for you. And my son will in the meantime look 
 after the house as much as he can. 
 
 Peter. There is no one to whom I can give an order ! 
 The woman is not reliable, and busies herself with foohsh 
 things. I know all — I know — The girl is silly and 
 young. I have fixed all this house, but there is no one 
 to take care of it. It is a pity. (Groans.) 
 
 Matrena. If there is anything about money matters, 
 you can order others — 
 
 Peter {to Anisya in the vestibule). Has Anyutka 
 gone ? 
 
 Matrena (aside). I declare, he has not forgotten it. 
 
 Anisya (in the vestibule). She has gone long ago. Go 
 into the house ! I will take you in. 
 
 Peter. Let me sit here for the last time ! The air is 
 close within. It is hard for me — Oh, I am all burning 
 up inside — If death would only come ! 
 
 Matrena. If God does not take away the soul, it will 
 not fly away by itself. God has power over life and 
 death, Peter Ignatych. You can't foresee death. There 
 are cases when a man gets up again. There was once a 
 man in our village, who was almost dead — 
 
 Peter. No. I feel that I am going to die to-day. 
 (Leans back and closes his eyes.)
 
 116 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 Scene XIII. The same and Anisya. 
 
 AnIsya (enter). "Well, will you go in, or not ? I am 
 tired waiting for you. Peter, oh, Peter ! 
 
 Matrena (walks away and beckons with her finger to 
 Anisya). Well ? 
 
 Anisya (walks down from the porch, to Matrena). 
 Nothing. 
 
 Matrena. Have you looked everywhere ? Under the 
 floor ? 
 
 Anisya. Nothing there, either, Mayhe in the loft. 
 He was climbing there yesterday. 
 
 Matrena. Look for it, look for it more carefully than 
 ever, as though licking it clean with your toDgue. I see 
 he will die to-day anyway : his nails are blue, and his 
 face is ashen gray. Is the samovar ready ? 
 
 Anisya. It will boil in a minute. 
 
 Scene XIV. The same and Nikita (coming from the 
 other side. If possible he rides on a horse to the gate. 
 He does not see Peter). 
 
 Nikita {to his mother). Good day, mother ! Are you 
 all well at home ? 
 
 Matrena. Thank God we are alive and have some- 
 thing to eat. 
 
 Nikita. Well, how is the master ? 
 
 Matrena. Softly, — he is sitting there. {Points to the 
 porch.) 
 
 Nikita. Well, let him sit ! What do I care ? 
 
 Peter (opening his eyes). Nikita, oh, Nikita, come here ! 
 (^Nikita walks over to him. Anisya whispers to Matreiia.) 
 
 Peter. Why did you come back so soon ? 
 
 Nikita. I have done the ploughing. 
 
 Peter. Have you ploughed up the strip back of the 
 bridge ?
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 117 
 
 NiKiTA. It is too far to go there. 
 
 Peter. Too far ? It is farther from the house. You 
 will have to go there especially, — so you might have 
 done it at once. {Aiiisya, standing a distance off, is 
 listening.) 
 
 Matkena (coming up). Oh, son, why don't you try to 
 do better for your master ? Your master is ill, and is 
 depending on you ; you ought to exert yourself for him 
 as for a father. Why don't you serve him as I told you 
 to? 
 
 Peter. So you had better — oh ! — dig up the 
 potatoes, and the women — oh ! — will pick them 
 over. 
 
 Anisya {aside). So he wants me to go, too. He wants 
 to send us all away, because he has the money with him. 
 He wants to hide it somewhere. 
 
 Peter. Because — oh ! — it will soon be time to set 
 them out, and they will be rotten. Oh, I have no more 
 strength. {Rises.) 
 
 Matrena {runs up on the porch and supports Peter). 
 Shall I take you to the house ? 
 
 Peter. Yes. {Stops.) Nikita ! 
 
 NiKiTA {angrily). What else is it ? 
 
 Peter. I won't see you again — I shall die to-day — 
 Forgive me, for Christ's sake, forgive me if I have sinned 
 before you — I have sinned in deeds and words — Yes, 
 I have. Forgive me. 
 
 Nikita. There is nothing to forgive. I am sinful 
 myself. 
 
 Matrena. son, show more feeling ! 
 
 Peter. Forgive me, for Christ's sake — ( Weeps.) 
 
 Nikita {snuffling). God will forgive you. Uncle 
 Peter. I have not been offended by you. I have not 
 been wronged by you. You forgive me, for I may be 
 more sinful than you. {Weeps. Peter goes away moan- 
 ing. Matrena supports him.)
 
 118 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 Scene XV. Nikita and Anisya. 
 
 Anisya. Oh, my wretched head ! There is something 
 behind his words. ( Walks over to NiMta.) You said that 
 the money was under the floor, but I did not fiud it there. 
 
 Nikita (weeping, does not ansiver). I have never 
 been wronged by him. See what I have done to him ! 
 
 Anisya. Stop that. Where is the money ? 
 
 Nikita (angrily). Who knows ? Look for it yourself ! 
 
 Anisya. You are dreadfully compassionate. 
 
 Nikita. I am sorry for him, I am so sorry. How 
 he wept ! Oh ! 
 
 Anisya. I declare, you are soft-hearted ! A good 
 person you have found to pity ! He has been scolding 
 you and even now he ordered me to drive you away from 
 the farm. You had better pity me. 
 
 Nikita. What am I to pity you for ? 
 
 Anisya. He will hide the money, and then die. 
 
 Nikita. No, he won't. 
 
 Anisya. Nikita ! He has sent- for his sister, — he 
 wants to give it to her. It will be our misfortune. How 
 shall we live if he gives the money away ? They will 
 send me away from the farm. You ought to help me in 
 this. Did you not tell me that he climbed into the loft 
 yesterday ? 
 
 Nikita. I saw him coming out of it; but I do not 
 know where he put the money. 
 
 Anisya. Oh, my head ! I will go and look there. 
 (NiMta walks avjay.) 
 
 Scene XVI. The same and Matr^na (comes out of the 
 hut. Walks down the steps to Anisya and Nikita, in 
 a whisper). 
 
 Matrena. Don't go anywhere ! He has the money 
 on his person. He has it on his baptismal cross.
 
 THE POWEK OF DARKNESS 119 
 
 Anisya. Oh, my wretched head ! 
 
 Matkena. If you miss the opportunity now, you 
 might as well ftok for it under the eagle's right wing. 
 His sister will come, and then good-bye. 
 
 Anisya. If she comes, he will give it to her. What 
 am I to do ? Oh, my head ! 
 
 Matkena. What are you to do ? Look here : the 
 samovar is boiling now, so you go and fix the tea and 
 pour in (in a whisjjci^) the w^hole lot of it. He will drink 
 a cup, and then you take it away. Don't be afraid ! He 
 will not tell. 
 
 Anisya. It makes me tremble ! 
 
 Matrena. Don't discuss now. Do it right away, 
 while I am on the lookout for his sister. Don't make a 
 blunder ! Take the money and bring it here, and Nikita 
 will hide it ! 
 
 Anisya. Oh, my head ! How am I to begin it ? 
 
 Matrena. I tell you not to discuss now. Do as I 
 tell you, Nikita! 
 
 Nikita. What ? 
 
 Matrena. You stay here ! Sit down on the mound 
 for awhile, — you will be needed. 
 
 Nikita (waving his hand). What these women will 
 think out! They w411 positively ruin me! Go to ! I 
 will go and dig out the potatoes. 
 
 Matrena (takes his hand). I tell you to stay ! 
 
 Scene XVII. The same and Anyutka (enter). 
 
 Anisya. Well ? 
 
 Anyutka. She was in her daughter's garden. She 
 will be here at once. 
 
 Anisya. What shall we do if she comes ? 
 
 Matrena (to Anisya). You will have plenty of time. 
 Do as I tell you ! 
 
 Anisya. I do not know what. I know nothing, —
 
 120 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 everything is mixed in my head. Anyutka ! Go, darling, 
 to the calves ! They may have ruu away. Oh, I wou't 
 have the courage. 
 
 Matrena. Go ! The samovar is running over by this 
 time. 
 
 Anisya. Oh, my wretched head ! {Exit.) 
 
 Scene XVIII. Matr(^na and Nikita. 
 
 Matrena {goes up to her son). Yes, my son ! {Sits 
 down on the mound, near him.) Your affair, too, has to 
 be considered. It must not be left out. 
 
 Nikita. What affair ? 
 
 Matrena. Namely, how you are to get on in the world. 
 
 Nikita. How to get on in the world ? I shall live 
 just as other people do. 
 
 Matrena. The old man is going to die to-day. 
 
 Nikita. If he does, the kingdom of heaven be his. 
 What is that to me ? 
 
 Matrena {looking all the time at the porch wliile speak- 
 ing). Oh, my son! A living person thinks of living 
 tilings. My dear, it takes much thinking here. I have 
 been in all kinds of places, attending to your affairs ; I 
 have worn out my legs running errands for you. Don't 
 f on^et me for it ! 
 
 Nikita. What is it you attended to ? 
 
 Matrena. To your affair, to your fate. If I did not 
 attend to it in time, nothing would come of it. You know 
 Ivan Mos^ich ? I go to see him now and then. The 
 other day I attended to some business of his ; I stayed 
 there awhile and chatted with him. " Explain to me, Ivan 
 Mos6ich," says I, " a certain matter. For example," says 
 I, " there is a widower, and he has taken unto himseK a 
 second wife, and, let us say, he has children by both 
 wives. Suppose now," says I, " the man dies ; can an- 
 other man," says I, " step in and marry the widow ? Can
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 121 
 
 he," says I, " marry off the daughters and himself remain 
 on the farm ? " " He can," says he, " only," says he, " it 
 will take much trouble and money," says he ; " it can be 
 done, — but without money," says he, " there is no use 
 trying." 
 
 NiKiTA (laughing). Of course, if you give them money. 
 Everybody wants money. 
 
 Matrena. Well, my dear. I told him the whole affair. 
 " In the first place," says he, " your son must inscribe 
 himself in that village ; for this you need money to treat 
 the old men to drinks. Then they will put down their 
 signatures. Everything," says he, " has to be done cau- 
 tiously." Look here ! {Takes out a paj^er from her ker- 
 chief.) He has written up a paper. Read it, for you 
 know how to read. {Nikita reads it.) 
 
 XiKiTA. This paper is an official document. There is 
 no great wisdom in it. 
 
 Mateena. Listen to w'hat Ivan Mos^ich has told me. 
 " Above everything else," says he, " let him not miss the 
 money. If she does not get the money," says he, " they 
 will not let her get a son-in-law. Money," says he, " is 
 the chief thing." So look out ! My son, the business 
 will soon begin. 
 
 XiKiTA. What do I care ? It is her money, so let her 
 trouble herself about it. 
 
 Matrexa. My son, you do not judge rightly. Can a 
 woman consider rightly ? Suppose even she takes the 
 money, how is she to dispose of it ? That is not a 
 woman's business, but a man's. You can hide it, and all 
 such things. You have more sense in matters like this. 
 
 NiKiTA. The reasoning of you women is not coiTect ! 
 
 Matrexa. Why not correct? You only take the 
 money. Then the woman will be in your hands. If, by 
 any chance, she should get saucy, or something of that 
 kind, you can pull in the reins. 
 
 NiKiTA. Go to ! I will go away.
 
 122 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 Scene XIX. Nikita, Matr^na, and Anisya {pale. Run- 
 ning toward Matrena from the hut around the corner). 
 
 Anisya. It was on his person. Here it is. (Shows 
 it lender her apron.) 
 
 Matkena. Give it to Nikita ! He will hide it. Ni- 
 kita, take it and put it away somewhere ! 
 
 Nikita. All right ! Let me have it ! 
 
 Anisya. Oh, my head ! I will put it away myself ! 
 ( Walks over toioard the gate.) 
 
 Matrena {seizing her hand). Where are you going ? 
 They will find it out, and his sister is coming. Give 
 it to him : he knows what to do with it. Senseless 
 woman ! 
 
 Anisya {stops in indecision). Oh, my head ! 
 
 Nikita. Well, let me have it! I will put it away 
 safely. 
 
 Anisya. Where will you put it ? 
 
 Nikita. Are you afraid ? {Laughs.) 
 
 Scene XX. The same and Akulina {coming with the 
 
 washing). 
 
 Anisya. Oh, my wretched head ! {Gives up the 
 money.) Nikita, look out ! 
 
 Nikita. What are you afraid of ? I will put it away 
 so that I can't find it myself. {Exit.) 
 
 Scene XXI. Matrena, Anisya, and Akulina. 
 
 Anisya {standing in fright). Oh, oh, when he — 
 Matrena. Well, is he dead ? 
 
 Anisya. Yes, I think he is. He did not stir when I 
 took it from him. 
 
 Matrena. Go into the hut ! Akulina is coming. 
 Anisya. I have sinned, and he with the money —
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 123 
 
 Matrena. That will do. Go into the house ! Marfa 
 is coming. 
 
 Anisya. I have trasted him. What will happen now ? 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Scene XXII. Marfa, Akulina, and Matrena. 
 
 Marfa (coming from one side, and Akulina from the 
 other. To Akulina). I should have come long ago, but 
 I was at my daughter's. WeU, how is the old man ? Is 
 he going to die ? 
 
 Akulina {taking off the washing). I don't know. I 
 was at the river. 
 
 Marfa {pointing to Matrena). Who is that ? 
 
 Matrena. I am from Zuev. I am Nikita's mother, 
 from Zuev, my friend. Good day ! Your brother has 
 been asking for you. He came out himself. " Send for 
 my sister," says he, " because," says he — Oh ! I am 
 afraid he may be dead by this time. 
 
 Scene XXIII. The same and Anisya {running out of the 
 house with a cry. Takes hold of a post and moans). 
 
 Anisya. Oh, oh ! To whom has he left me ? Oh, oh, 
 oh, to whom has he abandoned me ? Oh, oh, oh, a wretched 
 widow — for ever and ever — he has closed his clear 
 eyes — 
 
 Scene XXIV. The same and friend. {The friend and 
 Matrena take her under her arins. Akulina aTid 
 Marfa go into the hoiise. People gathering.) 
 
 A Voice from the throng. Call for old women to 
 fix things. 
 
 Matrena {rolling up her sleeves). Is there any water 
 in the iron pot ? I think the samovar has not been 
 emptied yet. I will work myself. 
 
 Curtain.
 
 DKAMATIS PEESON^ OF ACT III. 
 
 Akim. 
 
 NiKITA. 
 
 Akulina. 
 Anisya. 
 
 Anyutka. 
 
 MiTRiCH, an old hired hand, 
 
 an ex-soldier. 
 Anisya's Sponsor. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Peter's hut. Winter. Nine months have passed since the 
 Second Act. Anisya, in every-day attire, working at 
 the loom. Anyutka on the oven. Mitrich, the hired 
 
 hand. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Mitrich (walks in slowly. Takes off his coat). Lord, 
 
 be merciful 
 
 Anisya. 
 
 Mitrich. 
 
 Anisya. 
 
 Mitrich. 
 
 Anisya. 
 floor? 
 
 Mitrich. 
 proper, and 
 to do things by halves 
 (Picking his callosities.) 
 
 Has the master returned ? 
 What? 
 
 Has Nikita come back from town ? 
 No. 
 
 He is evidently on a spree. Lord I 
 Have you done your work on the threshing- 
 
 Of course. I have fixed everything as is 
 have covered it with straw. I don't like 
 O Lord ! Merciful St. Nicholas ! 
 It is time for him to be back. 
 
 Anisya. Why should he be in a hurry ? He has 
 money, so, I suppose, he is celebrating with a girl — 
 Mitrich. He has money, — then why not celebrate ? 
 
 What did Akulina go to town for ? 
 
 124
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 125 
 
 Anisya. You ask her why the uuclean one has taken 
 her there. 
 
 MiTKiCH. Why to town ? In town there is much of 
 everything if you only have the means. Lord ! 
 
 Anyutka. I have heard it myself. " I will buy you 
 a shawl," says he, " I will," truly, says he. " You shall 
 pick it out yourself," says he. And she dressed herself 
 up : she put on the plush sleeveless coat and the French 
 kerchief. 
 
 Anisya. It is true : a girl's chastity goes as far as 
 the threshold. Let her step across it, and she forgets 
 everything. Shameless one ! 
 
 MiTRiCH. Well, what is there to be ashamed of? 
 Celebrate as long as there is any money ! Lord ! Is it 
 too early for supper ? (Anisi/a keej^s silent.) In the mean- 
 time I will warm myself. (Climhs on the oven.) Lord ! 
 Most Holy Mother of God ! St. Nicholas ! 
 
 Scene II. The same and Sponsor. 
 
 Sponsor (entei-). Your man has not come back yet ? 
 
 Anisya. No. 
 
 Sponsor. It is time he should have. I w^onder whether 
 he has not gone to our inn. Sister Ft^kla told me that a 
 number of sleighs from town were standing there. 
 
 Anisya. Anyutka, Auyvitka 
 
 Anyutka. What ? 
 
 Anisya. Eun down, Anyutka, to the inn, and see 
 whether he is not there, and drunk. 
 
 Anyutka [jumping down from the oven, and p^itting 
 on her coat). Right away ! 
 
 Sponsor. Has he taken Akulina with him ? 
 
 Anisya. For what else would he go there ? She is 
 the cause of it all. He said that he had to go to the bank 
 to get some money, but it is only she who is taking 
 him to town.
 
 126 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 Sponsor (shaking her head). What is the use of talk- 
 ing about it ? (Silence.) 
 
 Anyutka (at the door). If he is there, what shall I 
 say to him ? 
 
 Anisya. Just find out whether he is there. 
 
 Anyutka. All right, I'll go quick. (Exit.) 
 
 Scene III. Anisya, Mitrich, and Sponsor. (Long 
 
 silence.) 
 
 Mitrich (bellowing). Lord ! Holy St. Nicholas ! 
 
 Sponsor {shuddering). Oh, how he has frightened me ! 
 Who is that ? 
 
 Anisya. Mitrich, the hired hand. 
 
 Sponsor. Oh, he has given me a fright ! I had for- 
 gotten about him. I have heard that somebody has been 
 asking for Akulina's hand. 
 
 Anisya (coming out from hehuid the loom and seating 
 herself at the table). The Dy^dlov people hinted about 
 it ; but evidently they heard something. They hinted 
 about it, and then they kept silent, — and that was the 
 end of it. Who should want her ? 
 
 Sponsor. What about the Liziinovs from Ziiev ? 
 
 Anisya. They made inquiries, but the inquiries did 
 not come to anything. He did not even receive them. 
 
 Sponsor. You ought to get her married. 
 
 Anisya. I should say I ought to. I should hke to 
 get her away from the farm, but I do not know how 
 to do it. He does not want to let her go, nor does she 
 want to go herself. You see, he has not yet had enough 
 of his beauty. 
 
 Sponsor. Oh, what sins ! What he is up to ! And 
 he is her stepfather. 
 
 Anisya. Oh, friend ! They have cheated and deceived 
 me so cleverly ! In my foolishness I did nof notice any- 
 thing and did not think about it, and so I married him,
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 127 
 
 I did not suspect a thing, but they had an understanding 
 long before. 
 
 Sponsor. Oh, oh, what an affair ! 
 
 Anisya. The farther it went, the more they began to 
 hide it from me. Ah, friend, I am tired, I am tired of my 
 life. It would be different if I did not love him ! 
 
 Sponsor. Yes, it is bad. 
 
 Anisya. It pains me, friend, to be wronged by him in 
 such a manner. Oh, it pains me ! 
 
 Sponsor. They say that he has become rough in his ways. 
 
 Anisya. Yes, that is so. Formerly he used to be 
 peaceful when he drank ; he used to strike me before, but 
 he loved me ; now, when he fills himself up with drink, 
 he rushes against me and wants to trample upon me. 
 The other day he stuck his hands into my braids, and I 
 had the hardest time to get away from him. And the 
 girl is worse than a snake. I wonder how the earth 
 can bring forth such evil ones ! 
 
 Sponsor. Oh, oh, oh, friend ! You look pretty well 
 worn out ! It is hard to bear it all. You picked him up 
 when he was a beggar, and this is the way he treats you. 
 Shall you not try to stop him ? 
 
 Anisya. Oh, my dear friend ! What shall I do with 
 my heart ? My former husband was very severe, but I 
 twisted him as I wanted ; I cannot do so with this one. 
 The moment I see him my heart softens. I have no 
 courage against him : I walk around before him like a 
 wet chicken. 
 
 Sponsor. Oh, oh, friend ! You must- be bewitched. 
 They say Matr^na does such things. It must be she who 
 has done it. 
 
 Anisya. I think so myself, my friend. I sometimes 
 feel so angry, I should like to tear him to pieces ; but the 
 moment I see him my heart does not allow me to raise 
 my hands against him. 
 
 Sponsor. There is no doubt, you are bewitched. It
 
 128 THE POWEli OF DARKNESS 
 
 does not take long to spoil a person by witchcraft. 
 It makes me feel badly to see what has become of you. 
 
 Anisya. My legs are as thin as sticks. But look at 
 silly Akulina ! She is a slattern and a good-for-nothing, 
 but just look at her ! Where did it all come from ? He 
 has dressed her up. She has spread out and is as bloated 
 as a bladder on the water. Although she is silly, she has 
 got it into her head to say : " I," says she, " am the mis- 
 tress here. The house is mine, leather wanted me to 
 marry him." And oh, how mean she is ! God save us 
 from her ! When she gets angry she tears the straw 
 down from the roof. 
 
 Sponsok. Oh, oh, friend, what a life you lead ! And 
 people envy you ! They say you are rich ; but evidently, 
 my dear, tears flow also over gold. 
 
 Anisya. What is there to envy ? The wealth will all 
 pass away like dust. He squanders the money terribly. 
 
 Sponsor. But how is it, my friend, you have let it 
 happen ? The money is yours. 
 
 Anisya. If you only knew it all ! I made a little blunder. 
 
 Sponsok. If I were in your place, my friend, I should 
 go to some great officer. The money is yours. How can 
 he squander it ? There are no such laws. 
 
 Anisya. They pay no attention to this nowadays. 
 
 Sponsor. Oh, friend, you look pretty weak ! 
 
 Anisya. Yes, my dear, I am weak, very weak. He 
 has ruined me. I do not know what to do. Oh, oh, my 
 wretched head ! 
 
 Sponsor. Somebody is coming, I think. {Listens. 
 The doo7' opens. Enter Akim.) 
 
 Scene IV. The same a7id Akim. 
 
 Akim (crosses himself. Shakes off the mud from his 
 shoes and takes off his wraps). Peace be upon this house ! 
 How are you ? Good day, aunty.
 
 THE POWER OP DARKNESS 129 
 
 Antsy A. Good day, father ! Are you from the farm ? 
 
 Akim. I thought, so to speak, I would come down to 
 see my son, so to speak. I started late, after dinner, so 
 to speak ; as I walked, it was snowing, and it was hard 
 to walk, so to speak, and so I am late. Is my son at 
 home ? Is he at home ? 
 
 Anisya. No. He is in town. 
 
 Akim (sits dovm on the bench). I have some business, 
 so to speak, some business with him. I told him the 
 other day, so to speak, about my need, so to speak ; 
 the horse has died, so to speak. I must get me another 
 horse, so to speak, any kind of a horse, so to speak. So 
 I have come, so to speak. 
 
 Anisya. Nikita told me about it. You will talk with 
 him when he comes home. ( Walks toward the oven.) You 
 eat supper, and by that time he will be here. Mitrich, 
 oh, Mitrich, come to supper ! 
 
 Mitrich. O Lord, merciful St. Nicholas ! 
 
 Anisya. Come to supper ! 
 
 Sponsor. I will go now. Good-bye ! (Exit.) 
 
 Scene V. Akim, Anisya, and Mitrich. 
 
 Mitrich (climhing down). I do not know how I came 
 to fall asleep. Lord, St. Nicholas ! Good evening, 
 Uncle Akim ! 
 
 Akim. Oh, Mitrich ! What are you doing here, so to 
 speak ? — 
 
 Mitrich. I am working for Nikita, your son. 
 
 Akim. I say ! So you are working for my son, so to 
 speak ? I say ! 
 
 Mitrich. I was staying with a merchant in town, but 
 I took to drinking there ; so I came back to the village. 
 I have no place to go to, so I hired out at your son's. 
 ( Yawning.) O Lord ! 
 
 Akim. Well, so to speak, how is Nikita doing, so to
 
 130 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 speak ? He must be doing well, so to speak, to be able, 
 so to speak, to hire a man. 
 
 MiTRiCH. He has money, then why should he — 
 
 Akim. That is all in vain, so to speak, all in vain. In 
 vain, I say. Looseness, so to speak. 
 
 Anisya. Yes, he is spoilt, dreadfully spoilt. 
 
 Akim. That's it ! I was thinking, so to speak, how to 
 do it better, but he is doing it worse, so to speak. A man 
 gets spoilt by wealth, so to speak, — he does. 
 
 MiTKiCH. Even a dog maddens from fat, — then why 
 should a man not spoil from fat ? You ought to have 
 seen me going on a spree when I had money ! I drank 
 for three weeks without stopping. I gave my last trousers 
 for drinks. When I did not have anything left I stopped. 
 Now I have sworn off. Botlier ! 
 
 Akim. And your old woman, so to speak, where is she ? 
 
 MiTRiCH. The old woman, my friend, is well fixed. 
 She sits now in one inn in town, now in another. She 
 looks fine : one eye is torn out, the other is black, and her 
 mouth is all awry. She is never sober, — pea-pie choke 
 her ! 
 
 Akim. Oh, oh ! How is that ? 
 
 MiTRiCH. Where else is there a place for a soldier's 
 wife ? This is her proper occupation. {Silence.) 
 
 Akim {to Anisya). Has Nikita taken anything to 
 town ? Has he, so to speak, taken anything to sell ? 
 
 Anisya {setting the table and passing the food). He 
 went with nothing. He went to fetch some money from 
 the bank. 
 
 Akim {eating). What do you want to do with the 
 money ? Do you want to use it for something, so to 
 speak ? 
 
 Anisya. No, we do not touch it. Only twenty or 
 thirty roubles ; we had to take them out. 
 
 Akim. Had to take them ? Why should you take the 
 money, so to speak ? You take it to-day, and you take it
 
 THE POWER OF .DARKNESS 131 
 
 to-morrow, so to speak, and then you use it all up, so to 
 speak. 
 
 Anisya. This is above the capital. The money is not 
 touched. 
 
 Akim. Not touched ? How not touched ? You take 
 it, and it is, so to speak, not touched ? You pour flour, 
 so to speak, into a box, so to speak, or into the granary, 
 and take the flour out again, — well, will it remain 
 untouched, so to speak ? There is something wrong, 
 they are cheating you, so to speak. You had better find 
 out, or they will cheat you. How can it be untouched ? 
 You are taking away, so to speak, — and it is not 
 touched ! 
 
 Anisya. I don't know about that. Ivan Mos^ich 
 advised us to do it. "Put the money into the bank," 
 says he, " then the money will be safe, and you will get 
 interest on it." 
 
 MiTRiCH {through eating). That is correct. I used to 
 live at the house of a merchant : he did it the same way. 
 All one has to do is to put the money in, and then lie on 
 the oven and receive money. 
 
 Akim. You are saying some wonderful things, so to 
 speak. How is one to receive it, so to speak ? You 
 receive it, so to speak, and from whom do they get the 
 money, so to speak ? 
 
 Anisya. The bank gives us the money. 
 
 MiTRiCH. What is that? A woman can't make it 
 out. Look here ! I will explain it to you. Listen ! Let 
 us suppose, for example, you have money, and I, for 
 example, have my land lying fallow ; it is spring, and I 
 have no seed ; or I have to pay the taxes. So I come to 
 you, and say : " Akim, give me ten roubles ! I will have 
 the harvest in by St. Mary's Intercession and then I will 
 give it back to you, with a tithe for the accommodation." 
 You, for example, see that I can be flayed, having a horse 
 or a cow, so you say : " Give me two or three roubles for
 
 132 THE FOWIiR OF DARKNESS 
 
 the accommodation." The noose is around my neck, and I 
 cannot get along without it. " Very well," says I, " I will 
 take the ten roubles." In the fall I sell some things, and 
 I bring you the money, and you skin me in addition for 
 three roubles. 
 
 Akim. But this is, so to speak, a wrong done to a 
 peasant. If one forgets God, so to speak, it is not good. 
 
 MiTRiCH. Wait a minute ! She will soon strike the 
 same thing. So remember what you have done : you 
 have fleeced me, so to speak, aud Ai^i^y^? ^o^ example, 
 has some money which is lying idle. She has no place 
 to put it in and, being a woman, does not know what to 
 do with it. So she comes to you : " Can't I," says she, 
 " make some use of my money ? " '•' Yes, you can," you 
 say. And so you wait. Next summer I come to you 
 once more. " Give me another ten roubles," says I, " and 
 I will pay you for the accommodation." So you watch 
 me to see whether my hide has not been turned yet, 
 whether I can be flayed again, aud if I can, you give me 
 Anisya's money. But if I have not a blessed thing, and 
 nothing to eat, you make your calculations, seeing that I 
 cannot be skinned, and you say : " God be with you, my 
 brother ! " and you look out for another man to whom to 
 give Anisya's money, and whom you can flay. Now this 
 is called a bank. So it keeps going around. It is a very 
 clever thing, my friend. 
 
 Akim {excitedly). What is this ? This is a nastiness, 
 so to speak. If a peasant, so to speak, were to do it, the 
 peasants would regard it as a sin, so to speak. This is 
 not according to the Law, not according to the Law, so 
 to speak. It is bad. How can the learned men, so to 
 speak — 
 
 MiTRiCH. This, my friend, is their favourite occupa- 
 tion. You consider this : If there is one who is not very 
 clever, or a woman, who has money and does not know 
 what to do with it, they take it to a bank, and the bank
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS lo3 
 
 snatches it up, — pea-pie choke them, — and skins the 
 people with that raouey. It's a clever thing. 
 
 Akim {sighing). As I look at it, so to speak, there is 
 trouble without money, so to speak, and with money the 
 trouble is double, so to speak. God has commanded to 
 work. But you put the money in the bank, so to speak, 
 and he down to sleep, and the money will feed you, so to 
 speak, while you are lying. This is bad, — not according 
 to the Law, so to speak. 
 
 MiTRiCH. Not according to the Law ? The Law does 
 not trouble people nowadays, my friend. All they think 
 about is how to clean out a fellow. That's what ! 
 
 Akim (sighing). The time is coming near, so to speak. 
 I have seen water-closets, so to speak, in the city. What 
 have they come to ? They are nice and clean, so to 
 speak, hke an inn. What does it all lead to, what does 
 it lead to ? Oh, they have forgotten God ! They have 
 forgotten Him, so to speak. We have forgotten God, yes, 
 we have forgotten Him. Thank you, my dear, I have 
 had enough, — I am satisfied. (Comes out from hehind 
 the table. Mitrich climbs iipon the oven.) 
 
 Anisya (taking avjay the dishes, and eating). Father 
 might talk to him, but I am ashamed to mention it to him. 
 
 Akim. What ? 
 
 Anisya. Nothing, I was just speaking to myself. 
 
 Scene VI. The same and Anyutka (enter). 
 
 Akim. Ah, clever girl ! Still flying around ? You 
 are frozen, I suppose. 
 
 Anyutka. I am dreadfully frozen. Good evening, 
 grandfather ! 
 
 Anisya. Well ? Is he there ? 
 
 Anyutka. No. Andrian, who has come back from 
 town, says that he is still in town, in an inn. Father, he 
 says, is dead drunk.
 
 134 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 Anisya. Do you want to eat ? Here, take it ! 
 
 Anyutka {goes to the oven). Oh, it is so cold ! My 
 hands are numb. {Akim takes off his coat and shoes. 
 Anisya washes the dishes.) 
 
 Anisya. Father ! 
 
 Akim. "What do you wish ? 
 
 Anisya. Is Marina living well ? 
 
 Akim. Not bad. She is getting along. She is a 
 clever woman, so to speak, and peaceable, and is getting 
 on well, so to speak. She is a good worker, so to speak, 
 and tries hard, and, so to speak, is obedient. She is all 
 right, so to speak. 
 
 Anisya. They say that a relative of Marina's husband 
 wanted to marry our Akulina. Haven't you heard any- 
 thing about it ? 
 
 Akim. The Mii'onovs ? The women were saying some- 
 thing about it. I did not pay any attention to it, so to 
 speak. I do not know for sure, so to speak. The women 
 were saying something. But I do not remember, I do not 
 remember it, so to speak. Well, the Mirdnovs are good 
 peasants, so to speak. 
 
 Anisya. I wish so much I could get her married at 
 once. 
 
 Akim. What is it ? 
 
 Anyutka (listening). They have come. 
 
 Anisya. Keep out of their way ! ( Continues to wash 
 the spoons, without turning her head.) 
 
 Scene VII. The same and Nikita. 
 
 NiKlTA. Anisya, my wife, who has come ? (Anisya 
 looks around and, turning away, keeps silent.) 
 
 NiKiTA (angrily). Wlio has come ? Have you for- 
 gotten ? 
 
 Anisya. Stop blustermg ! Go ! 
 
 NiKlTA (more angrily still). Who has come 2
 
 THE POWER OP DARKNESS ISb 
 
 Anisya (walks over to him and takes hold of his hand). 
 Well, my husband has come. Go into the room. 
 
 NiKiTA (holding back). That's it, your husband. What 
 is his name ? Say it correctly ! 
 
 Anisya. Well, Nikita. 
 
 NiKiTA. That's it ! You boor, call me by my patro- 
 nymic 1 
 
 Anisya. Akimych. Well ? 
 
 NiKiTA (still at the door). That's it. No, you tell my 
 family name ! 
 
 Anisya (laughing, and pulling him hy his hand). 
 Chilikin. How angry you look ! 
 
 NiKiTA. That's it. (Holding on to the door-post). 
 No, you tell me what foot Chilikin puts first as he steps 
 into the room. 
 
 Anisya. That will do ! The room is getting cold. 
 
 NiKiTA. Tell me what foot. You must tell me by all 
 means. 
 
 Anisya (aside). He'll tire me out. Well, the left. 
 Come now. 
 
 NiKiTA. That's it. 
 
 Anisya. See who is in the room ! 
 
 NiKiTA. My father ? Well, I am not ashamed of my 
 father. I can show the proper respect to my father. 
 Good evening, father ! (Boivs to hi7ii and gives him his 
 hand.) My respects to you ! 
 
 Akim (not ansivering him). The hquor, the liquor, so 
 to speak, is doing it. It is bad. 
 
 NiKiTA. The liquor ? Because I have drunk some ? 
 I am quite guilty of this. I have taken a drink with a 
 friend. 
 
 Anisya. Go and lie down ! 
 
 NiKiTA. Wife, where am I standing ? Speak ! 
 
 Anisya. Now, stop it ! Go and lie down ! 
 
 NiKiTA. I will have a samovar with father. Fix the 
 samovar ! Akuhna, come in !
 
 136 THE POWER OF DAEKNESS 
 
 Scene VIIL The same and Akulina. 
 
 Akulina (dressed up. Walks ivith her intrchases up 
 to Nikita). How you scatter things ! Where is the 
 harness ? 
 
 Nikita. The harness ? The harness is there. Oh, 
 Mitrich, where are you ? Are you asleep ? Go and put 
 the horse up ! 
 
 Akim {iiot seeing Akulina and looking at his son). 
 What are you doing ? The old man is, so to speak, 
 worn out : he has been threshing, and you are all bloated, 
 so to speak. " Put the horse up ! " Pshaw, how bad 
 that is ! 
 
 MiTKiCH (climbs down from the oven and puts on his 
 felt boots). merciful Lord ! Is the horse in the yard ? 
 I suppose you have worn it out ! Thunder, he is sopped 
 in liquor, — through and through. Lord ! St. Nicho- 
 las ! (Puts on the fur coat and exit.) 
 
 Nikita (sitting down). Forgive me, father ! I have 
 drunk some, that is so ; but what is to be done ? A 
 chicken drinks, too. Am I not right ? So forgive me ! 
 As to Mitrich, — he will not be offended, he will put the 
 horse up. 
 
 Anisya. Do you really want the samovar ? 
 
 Nikita. Make it ! Father has come, and I want to 
 drink tea with him and talk. (To Akulina.) Have you 
 taken out all the purchases ? 
 
 Akulina. The purchases ? I took out what belongs 
 to me ; the rest are in the sleigh. Take this ; it does 
 not belong to me. (TJirows a roll on the table, and 
 puts the purchases into a coffer. AnytUka watches 
 Akulina putting avxiy things. Akim does not look at 
 his son, and puts away his leg-rags and the hast shoes 
 on the oven.) 
 
 Anisya (exit with the samovar). The coffer is full, but 
 he has bought more things.
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 137 
 
 Scene IX. Akim, Akulma, Anyiitka, and Nikita. 
 
 NiKiTA {tries to look sober). Father, don't be angry 
 with me ! You think that I am drunk. I can do every- 
 thing : I can drink without losing my senses. I can talk 
 with you, father, as though nothing had happened. I 
 remember everything. You told me about the money : 
 you said that the horse has died, — I remember it all. 
 That can be done. It is all in our hands. If an immense 
 sum were asked I would have to put it off for some time, 
 but this I can do. Here it is. 
 
 Akim (still busy with his rags). Oh, my son, a spring 
 path is, so to speak, not a road — 
 
 Nikita. What do you mean by it ? You can't talk 
 well with a drunken man. Never mind ! We will have 
 some tea together. I can do everything, positively I 
 can. 
 
 Akim (shaking his head). Oh, oh, oh ! 
 
 Nikita. Here is the money. (Fats his hand into his 
 pocket, gets the pocketbook, flourishes the money aiid pidls 
 out a ten-rouble bill.) Take this for your horse ! Take 
 it for the horse ! I cannot forget a father. I will 
 positively not abandon you. Here, take it ! I do not 
 begrudge you the money. (Comes up and pushes the 
 money into Akim's hand, but Akim does not want to take 
 it.) Take it, I say ! I give it with pleasure. 
 
 Akim. I cannot take it, so to speak. I cannot speak 
 with you, so to speak, because there is no decency about 
 you, so to speak. 
 
 Nikita. I will not let you go. Take it ! ' (Pushes the 
 money into Akim's ha'iid.) 
 
 Scene X. The same and Anisya. 
 
 Anisya (enters and stops). You had better take it, for 
 he will give you no rest.
 
 138 THE POWEK OF DARKNESS 
 
 ■\ 
 
 Akim (takes it, shaking his head). Oh, the liquor ! 
 You are not a man, so to speak — 
 
 NiKiTA. This is better. If you give it back to me it 
 will be well ; if not, God be with you ! That's my way ! 
 {^Seeing Akulina.) Akulina, show your presents ! 
 
 Akulina. What ? 
 
 NiKiTA. Show your presents ! 
 
 Akulina. The presents ? What is the use of showing 
 them ? I have put them away. 
 
 NiKiTA. Get them out, I say ! Anyiltka likes to see 
 them. Show them, I say, to Anyiitka ! Open up the 
 shawl ! Give it to me ! 
 
 Akim. Oh, it makes me feel bad to look at him. 
 (Climbing on the oven.) 
 
 Akulixa (taking out her things arid putting them on the 
 table). Here they are. What is there to look at ? 
 
 Anyutka. Oh, how nice they are ! This is not worse 
 than Stepanidiua's. 
 
 Akulina. Stepanidina's ? Stepanidiua's does not come 
 up to this. (Beco7ning more animated and opening the 
 shawl.) Look at it ! See what quality it is : it is of French 
 make. 
 
 Anyutka. And what pretty chintz ! Mashiitka has 
 one like it, only hers is lighter, on an azure field. This 
 one is so nice ! 
 
 NiKiTA. That's it. (Anisya goes angrily into the 
 storeroom, and returns with the samovar pipe and table- 
 cloth, and walks over to the table.) 
 
 Anisya. How you have scattered things here ! 
 
 NiKiTA. Look here ! 
 
 Anisya. What am I to look at ? I have seen such 
 things before. Take them away ! (Brushes the shawl 
 down on the floor.) 
 
 Akulina. Don't throw about things like that ! Throw 
 your own things ! (Picks it up.) 
 
 NlKiTA. Anisya, look out !
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 139 
 
 Anisya. What am I to look out for ? 
 
 NiKiTA. You think I have forgotten you. Look 
 here ! (Shows the roll and sits down upo7i it.) It is 
 a present for you. Only you have to earn it. Woman, 
 where am I sitting ? 
 
 Anisya. Stop your nonsense ! I am not afraid of you. 
 On whose money are you celebrating, and buying presents 
 for your hussy ? On mine. 
 
 Akulina. Yes, yours ! You wanted to steal it, but 
 you did not succeed. Get away ! ( Wants to pass ly and 
 pushes her.) 
 
 Anisya. Don't push that way ! I will give you 
 a push ! 
 
 Akulina. You will ? Try it ! (Pushes against her.) 
 
 NiKiTA. Women, women, stop ! (Stands between them.) 
 
 Akulina. She started it. She had better keep quiet. 
 You think we do not know all about you ? 
 
 Anisya. What do you know ? Say, say what you 
 know ! 
 
 Akulina. I know something about you. 
 
 Anisya. You are a slut ! You are living with a mar- 
 ried man, 
 
 Akulina. And you have killed your husband ! 
 
 Anisya (rushes at Akulina). You lie ! 
 
 Nikita (holding her hack). Anisya, have you for- 
 gotten ? 
 
 Anisya. You can't frighten me. I am not afraid of 
 you. 
 
 NiKiTA. Get out of here ! (Turns her away and 
 pushes her out.) 
 
 Anisya. Where shall I go? I won't go away from 
 my house. 
 
 NiKiTA. Get out, I say ! And don't you dare put your 
 foot in again ! 
 
 Anisya. I will not go. (Nikita pushes her ; Anisya 
 weeps and cries, holding on to the door.) What ? You
 
 140 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 want to kick me out of my own house ? What are you 
 doing, you rascal ? Do you think there is no law against 
 you ? Just wait ! 
 
 NiKiTA. Well, well ! 
 
 Anisya. I will go to the elder, to the officer. 
 
 NiKiTA. Get out, 1 say. {Picshcs her out.) 
 
 Anisya (behind the door). 1 will hang myself ! 
 
 Scene XI. Nikita, Akuliua, Anyutka, and Akim. 
 
 NiKiTA. That's all right. 
 
 Anyutka. Oh, oh, oh ! Mother dear, mother dear. 
 ( Weeping.) 
 
 Nikita. I am not much afraid of her. Wliat are you 
 crying about ? Never mind, she will come back. Go 
 and look after the samovar ! [Anyutka exit.) 
 
 Scene XII. Nikita, Akim, and Akulina. 
 
 Akulina {picking up) her purchases and putting them 
 away). How that accursed one has been carrying on ! 
 Just wait ! I will cut up your sleeveless coat. Upon 
 my word, I will. 
 
 Nikita. I have driven her away, — what more do 
 you want ? 
 
 Akulina. She has soiled my new shawl. Dog ! If 
 she had not gone I would have scratched out her 
 eyes. 
 
 Nikita. Stop your noise ! What are you making a 
 noise about ? You know I do not love her ! 
 
 Akulina. Love her? A fine person to love, — that 
 woman with the big snout. If you had let her go then, 
 nothing would have happened. You ought to have sent 
 her to the devil. The house is mine, anyway, and so is 
 the money. She says she is the mistress. Mistress ! 
 What kind of a mistress is she to her husband ? She is
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 141 
 
 a ruiuer of souls, that's what she is. She will do the 
 same to you ! 
 
 NiKiTA. There is no stopping up a woman's mouth ! 
 You don't know yourself what you are yelling about. 
 
 Akulina. Yes, I do. I will not live with her. I will 
 drive her away. She cannot stay with me. And she calls 
 herself mistress. She is not a mistress, but a jailbird. 
 
 NiKiTA. That will do. What have you to do with 
 her ? Don't look at her ! Look at me ! I am the mas- 
 ter. I do what I want. I do not love her any longer — 
 I love you. I love whomever I please. I rule here. 
 She will be locked up. This is where she is. {^Points 
 under his feet.) Oh, I have no accordion ! 
 
 The rolls are on the stove, 
 
 The mush is on the shelf, 
 
 And we will live. 
 
 And celebrate, 
 
 And death will come, 
 
 And we will die. 
 
 The rolls are on the stove, 
 
 The mush is on the shelf. 
 
 Scene XIII. The same and Mitrich (enter. Takes off 
 his wraps and climbs on the oven). 
 
 Mitrich. Evidently the women have been fighting 
 again. Lord, merciful St. Nicholas ! 
 
 Akim (sitting on the edge of the oven. Takes the leg- 
 rags and shoes, and puts them on). Creep past me to the 
 corner. 
 
 Mitrich (creeping). They won't agree at all. Lord 1 
 
 NiKiTA. Get the syrup! We will drink the tea 
 with it. 
 
 Scene XIV. The same and Anyiitka. 
 
 Anyijtka (enter, to Akulina). Sister ! the samovar is 
 boiling over.
 
 142 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 NiKiTA. Where is mother ? 
 
 Anyutka. She is standing in the vestibule and weep- 
 
 ing. 
 
 NiKiTA. Go and call her, and tell her to bring in the 
 samovar ! Akulina, let us have the dishes ! 
 
 Akulina. The dishes? All right. {Taking up the 
 dishes.) 
 
 NiKiTA (gets the syrup, pretzels, and herring). This is 
 for myself ; for the woman there in the vestibule, — the 
 goods. And here is the money. Wait ! ( Takes the 
 ahacus.) I will figure it up at once. (Casts the account 
 on the abacus.) The wheat flour eight dimes, the oil — 
 Father, ten roubles. Father ! Come to tea ! (Silence. 
 Akim is sitting 07i the oven and fixing the hast cords of his 
 shoes.) 
 
 Scene XV. The same and Anisya. 
 
 Anisya (carrying in the samovar). Where shall I 
 put it ? 
 
 KiKiTA. Put it on the table ! Well, have you been to 
 the elder's ? That's it : talk, and be done with it ! Stop 
 being angry ! Sit down and drink tea ! (Fills a wine- 
 glass for her.) Here is a present for you. ( Gives her the 
 roll on which he had been sitting. Anisya takes it in 
 silence, shaking her head.) 
 
 Akim (climbing down and putting on his fiir coat. Goes 
 up to the table and puts the money upon it). Take the 
 money, — take it ! 
 
 NiKiTA (7iot seeing the money). Where are you getting 
 ready to go ? 
 
 Akim. I will go, I will go, so to speak, for Christ's 
 sake forgive me ! (Takes his cap and belt.) 
 
 NiKiTA. I declare ! Where do you want to go in 
 night-time ? 
 
 Akim. I cannot, so to speak, remain in your house. I 
 cannot, so to speak, stay here. Forgive me !
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 143 
 
 NiKiTA. But why are you rushing away from the tea ? 
 
 Akim {girding himself). I will go away, because, so 
 to speak, it is not good here ; it is not good here, Nikita, 
 so to speak. You are living badly, so to speak, Nikita, 
 badly. I will go away. 
 
 Nikita. Stop talking ! Sit down and drink tea 
 
 Anisya. Father, it will be a disgrace before people. 
 What is it that has offended you ? 
 
 Akim. I have not been offended, so to speak, but I see 
 that everything is making for ruin, so to speak, — yes, 
 my son, for ruin, so to speak. 
 
 Nikita. What ruin ? Prove it ! 
 
 Akim. To ruin, to ruin, you are going to ruin. I told 
 you so last year. 
 
 Nikita. What of it if you told me ? 
 
 Akim. I told you about the orphan. You have 
 wronged, so to speak, the orphan, Marina, — you have 
 wronged her. 
 
 Nikita. What are you thinking about ? Of old yeast 
 make not a new feast ! That is a thing of the past — 
 
 Akim (excitedly). Past ? No, friend, it is not past. 
 One sin holds on to another and pulls you along. Nikita, 
 you are stuck in sins. You are stuck, 1 see, in sins. You 
 are stuck fast, so to speak. 
 
 Nikita. Sit down and drink tea, and stop that talk- 
 ing ! ^ 
 
 Akim. I cannot, so to speak, drink tea with you. 
 Because your evil deeds, so to speak, make me feel bad. 
 I cannot, so to speak, drink with you. 
 
 Nikita. You are repeating one and the same story. 
 Go to the table ! 
 
 Akim. You are sitting in your wealth, so to speak, as 
 though in a snare, in a snare, so to speak. Oh, Nikita, 
 one needs a soul. 
 
 NikIta. What right have you to talk to me that way 
 in my own house ? What do you want of me, anyway ?
 
 144 THE POWER OF DAEKNESS 
 
 Am I a little boy that will allow himself to be pulled by 
 his hair ? They don't do these things nowadays. 
 
 Akim. That is so : I have heard that nowadays they 
 pull fathers' beards, so to speak, — but this leads only to 
 ruin, to ruin, so to speak. 
 
 NikIta (angrily). We are getting along without your 
 help. But you have come to ask aid of me. 
 
 Akim. Money ? There is your money. I will go and 
 beg, so to speak, but I will not, so to speak, take the 
 money. 
 
 NiKiTA. Stop that! Why are you so angry, and 
 breaking up the company ? (Holds him hack hy his 
 hand.) 
 
 Akim {moaning). Let me go ! I will not stay ! I 
 would rather sleep near the fence than in your nastiness. 
 Pshaw, God forgive you ! (Exit.) 
 
 Scene XVI. Nikita, Akulina, Anisya, and Mitrich. 
 NiKiTA. I declare ! 
 
 Scene XVII. The same a7id Akim. 
 
 Akim (opening the door). Nikitu, come to your senses 
 One needs a soul ! (Exit.) 
 
 Scene XVIII. Nikita, Akulina, Anisya, and Mitrich. 
 
 Akulina (taking the cups). Well, shall I pour out the 
 tea ? (All are silent.) 
 
 Mitrich (bellowinx)). Lord, have mercy on me, sin. 
 ful man ! (All tremble.) 
 
 Nikita (lying down on a bench). Oh, I feel bad, so 
 bad. Akulina, where is the accordion ?
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 145 
 
 Akulina. The accordion ? What are you thinking 
 about ? You have left it to be mended. I have filled the 
 glasses. Come and drink ! 
 
 NiKiTA. I don't want to. Put out the light — Oh, 
 I feel bad, so bad ! ( Weeping.) 
 
 Curtain.
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS OF ACT IV. 
 
 NlKITA. MaTKENA. 
 
 MlTRICH. AnISYA. 
 
 Neighbour. Anyutka. 
 
 Sponsor. Suitor, a gloomy peasant. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 AiUumn. Evening. Tlic moon is sliining. Tlie interior 
 of the farmyard. In the 7niddlc, the vestibule; on 
 the right, the warm hut and the gate ; on the left, the 
 cold hut and the cellar. In the house arc heard con- 
 versation and drunken shouts. Neighbour comes out 
 of the vestibule and calls Anisi/a's sponsor. 
 
 Scene I. Sponsor and Neighbour. 
 
 Neighbour. Why did Akulina not come out ? 
 
 Sponsor. Why did she not come out ? She would 
 like to, but she does not feel well. The suitors came to 
 see the bride, but she is lying in the cold hut and will 
 not show up, my dear. 
 
 Neighbour. What is the matter ? 
 
 Sponsor. She has been bewitched, — she has it in her 
 belly. 
 
 Neighbour. You don't say so ? 
 
 Sponsor. I do. (She whisiiers something in her car.) 
 
 Neighbour. Well, what a sin ! The suitors will find 
 
 out about it. 
 
 146
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 147 
 
 Sponsor. How are they to find out ? They are all 
 drimk. They are more after the dowry. They are giving 
 the girl two fur coats, six bodices, a French shawl, a 
 big lot of linen, and, they say, two hundred roubles in 
 money. 
 
 Neighbour. What pleasure is there in such money ? 
 What a shame ! 
 
 Sponsor. Hush. The suitor is coming. {TJiey grow 
 silent and walk into the vestibule.) 
 
 Scene IL Suitor (alone, coming out of the vestibule, and 
 
 hiccoughing). 
 
 Suitor. I am sweating. Oh, it is so hot. I want to 
 cool off a little. {Stands blowing.) God knows how it 
 is — something wrong — does not please me — Well, 
 an old woman — 
 
 Scene III. Suitor and Matr^na. 
 
 Matrena (coming out of the vestibule). I was look- 
 ing for the suitor, and here you are. Well, my dear, 
 thank the Lord, everything is done honourably. A suitor 
 must not brag. T do not even know how to brag. You 
 have come to do a good work, and God will grant you to 
 thank me for it all your hfe. The bride, you know, is a 
 rare one. You will not find such a girl in the whole 
 country. 
 
 Suitor. That is so, if only we don't get fooled about 
 the money. 
 
 Matrena. Don't mention the money ! She has all 
 her parents have left her. In our time one hundred and 
 fifty roubles are not a small matter. 
 
 Suitor. We are satisfied, but we do not want to 
 wrong our child, — we want to do it in the best possible 
 manner.
 
 148 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 Matkena. I tell you the truth, suitor : if it were not 
 for me you would not get her in a lifetime. The Kor- 
 milins have sent to inquire about her, but 1 have stopped 
 them. As to the money, I will tell you how it was : 
 when the man was dying, — the kingdom of heaven be 
 his, — he told the widow to take Nikita to the house, — 
 my son has told me so, — and the money was to go 
 to Akulina. Another man would have made use of it, 
 but Nikita gives her every cent that belongs to her. 
 Think what a sum it is ! 
 
 Suitor. People say that there was more money left 
 for her. My son is a shrewd one himself. 
 
 Matkena. Oh, my little white doves ! A piece of 
 bread looks big in other people's hands. She gets every 
 cent that is coming to her. I tell you : stop all delay and 
 clinch the bargain at once ! The girl is as pretty as a 
 beanstalk. 
 
 Suitor. That is so. My wife and I have been won- 
 dering v/hy the girl has not come out ? We thought she 
 might be an ailing girl. 
 
 Matrena. Not at all. She is not a sickly girl. There 
 is not another such a healthy woman in the whole coun- 
 try. She is so plump you can't pinch her. You saw her 
 the other day. She is a great worker. It is true she is 
 a little hard of hearing, but a worm bite does not hurt a 
 good apple. She did not come out because she has had 
 the evil eye upon her. Somebody has bewitched her. I 
 know who the bitch is that has done it. They knew 
 that the match-makers were to be at the house, so they 
 bewitched her. I will take off the evil eye. To-morrow 
 the girl will be up again. Have no doubts about the 
 girl ! 
 
 Suitor. All right, — the affair is settled. 
 
 Matrena. That's it. Don't back out again ! And 
 don't forget me ! I have interceded for you, so don't 
 forget me !
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 149 
 
 A Woman's Voice {in the vestibule). Ivan, let us go, 
 
 — it is time ! 
 
 SuiTOK. Eight away ! {Exit. People crowd in the 
 vestibule, and drive away.) 
 
 Scene IV. Anisya and Anyiitka. 
 
 Anyutka {running out of the vestibule and beckoning to 
 Anisya). Mamma 1 
 
 Anisya {from a distance). What is it ? 
 
 Anyutka. Mamma, come here, or they will hear me. 
 {Goes vnth her to the barn.) 
 
 Anisya. Well, what is it ? Where is Akulina ? 
 
 Anyutka. She has gone to the granary. She is 
 carrying on awfully there ! Truly, " I have no more 
 strength," says she. " I will cry out," says she, " as loud 
 as I can." Truly. 
 
 Anisya. Maybe she can wait. Let us first see off the 
 guests. 
 
 Anyutka. Oh, mamma ! It is hard for her. And she 
 is so angry. " Their drinking on my account is all in vain," 
 says she. "I wiU not marry. I will sooner die," says 
 she. Mamma, I am afraid she may die. I am awfully 
 afraid ! 
 
 Anisya. Don't be afraid, she won't. Don't go to her. 
 Go ! {Anisya and Anyutka exeunt.) 
 
 Scene V. Mitrich (alone. Comes from the gate and 
 picks up the scattered hay). 
 
 Mitrich. Lord, merciful St. Nicholas ! What a lot 
 of liquor they have used up ! And how it smells ! It 
 stinks even here in the yard from it. No, I don't want it, 
 
 — go to ! How they have scattered the hay ! They 
 don't eat it, but only nose through it. There will be a 
 whole bundle of it. Oh, what a smell ! Almost under my
 
 150 THE POWEK OF DARKNESS 
 
 nose. Go to ! ( Yawning.) It is time to go to bed ! I 
 dou't want to go into the house. It is hovering all about 
 my nose. It smells strong, — accursed liquor! (^Onc 
 hears the people departing.) They are gone, O Lord, 
 merciful St. Nicholas ! They are only collaring each 
 other, and pulling the wool over each other's eyes. It 
 is all nonsense. 
 
 Scene VI. Mitrich and Nikita. 
 
 NiKiTA (coming out). Mitrich, go on the oven ! I will 
 pick it up. 
 
 Mitrich. All right. Throw it to the sheep! Well, 
 have you seen them off ? 
 
 Nikita. I have, but things don't go right. I don't 
 know what will happen. 
 
 Mitrich. Bosh ! There is a Foundhng House for that. 
 Throw out anything you please, and they will pick it up. 
 Give them all the babies you want, they won't ask any 
 questions. They even give money, so that all a woman 
 has to do after that is to become a wet-nurse. Nowadays 
 these things are done very simply. 
 
 Nikita. Look here, Mitrich, don't say more than you 
 need to ! 
 
 Mitrich. What do I care ? Sweep away the track as 
 well as you can ! Oh, how you smell of liquor ! I will 
 go in. (^Goes away, yawning.) O Lord ! 
 
 Scene VII. Nikita (long silent. Sits down on a sleigh). 
 Nikita. Bad business! 
 
 Scene VIII. Nikita and Anisya. 
 
 Anisya (coming out). Where are you ? 
 Nikita. Here I am.
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 151 
 
 Anisya. What are you sitting there for ? There is 
 no time to lose. You have to carry it out at once. 
 
 NiKiTA. What are we going to do ? 
 
 Anisya. Do what I tell you ! 
 
 NiKiTA. You had better take it to the Foundling 
 House. 
 
 Anisya. You carry it there, if you want to. You are 
 ready enough to do something nasty, but very weak in 
 straightening things out. 
 
 NiKfxA. What is to be done ? 
 
 Anisya. I told you : go into the cellar and dig a hole 
 there ! 
 
 NiKiTA. Can't you do it any other way ? 
 
 AxisYA {mocking him). Any other way ? No, you 
 can't. You ought to have thought of it before. Go 
 where I tell you ! 
 
 NiKiTA. Oh, it is a bad business ! 
 
 Scene IX. The same and Anyutka. 
 
 Anyutka. Mamma ! grandmother is calling you. 
 Sister must have a baby, — truly, — it has been crying. 
 
 Anisya. Don't talk ! The paralysis take you ! The 
 kittens are mewing. Go into the house and sleep ! Or 
 I will teach you ! 
 
 Anyutka. Mamma dear, really, upon my word — 
 
 Anisya (raising her hand against her). I will show 
 you ! Don't let me hear a word from you ! 
 
 Anyutka {rvms away). 
 
 Anisya {to Nikita). Go and do as I tell you ! Or 
 look out ! {Exit.) 
 
 Scene X. NiMta {alone, long silent). 
 
 Nikita. Bad business ! Oh, these women ! It is 
 bad ! She says I ought to have thought of it before.
 
 152 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 When was I to have thought of it before ? When 
 was I to have thought of it ? Last year it was Anisya 
 that stuck to me. Well ? Am I a monk ? The mas- 
 ter died and I covered up the sin by marrying her, 
 as is proper. There was no fault of mine. Such things 
 often happen. And then the powders. Did I persuade 
 her to do so ? If I had known it at the time I would 
 have killed the bitch. Really, I would. The slut has 
 made me a part of her nastiness. Ever since then I have 
 loathed her. When my mother told me about it I began 
 to loathe her, and could not look into her eyes. How 
 could I, after that, get along with her ? And so it 
 started. Then this girl began to cling to me. Why not 
 I ? If not I, some one else would have done it. And 
 now what has come of it ! Again it is not my fault. Oh ! 
 it's a bad business. (Sits in thought.) It is a bold thing 
 the women have thought out. No, I won't do it ! 
 
 Scene XL Nikita and Matr«5na (with a lantern and a 
 spade, walking hurriedly). 
 
 Matrena. Don't sit there like a sitting hen ! Your 
 wife told you to do something. Are you ready ? 
 
 Nikita. What are you going to do ? 
 
 Matrena. We know what to do. You attend to 
 your business ! 
 
 Nikita, You will get me entangled. 
 
 Matrena, What ? Do you intend to back out ? You 
 have gone so far, and now you want to back out. 
 
 Nikita. It is a terrible thing ! But the thing is 
 living ! 
 
 Matrena. A living thing ! It is barely living. Where 
 would you put it ? Take it to the Foundling House, and 
 it will die all the same. Then everybody will know it, 
 and the girl will be on our hands, 
 
 Nikita. But if they should find it out ?
 
 THE POWER OE DARKNESS 153 
 
 Matrena. It is in your own house, and you can do 
 it right. We will fix it so that not a word of it will be 
 heard. Do as I tell you ! But we are women and can't 
 get along without a man. Take the spade ! Go down 
 and fix it ! I will hold the lantern. 
 
 NiKiTA. What shall I fix ? 
 
 Matrena {in a whis'per). Dig a hole ! Then we will 
 take it down and bury it at once. There she is, calling 
 again. Go, I say. I must go. 
 
 NiKiTA. Well, is the child dead ? 
 
 Matrena. Of course, it is. Only do it more lively ! 
 The people are not yet asleep, and they, the accursed ones, 
 may hear and see it. The officer passed here in the even- 
 ing. So go ! {Giving him the spade.) Go down in the 
 cellar ! Dig a hole in the corner ' The earth is soft 
 there, — and then you will smooth it out again. Mother 
 earth won't tell : it will be as smooth as though a cow 
 had licked it down. Go, go, my son ! 
 
 NiKiTA. You will get me entangled. Go to ! Really, 
 I will go away. Do yourselves as you please ! 
 
 Scene XII. The same and Anisya. 
 
 Anisya {from the door). WeU, have you dug it ? 
 
 Matrena. What did you come here for ? What have 
 you done with it ? 
 
 Anisya. I have covered it with a bag, so it won't be 
 heard. Well, hasn't he dug it yet ? 
 
 Matrena. He does not want to. 
 
 Anisya {rushing out in fury). He does not want to ! 
 And does he want to feed lice in the prison ? I will go 
 at once and tell the officer. I will make an end of it 
 at once. I will tell him everything ! 
 
 NiKiTA {frightened). What will you tell ? 
 
 Anisya. What ? Everything ! Who took the money ? 
 You ! {^Nikita is silent.) And who gave him the poison ?
 
 154 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 I did. But you knew, you knew, you knew ! We had 
 agreed upon it. 
 
 Matkexa. That will do ! Nildta, don't be so stubborn ! 
 What is to be done ? You must take the trouble ! Go, 
 my dear ! 
 
 Anisya. I declare ! The pretty fellow ! He does not 
 want to ! You have wronged me enough ! You have 
 been misusing me, and now is my turn. Go, I say, or I 
 will show you vfhat I can do. Take the spade, here ! 
 Go! 
 
 NiKiTA. Don't insist so ! {Takes the spade, hut reluc- 
 tantly.') If I don't want to I won't go. 
 
 Anisya. You won't ? {Begins to cry oiit.) Oh, peo- 
 ple, people ! 
 
 Matrena {putting her hand on her mouth). What are 
 you doing ? Are you insane ? He will go. Go, my 
 son, go, my dear ! 
 
 Anisya. I will call for help at once. 
 
 NiKiTA. Stop it ! Oh, what people they are ! Hurry 
 up ! I will do it. {Goes to the cellar.) 
 
 Matrena. Yes, my son, you knew how to have a 
 good time, — know how to hide your crime ! 
 
 Anisya {still excited). He and his slut have been mak- 
 ing fun of me, — that will stop now! I sha'n't be the 
 only one. Let him be a murderer, too 1 He will know 
 how it feels. 
 
 Matrena. Well, well, how you are blustering ! 
 Woman, don't be so angry, but do everything softly and 
 slowly, as is proper. Go to the girl ! He will do the 
 work. {Follows him with the lantern. Nikita goes into 
 the cellar.) 
 
 Anisya. I will make him choke the life out of his 
 accursed offspring. {Still in excitement.) I am tired 
 having Peter's bones upon my own conscience. Let him 
 find out what it is ! I will have no pity on myself, I 
 will not, I have said.
 
 THE POWER OF DAKKNESS 155 
 
 NlKlTA {from the cellar). Let me see the light ! 
 
 Matkena (j)uts down the lantern^ to Anisya). He is 
 digging. Go and bring it ! 
 
 AxisYA. Watch him or the accursed one will go 
 away. I will bring it out. 
 
 Matrexa. Say, don't forget to baptize it ! If you 
 can't do it, I will. Have you a cross ? 
 
 ANisYA. I know where to find one. {Exit.) 
 
 Scene XIII. Matr^na {alone) and Nikita {in the cellar). 
 
 Matrena, How the woman has flared up ! Of course, 
 it is provoking. God aid us in covering up the matter, 
 and let there be an end of it ! We will get rid of the 
 girl without a crime. My son wiU then live quietly. 
 They have plenty of everything m the house, thank God. 
 He wiU not forget me. What would they be without 
 Matrena. They would not be able to think out a thing. 
 {Into the cellar.) Are you done, my son ? 
 
 NiKiTA {coming out of the cellar. His head is visible). 
 Well ? Are you going to bring it ? "Why are you crawl- 
 ing so ? If it is to be done, do it quick ! 
 
 Scene XIV. The same and Anfsya. {Matrena walks 
 over to the vestibule and meets Anisya. Anisya comes 
 out with the baby swaddled in rags.) 
 
 Matrena. Have you crossed it ? 
 
 Anisya. Of course. I took it away by force. She 
 
 would not let me have it. {Comes up to Nikita and gives 
 
 it to him.) 
 
 Nikita {n^t taking it). Take it down yourself 
 Anisya. Take it, I say. {She throws the child to him.) 
 Nikita {catching it). Alive ! Mother, it is moving ! 
 
 It is alive ! What shall I —
 
 156 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 Anisya (taking the child out of his hands and throwing 
 it into the cellar). Strangle it at once and it won't live. 
 (Fashes Nikita down-stairs.) This is your affair. Make 
 an end of it ! 
 
 Matrena {sitting down on the top step). He is com- 
 passionate. It is hard for him. Well, it is his own sin. 
 {Anisya staiids over the cellar. Matrena sits down on the 
 steps of the porch and looks at her.) Oh, how frightened 
 he got ! Suppose it is hard, — still it has to be done. 
 What else could we do ? When you come to think of it : 
 how some people beg for children ! But God does not 
 grant them any, and they get only still-born children. 
 There, for example, the pope's wife — and here is a liv- 
 ing child, and nobody wants it. (Looking down into the 
 cellar.) He must be through. (To Anisya.) Well? 
 
 Anisya (looking doivn into the cellar). He has covered 
 it with a board and is sitting down on it. He has done 
 it, no doubt. 
 
 Matrena. Oh, oh ! I should like to get along without 
 sinning, but what is to be done ? 
 
 Nikita (coming out, shivering). It is still living ! I 
 can't ! It is living ! 
 
 Anisya. If it is living, where are you going ? ( Wants 
 to stop him.) 
 
 Nikita (rushes against her). Go away, or I will kill 
 you ! (Seizes her hand ; she tears herself away ; he runs 
 after her with the spade. Matrena runs toward him and 
 stops him. Anisya runs upon the porch. Matrena wants 
 to take away the spade.) 
 
 Nikita (to his mother). I will kill you, you, too ! Get 
 away ! (Matrena runs away to Aiiisya on the porch. 
 Nikita stops.) I will kill you ! I will kill everybody ! 
 
 Matrena. He does this from fright. Never mind, it 
 will pass. 
 
 Nikita. What have they done? What have they 
 done with me ? How it cried ! — How it crunched under
 
 THE POWEK OF DAKKNESS 157 
 
 me ! What have they done with me ? And it is ahve, 
 still ahve ! (Silent and listenmg.) It is ciying, oh, how 
 it is crying. (Huns to the eellar.) 
 
 Matrexa (to Anisya). He is running down to get it 
 buried, no doubt. Nikita, do you want the lantern ? 
 
 NlKiTA (does not answer. Listening at the cellar). I 
 do not hear it. It is quiet. (Goes away and stops.) Oh, 
 how the bones crunched under me ! Crr — err — WTiat 
 have they done with me ? (Listens again.) Again it 
 cries, really it does. What is it ? Mother, mother ! 
 (Goes wp to her.) 
 
 Matrexa. What is it, my son ? 
 
 NiKiTA. Mother dear, I can't finish it. I can't. 
 Mother dear, take pity on me ! 
 
 Matrena. Oh, how frightened you are ! Go, go, take 
 some liquor to brace you up. 
 
 NiKiTA. Mother dear, I am undone. What have you 
 done with me ? Oh, how those bones did crunch, and 
 how it cried ! — Mother dear, what have you done with 
 me ? ( Walks away and sits doivii on the sleigh.) 
 
 Matrena. Go, my son, and take a drink ! It makes 
 one feel bad to do such things at night-time. But let 
 day come, and let another day pass, and you will 
 forget to think of it. Wait a bit, and we will get 
 the girl married, and we will think no more of it. 
 But you go and take a drink ! I will fix everything 
 in the cellar. 
 
 NiKiTA (shuddering). Is there any liquor left ? I will 
 take a drink. (Exit. Anisya, who has been standing all 
 the time near the vestibule, steps silently aside.) 
 
 Scene XV. Matrena and Anisya. 
 
 Matrena. Go, go, my dear ! I will go down in the 
 cellar myself, and will bury it. Where did he throw 
 the spade? (Finds the spade and goes half-ivay down
 
 158 THE POWEK OF DARKNESS 
 
 into the cellar.) Anisya, come here and hold the lantern 
 for me ! 
 
 Anisya. And he ? 
 
 Mateena. He is dreadfully frightened. You went 
 for him too stiffly. Never miud, he will come to. God be 
 with him ! I will do the work myself. Put the lantern 
 here. I shall be able to see. {Matrena disappears in 
 the cellar.) 
 
 Anisya (toward the door, throtigh which Nihita has 
 goTie). Well, are you through celebrating ? You have 
 been spreading yourself. Now wait and see how it feels ! 
 You won't be so dashing after this ! 
 
 Scene XVI. The same and Nikita (running out of the 
 vestibule, toward the cellar). 
 
 Nikita. Mother, mother ! 
 
 Matrena {sticking her head out of the cellar). What 
 is it, my son ? 
 
 Nikita (listening). Don't bury it ! It is alive. Don't 
 you hear it ? It is alive ! Do you hear it cry ? — I hear 
 it — 
 
 Matrena. How can it cry ? You have crushed it 
 flat. You have smashed the whole head. 
 
 Nikita. What is this? (Closes his ears.) It is cry- 
 ing still! I have forfeited my hfe, I have forfeited it! 
 What have they done with me ? Where shall I go ? 
 (Sits down on the porch.) 
 
 Curtain.
 
 VAEIANT 
 
 Instead of Scenes XIII., XIV., XV., and XVI. of Act 
 IV., the following variant may be read. 
 
 PaktIL 
 
 Eoom of Act I. 
 
 Scene I. Anyutka {undressed, on the door bench, under 
 a caftan). Mitrich {sitting on the hanging bed 
 and smoking). 
 
 Mitrich. I declare, they have filled the room with 
 the smell of liquor, — pea-pie choke them ! They have 
 poured out a lot ! I can't get rid of it by smoking. It 
 just stays in my nose. Lord ! It is time to go to sleep. 
 {Goes up to the little lamp and wants to turn it down.) 
 
 AxYUTKA {leaping up and sitting doivn). Grandfather, 
 please, don't put it out ! 
 
 Mitrich. Why not ? 
 
 Anyutka. There has been such a noise in the yard. 
 {Listening.) Do you hear ? They have gone to the 
 granary again. 
 
 Mitrich. What is that to you ? They don't ask you 
 about it ? Lie down and go to sleep ! I will turn out the 
 light. {Turns it doivn.) 
 
 Anyutka. Grandfather, golden one! Don't put out 
 the light ! Let it burn a wee little bit, or it will frighten 
 me. 
 
 Mitrich {laughing.) All right, all right. (Sits down 
 near her.) What frightens you ? 
 
 169
 
 160 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 Anyutka. How can I help being frightened, grand- 
 father ! Sister was suffering so. She struck her head 
 against the flour box. {In a whisper). I know — she 
 wants to get a baby — Maybe it is born now — 
 
 MiTRiCH. You imp, the frogs may kick you ! 
 You must know everything ! Lie down and sleep ! {An- 
 yutka lies down). That's it. {Covers her.) That's it. If 
 you know much, you will soon get old. 
 
 Anyutka. And will you go on the oven ? 
 
 MiTRiCH. Where else ? Silly girl ! She wants to 
 know everything. {Covers her still more and rises to go.) 
 Lie like this and sleep ! {Goes to the oven.) 
 
 Anyutka. It cried once, and now you can't hear it. 
 
 MiTRiCH. Lord, merciful St. Nicholas ! What is it 
 you can't hear ? 
 
 Anyutka. The baby. 
 
 MiTRiCH. You can't hear it because there is none. 
 
 Anyutka. But I heard it, truly, I did. Such a thin 
 voice. 
 
 Mitrich. You did not hear it. What you heard was 
 a girl crying, for the bogie-man put her in a sack and 
 took her away. 
 
 Anyutka. What bogie-man ? 
 
 Mitrich. The bogie-man, that's all. {Climbing on 
 the oven.) The oven feels good to-day, — it is warm. 
 Fine ! Lord, merciful St. Nicholas ! 
 
 Anyutka. Grandfather, are you going to sleep ? 
 
 Mitrich. Wliat did you think ? That I was going to 
 sing ? {Silence.) 
 
 Anyutka. Grandfather, grandfather ! They are 
 digging ! Upon my word, they are. Do you hear ? 
 Truly, they are digging. 
 
 Mitrich. What nonsense ! Digging ! Digging at 
 night ! Who is digging ? The cow is scratching herself. 
 And you say: digging. Sleep, I say, or I will put out 
 the light altogether.
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 161 
 
 Anyutka. Darling, grandfather, don't put it out ! I 
 won't do it again, upon my word, I won't. I am fright- 
 ened. 
 
 MiTKiCH. Frightened ? Don't be afraid, — there is 
 nothing to frighten you. You are afraid yourself, so you 
 think something frightens you. How can you help be- 
 ing frightened if you are afraid ? What a foolish girl ! 
 (Silence. A cricket.) 
 
 Anyutka (in a whisper). Grandfather, grandfather ! 
 Are you asleep ? 
 
 MiTRiCH. Well, what is it again ? 
 
 Anyutka. What is a bogie-man ? 
 
 MiTRiCH, I'll tell you. If a child won't go to sleep, 
 just as you are doing now% he comes with a sack and 
 whisks her into it. Then he puts in his own head, 
 raises her shirt, and begins to whip her. 
 
 Anyutka. What does he whip her with ? 
 
 MiTKiCH. With a bath broom. 
 
 Anyutka. But he can't see inside the sack ! 
 
 MiTRiCH. Never mind, he can. 
 
 Anyutka. I will bite him. 
 
 MiTRiCH. No, dear, you won't. 
 
 Anyutka. Grandfather, somebody is coming ! "V\Tio 
 is it ? mother, who is it ? 
 
 MiTEiCH. Let them come ! What do you want ? I 
 suppose it is your mother. 
 
 Scene II. The same and Anisya (enter). 
 
 Anisya. Anyutka ! (Anytitha pretends to he asleep.) 
 Mitrich ! 
 
 MiTRiCH. What ? 
 
 Anisya. Why are you burning the lamp ? We will 
 sleep in the cold hut. 
 
 Mitrich. I have just undressed myself. I wiU put 
 it out.
 
 162 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 Anisya (looking for something in the coffer, and grum- 
 hling). You never can find a thing when you need it. 
 
 MiTKiCH. What are you looking for ? 
 
 Anisya. I am looking for a cross to baptize it with. 
 God grant it will die ! It will be a sin to let it die 
 uubaptized. 
 
 MiTRiCH. Of course, you must do everything as is 
 proper. Well, have you found it ? 
 
 Anisya. I have. {Exit.) 
 
 Scene III. Mitrich and Anyutka. 
 
 MiTRiCH. That's it. I would have given her mine. 
 O Lord ! 
 
 Anyutka {jumping down and tremlling). Oh, oh, 
 grandfather ! Don't fall asleep, for Christ's sake ! I am 
 afraid. 
 
 Mitrich. What are you afraid of ? 
 
 Anyutka. The baby will, no doubt, die. The midwife 
 baptized Aunt Arina's baby, and it died, too. 
 
 Mitrich. If it will die they will bury it. 
 
 Anyutka. Maybe it would not have died if Grand- 
 motlier Matrt^na were not here. I heard what grand- 
 mother said, truly, I did. 
 
 Mitrich. What did you hear ? Sleep, I say ! Cover 
 up your head, that's all. 
 
 Anyutka. If it should live, I would take care of it. 
 
 Mitrich {bellowing). O Lord ! 
 
 Anyutka. Where will they put it ? 
 
 Mitrich. They wiU put it where it belongs. It is 
 not your sorrow. Sleep, I say ! Mother will come and 
 will give it to you ! {Silence.) 
 
 Anyutka. Grandfather! They did not kill the girl 
 you told me about ? 
 
 Mitrich. What girl ? Oh, that one ! She came out 
 all right.
 
 THE POWEK OF DARKNESS 163 
 
 AnyiltTka. Grandfather, you told me they found her, 
 didn't you ? 
 
 MiTKiCH. Yes, they did. 
 
 Anyutka. Where did they find her ? Tell me. 
 
 MlTRiCH. They found her in their house. The soldiers 
 came to the village and began to rummage through the 
 houses. In one of them that girl was lying on her stomach. 
 They wanted to strike her. It made me feel bad, and so I 
 picked her up, but she kept kicking. She made herself 
 heavy, as though she weighed two hundred pounds, and 
 she kept scratching anything she got into her hands, so 
 that it was hard to get away from her. And so I picked 
 her up and patted her on her head. She was as rough as 
 a hedgehog. I patted her and patted her until she quieted 
 down. I soaked a piece of hardtack and gave it to her. 
 She understood what I wanted. She ate it. What was I 
 to do with her.? We took her along. We fed her, and 
 she got used to us. We took her along on our expedition, 
 and she went with us. She was a nice girl. 
 
 Anyutka. Wasn't she baptized ? 
 
 MiTRiCH. I don't know. They said she was not com- 
 pletely baptized, because her people were not like ours. 
 
 Anyutka. Was she a German ? 
 
 MiTRiCH. German ! No. She was not a German, but 
 an Asiatic. They are all like Jews, but not exactly Jews. 
 They were Poles, but Asiatics. Krudles, — Krugles is 
 their name, — well, I have forgotten which it is. We 
 called the girl Sasha. Sasha was a pretty child. I have 
 forgotten everything else, but I see the girl right before me, 
 pea-pie choke her ! This is all I remember from my whole 
 soldier's life. I only remember how they used to flog me, 
 and the girl. She used to hold on to my neck, and I 
 carried her. You could not find a finer child. Later we 
 gave her up. The captain's wife took her for a daughter. 
 And she turned out a fine woman. The soldiers were so 
 sorry to part with her !
 
 iD 
 
 164 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 Anyutka. Grandfather, I remember how father died. 
 You were not living at our house then. He called up 
 Nikita and said : " Forgive me," says he, " Nikita ! " and 
 he burst out crying. (Sighing.) It was such a pity to 
 see him. 
 
 MiTRicH. Yes, that's so. 
 
 Anyutka. Grandfather, O grandfather ! There is 
 again a noise in the cellar. Oh, my dear ! Oh, grand- 
 father, they are doing something to the baby. It is such 
 a tiny one. Oh, oh ! (Covers up her head and weeps.) 
 MiTPJCH (listening). Yes, they are up to something 
 bad. Those women are a bad lot. You can't say much 
 good of the men, but the women — they are like wild 
 beasts. They fear nothing. 
 
 Anyutka (rising). Grandfather, grandfather ! 
 MiTRiCH. Well, what is it ? 
 
 Anyutka. The other day a wanderer stopped here 
 overnight. He said that if a baby died its little soul 
 went straight to heaven. Is it true ? 
 
 MiTPJCH. I don't know. I suppose it does. Why ? 
 Anyutka. I should like to die. (Soiling.) 
 MiTPJCH. If you die you don't count. 
 Anyutka. Up to ten years you are a child, and your 
 soul may go to God. After that you get spoiled. 
 
 MiTRicii. I should say you do ! How can you women 
 help spoiling ? Who teaches you ? What do you see ? 
 What do you hear ? Nothing but badness. I have not 
 learned much, but I know at least something, not hke a 
 village woman. What is a village woman ? Nothing but 
 dirt. There are many millions of you women in Kussia, 
 but you are as blind as moles, — you know nothing. All 
 you know is how to fan off a cow's death, and all kinds of 
 enchantments, and how to take children to a sitting hen. 
 Anyutka. Mamma has taken me there, too. 
 MiTPJCH. Precisely, that's it. There are milhons of 
 you women and girls, but you are all like the beasts
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 165 
 
 of the forest. Just as one has been born, so she dies. 
 She has neither seen nor heard anything. A man will 
 learn something, if nowhere else, at least in the inn, or 
 by some chance, in prison, or in the army, as I have. 
 But what about a woman ? She does not know a thing 
 about God, — nay, she does not know one day from 
 another. They creep about like blind pups, and stick 
 their heads into the manure. All they kuow is their 
 foolish songs : Ho, ho, ho, ho — But what this ho-ho is 
 they don't know themselves. 
 
 Anyutka. Grandfather, I know nearly half of the 
 Lord's prayer. 
 
 MiTRiCH. You know a lot ! Nor can one expect it 
 of you. Who is teaching you ? All the teaching 
 you get is from a drunken peasant with the reins. I do 
 not knovv who will be responsible for you. The ser- 
 geant or the corporal is responsible for the recruits. 
 But there is nobody who may be made responsible 
 for you w^omen. You women are like riotous cattle 
 without a shepherd, — a stupid set you are. A most 
 senseless lot ! 
 
 Anyutka. What is it going to be ? 
 
 MiTEiCH. What ? — Cover up your head and go to 
 sleep. O Lord ! {Silence. A cricket.) 
 
 Anyutka (leaping up). Grandfather ! Something is 
 calling in the street ! Upon my word, somebody is calling. 
 Grandfather dear, he is coming this way. 
 
 MiTRiCH. I tell you, cover yourself up ! 
 
 Scene IV. The same, Nikita, and Matr^na. 
 
 Nikita (enter). What have they done with me ? 
 What have they done with me ? 
 
 Matrena. Take a drink, my dear, take a drink 1 
 (Jjfets the liquor and puts it on the table.)
 
 166 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 NiKlTA. Give it to me. I want to drink. 
 
 Matrena. Softly ! They are not asleep yet. Here, 
 drink ! 
 
 NiKiTA. What is that for ? Why did you think that 
 out ! Could you not have carried it anywhere ? 
 
 Matrena (m a 'whisper). Sit down awhile, and drink 
 some more, and take a smoke ! This will drive away 
 your bad thoughts. 
 
 NiKiTA. Mother dear, I am undone. When it cries, 
 and the little bones begin to crunch, err — err, I lose 
 my manhood. 
 
 Matrena. Don't mention it ! You are saying un- 
 seemly things. Of course it makes one feel bad to do 
 such things at night-time. But let day come, and another 
 day pass, and you will forget about it. ( Goes up to Nikita, 
 and puts her hand on his shoulder.) 
 
 Nikita. Go away from me ! What have you done 
 with me ? 
 
 Matrena. My son, don't say that ! ( Takes hold of 
 his hand.) 
 
 Nikita. Go away from me ! I will kill you ! I don't 
 care for anything now ! I will kill you ! 
 
 Matrena. Oh, oh, how frightened you are ! You had 
 better go to bed. 
 
 Nikita. I have no place to go to. I am lost. 
 
 Matrena {shaking her head). Oh, oh ! I will go and 
 fix it all. And he will sit here until he feels better. 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Scene V. Nikita, Mitrich, and Anyutka. 
 
 Nikita {sits with his hands over his face, ivhile Mitrich 
 and Anyutka keep quiet). Tt cries, really it cries, 
 hear, hear — I hear it. She will bury it, she will ! 
 {Runs to the door.) Mother, do not bury it. It is 
 alive I
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 167 
 
 Scene VI. The same and Matr^na. 
 
 Matrena (returning, in a whisper). Christ be with 
 you ! What are you thinking about ? How can it be 
 ahve ? All its bones are crushed. 
 
 NiKiTA. Give me some more liquor ! {Drinks) 
 
 Matrena. Go, my son ! You will now fall asleep, 
 and all will pass. 
 
 NiKiTA {stands and. listens). It is alive ! I hear it 
 cry. Don't you hear it ? Listen ! 
 
 Matrena {in a whisper). No, I don't. 
 
 NiKiTA. Mother dear ! I have forfeited my life. 
 What have you done with me ? Where shall I go ? 
 {Runs out of the room. Matrena follows him.) 
 
 Scene VII. Mitrich and Anyiitka. 
 
 Anyutka. Grandfather dear, they have killed it ! 
 
 Mitrich {angrily). Sleep, I say ! Oh, may the frogs 
 kick you ! I will strike you with the bath broom ! Sleep, 
 I say! 
 
 AJnyutka. Grandfather, golden one! Somebody is 
 taking me by the shoulder ! Somebody is taking me 
 with his big hands ! Grandfather, truly I will go away 
 from here. Grandfather, golden one, let me come to you 
 on the oven ! Let me come, for Christ's sake — He is 
 taking hold of me — He is taking me — Ah ! {Buns 
 to the oven.) 
 
 Mitrich. I declare, they have frightened the girl, — 
 those sluts, — may the frogs kick them ! Climb up ! 
 
 Anyutka {climbing on the oven). Don't go away ! 
 
 Mitrich. Wliere should I go ? Climb up ! O Lord, 
 St. Nicholas ! Most Holy Virgin of Kazan ! — How they 
 have frightened the girl ! ( Covering her up) Silly little 
 girl ! The sluts have frightened her, though, — pea-pie 
 choke them! 
 
 Curtain.
 
 DRAMATIS PEESON^ OF ACT V. 
 
 NiKiTA. Second Girl. 
 
 Anisya. Officer. 
 
 Akulina. Driver. 
 
 Akim. Best Man. 
 
 Matrena. Suitor. 
 
 Anyutka. Akulina's Husband. 
 
 Marina. Elder. 
 
 Marina's Husband. Guests, Women, Girls, at 
 
 First Girl. the Wedding. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 The threshing-floor. Nearest to the audience, the grain- 
 ricks ; on the left, the even floor ; on the right, the ham 
 of the threshing-floor. Tlie doors of the ham are 
 open. Through the doors strata is seen ; in the hack- 
 ground, the yard. Songs and tainhourines are heard. 
 Two girls walk on the path near the ham, toward the 
 house. 
 
 Scene I. Two girls. 
 
 First Girl. You see, we have come without getting 
 our shoes dirty ; through the village the road is dreadful ! 
 so dirty. (They stop to clean their shoes with straw.) 
 
 First Girl (looking into the straw and seeing some- 
 thing). What is this ? 
 
 Second Girl (looking in). That is Mitrich, their hired 
 hand. See how drunk he is ! 
 
 First Girl. He must have been drinking heavily. 
 
 1G8
 
 THE POWER OF DAEKNESS 1G9 
 
 Second Girl. Evidently before this day. 
 
 First Girl. Look ! He evidently came to fetch some 
 straw. The rope is still in his hands, just as he fell 
 asleep with it. 
 
 SEGO}ii> GiUL {listeni7ig). They are still receiving. Evi- 
 dently they have not pronounced the blessing yet. They 
 say Akulina did not even howl. 
 
 EiRST Girl. Mamma said that she was marrying against 
 her will. Her stepfather threatened her, or else she 
 would never have married. They have been saying some 
 dreadful things about her ! 
 
 Scene II. The same and Marina (catcJdng up with the 
 
 girls). 
 
 Marina. Good day, girls ! 
 
 The Girls. Good day, aunty ! 
 
 Marina. Are you going to the wedding, my dear ones ? 
 
 EiRST Girl. That is over. We just came to take a look. 
 
 Marina. Call my old man, Sem^n of Zuev. You 
 know him, perhaps ? 
 
 EiRST Girl. Why not ? I think he is the bride- 
 groom's relative. 
 
 Marina. Yes. The bridegroom is my husband's 
 nephew. 
 
 Second Girl. Why don't you go there yourself ? You 
 have come to the wedding, then why don't you go ? 
 
 Marina. I don't feel like it, girl, and I have no time. 
 We must leave. We did not start out for the wedding. 
 We were going to town with oats. We stopped to feed 
 the horses, and they called in my old man. 
 
 EiRST Girl. Where did you stop ? At E^dorych's ? 
 
 Marina. Yes. So I will wait here, while you, dear 
 one, call my old man. Call him, my dear ! Say : " Your 
 wife, Marina, tells you to start. Your companions are 
 hitching up the horses ! "
 
 170 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 First Gikl. All right, since you will not go yourself. 
 {Tlie girls walk along the path to the yard. Songs and 
 tambourines are heard.) 
 
 Scene III. Marina {alone). 
 
 Marina {in thoiujlit). I don't like to go there, because 
 I have not seen him since he gave me up. It is nearly 
 two years now. I should like to take a peep at him and 
 Anisya, to see how they are getting aloug. People say 
 they do not live in peace. She is a coarse, headstrong 
 woman. He has, no doubt, thought of me more than 
 once. He wanted to have an easy life, so he took her in 
 my stead. God be with him, I wish him no evil. Then 
 it hurt me. Yes, it pained me then. But now I am 
 over it, and have forgotten it. But I should like to see 
 him — {Looking toward the yard and seeing Nikita.) I 
 declare ! What is he coming for ? Have the girls told 
 him ? Why has he left the guests ? I will go away. 
 
 Scene IV. Marina and Nikita {who walks at first with 
 drooping head, and swinging his arms. Mumhling). 
 
 Marina. How gloomy he looks ! 
 
 Nikita {sees Marina and recognizes her). Marina ! 
 Dear friend ! Marina ! What are you doing here ? 
 
 Marina. I came to get my old man. 
 
 Nikita. Why did you not come to the wedding ? 
 You might have looked at me, and laughed at me. 
 
 Marina. Why should I laugh at you ? I came to 
 get my husband. 
 
 Nikita. Oh, Marina ! ( Wants to embrace her.) 
 
 Marina {ang7'ily turns away). Nikita, leave your old 
 tricks ! What has been, is no more. I came to get my 
 husband. Is he in your house ? 
 
 Nikita. So you will not let me recall the past ?
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 171 
 
 Marina. There is no reason for recalling the past. 
 What has been is no more. 
 
 ISTiKixA. And it will not return ? 
 
 Marina. No, it will not. But why did you go away ? 
 You are the host, and you have left the wedding-feast. 
 
 NlKiTA {sitting doiun on the straw). Why have I come 
 away ? Ah, if you only knew ! I feel badly, Marina, I 
 feel so badly that I wish my eyes did not see it all. I left 
 the table and went away from the people, just not to look 
 at them. 
 
 Marina (coming nearer to him). What is it ? 
 
 NiKiTA. It is something that neither my eating, nor 
 my drinking, nor my sleep will make me forget. Oh, I 
 feel so mean, so mean ! But the worst thing about it is, 
 Marina, that I have no one to share my sorrow with. 
 
 Marina. You can't live without sorrow, Nikita. I, 
 too, have wept much, but it has all passed. 
 
 Nikita. You are speaking of what has been. Oh, my 
 friend ! You got through weeping, but I am all undone. 
 
 Marina. What is the matter ? 
 
 Nikita. I am tired of life. I am tired of myself. 
 Oh, Marina, you did not know how to keep me, and you 
 have ruined me and yourself, too. What kind of a life is 
 this? 
 
 Marina (standing near the barn, iveeping, and holding 
 herself back). Nikita, I do not complain of my own life. 
 May God grant that everybody lead such a life ! I con- 
 fessed to my old man, and he forgave me everything. 
 He does not reproach me for it. I cannot complain about 
 my life. The old man is peaceable. He is good to me, 
 and I dress and wash his children ! He takes good care 
 of me, so why should I complain ? It evidently was 
 God's fate. And how is your life ? You are wealthy — 
 
 Nikita. My life ! I just did not want to disturb the 
 wedding, or I would have taken a rope, — this rope (picTcs 
 up the rope from the straw), — and would have thrown it
 
 172 THE POWEE OF DARKNESS 
 
 across this beam. Then I would have made a good noose, 
 would have climbed on the beam, and would have put 
 my head into it. That is the life I lead. 
 
 Marina. Stop talking that way ! Christ protect you ! 
 
 NiKiTA. You think I am jesting ? Do you think I 
 am drunk ? No, I am not. I can't get drunk to-day. 
 Pining, pining is eating me up ! I am completely undone, 
 and nothing gives me pleasure. Oh, Marina, what a time 
 we passed together, shortening the nights on the rail- 
 road ! 
 
 Marixa. Nikita, don't tear open old sores I I have 
 accepted the Law, and you have, too. Don't stir up the 
 past ! 
 
 Nikita. What shall I do with my heart ? Where 
 shall I go ? 
 
 Marina. What shall you do ? You have a wife of 
 your own : don't covet other women, but take care of your 
 own ! You loved Anisya before, — love her now ! 
 
 Nikita. Oh, this Anisya is as bitter as wormwood to 
 me, and she has enmeshed my feet like bad weeds. 
 
 Marina. Still, she is your wife — What is the use of 
 talking ? Go to your guests, and send my husband to 
 me ! 
 
 Nikita. Oh, if you knew everything ! What is the 
 use of mentioning it ? 
 
 Scene V. Nikita, Marina, her husband, and Anyiitka- 
 
 Marina's Husband {coming from the yard, red in Ms 
 face and di'unh). Marina ! Wife ! Old woman ! Are 
 you here ? 
 
 Nikita. Here is your husband. He is calling you. 
 Go! 
 
 Marina. And what will you do ? 
 
 Nikita. I ? I will lie down here. {Lies down in the 
 straw.)
 
 THE POWER OF DAEKNESS 173 
 
 Marina's Husband. Where is she ? 
 
 Anyutka. There she is, grandfather, near the barn. 
 
 Marina's Husband. What are you standing there 
 for ? Go to the wedding ! The hosts ask you to come 
 and honour them. The wedding will soon be over, and 
 then we will go. 
 
 Marina {^walking tovjcird her Imisbaiul). I did not feel 
 like it. 
 
 Marina's Husband. Go, I say ! We will drink a 
 glass, and you will congratulate rogue Petrunka. The 
 hosts will feel offended if you don't, and we shall have 
 plenty of time to attend to our business. {Marinas hus- 
 band embraces her and, tottering, goes away with her.) 
 
 Scene VI. Nikita and Anyutka. 
 
 NiKiTA {gets up and sits doum on the straw). I feel 
 even worse since I saw her. What a life it was I led 
 with her ! And now I am lost, I am ruined ! {Lies 
 down.) Whither shall I go ? Oh, mother earth, cleave 
 open for me ! 
 
 Anyutka {seeing Nikita and running up to him). 
 Father, father ! They are looking for you. The spon- 
 sor and everybody else have blessed them already, and 
 they are angry. 
 
 Nikita {aside). Where shall I go ? 
 
 Anyutka. What is it ? What are you saying ? 
 
 Nikita. Nothing. Don't bother me ! 
 
 Anyutka. Father ! Come with me ! {Nikita is silent. 
 Anyutka pulls him by the hand.) Father, go and bless 
 them ! Eeally, they are very angry. 
 
 Nikita {pulling away his hand). Leave me alone ! 
 
 Anyutka. Come ! 
 
 Nikita {threatening her with the reins). Go, I say ! 
 I will teach you ! 
 
 Anyutka, I will send mamma to you. {Runs away.)
 
 174 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 Scene VII. Nikita {alone. Rising). 
 
 NiKiTA. How can I go ? How can I look into their 
 faces ? How can I look into her eyes ? {Again lies 
 down.) Oh, if there were a hole in the ground, I would 
 go through it. People would not see me, and I would not 
 see them. {Again gets up.) I will not go — To per- 
 dition with them ! I will not go. {Takes off his boots 
 and picks up the rope ; makes a noose of it, and puts it 
 around his neck.) That's what I will do. 
 
 Scene VIII. Nikita and Matr(5Da. {Nikita sees his 
 7nother, takes off the rope, and lies down in the straw 
 again.) 
 
 Mateena {running up out of breath). Nikita, 
 Nikita ! I declare, he does not answer. Nikita, are you 
 drunk ? Come, Nikita, come ! The people are waiting 
 for you. 
 
 Nikita. What have you done with me ? I am no 
 longer a man. 
 
 Matrena. What is the matter with you ? Go, my 
 dear, and bless them in all honour, as is proper I The 
 people are waiting for you. 
 
 Nikita. How can I bless them ? 
 
 Mateena. As usual. Don't you know how ? 
 
 Nikita. I know, I know. Whom shall I bless? 
 What have I done with her ? 
 
 Mateena. What have you done ? There you are 
 again at it ! Nobody knows about it : neither cat nor kit 
 nor the pope knows it. The girl is marrying of her own 
 will. 
 
 Nikita. How of her own will ? 
 
 Mateena. She is marrying through fear. Anyway 
 she is marrying. What is to be done ? She ought to have 
 thought in time. Now she can't refuse. There is no
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 175 
 
 offeuce to the suitors. They saw the girl twice and they 
 get the money. Everything is in tip-top shape. 
 
 NiKiTA. And what about the cellar ? 
 
 Matkena (laughing). The cellar ? In the cellar there 
 are mushrooms, cabbage, potatoes, I suppose. What is 
 the use of thinking of the past ? 
 
 NiKiTA. I should like not to think of it, but I can't. 
 Every time I think of it, I hear it. Oh, what have you 
 done with me ? 
 
 Matrena. Don't act the fool ! 
 
 'NiKiTA (lying doivn, face doivnward). Mother! Don't 
 torment me ! I am sick of it all ! 
 
 Matrena. But you must go. The people are talking 
 as it is, and now the father goes away and does not dare 
 bless them. They will begin to put things together. 
 They will figure it all out. The moment you are slow 
 they will begin to guess. Put on a good face and 
 they will receive you with grace. Above everything 
 else, my son, don't be timid, or they will make it out 
 at once. 
 
 NiKiTA. Oh, you have entangled me ! 
 
 Matrena. Stop that ! Come with me ! Go and 
 bless them ! Do everything in proper shape, and that 
 will be the end of it. 
 
 NiKiTA (still lying face doivnward). I cannot. 
 
 Matrena (aside). What has happened ? Everything 
 was going well, and suddenly this has come over him. He 
 must be bewitched. Nikita, get up ! See, Anisya has 
 left the guests and is coming this way 
 
 Scene IX. Nikita, Matrena, and Anisya. 
 
 Anisya (dressed up, red in her face, binder the influence 
 of liqiior). Everything is going so well, mother ! So 
 well and honourably ! And how satisfied the people are ' 
 — where is he ?
 
 176 THE POWER OP DAEKNESS 
 
 Matrena. Here he is, my dear, here. He is lying in 
 the straw and won't get up. 
 
 NiKiTA {looking at his wife). I declare, she is drunk, 
 too. It sickens me to look at her. How can I live with 
 her? {Turns his face downivard.) I will kill her some 
 day. It will only be worse. 
 
 Anisya. So you have liidden yourself in the straw ! 
 Has the hquor knocked you down ? {Laughing.) I should 
 like to lie down with you myself, but I have no time. 
 Come, I will lead you in. Oh, how nice everything is in 
 the house ! It makes one feel good to look at it. There 
 is an accordion ! The women are singing so nicely. 
 They are all drunk, as is proper. It is so nice ! 
 
 NiKiTA. What is nice ? 
 
 Anisya. The wedding, the merry wedding. All peo- 
 ple say that it is a rare wedding. Everything is so nice 
 and proper. Come now ! We will go together — I have 
 had some liquor, but I will manage to take you there. 
 {Takes him hy the hand?) 
 
 Nikita {pulling himself aioay in disgust). Go by 
 yourself ! I will be there. 
 
 Anisya. What are you pouting about? We are rid 
 of all our trouble and have made her a bride, — so now 
 we can live an easy Hfe. Everything is done so properly, 
 and according to the Law. I can't tell you how happy 
 I am. I feel as though I were marrying you again. 
 And the people are so satisfied ! They are all very 
 thankful. And such nice guests. Ivan Mos^ich and the 
 officer, too. They have honoured us, too. 
 
 Nikita. Very well, stay with them ! What did you 
 come here for ? 
 
 Anisya. You must come ! How will it look for the 
 hosts to run away from the guests ? And they are such 
 nice guests ! 
 
 Nikita {getting up and picking off the straw). Go ! I 
 "will be there in a minute.
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 177 
 
 Matrena. The cuckoo of the night has cuckooed better 
 than the cuckoo of the day. He did not listen to me, but 
 he obeys his wife. {]\Iatrena and Anisya walk away.) 
 
 Matrena. Are you coming ? 
 
 NiKiTA. I will be there right away. You go, and I 
 will follow you. I will come to bless them — {The 
 women stop.) Go, and I will follow you. Go, I say ! 
 {The women exeunt.) 
 
 NiKiTA {looking in their direction, in thought). 
 
 Scene X. Nikita {alone), then Mitrich. 
 
 NiKiTA {sits down and takes off his coat). Wait until I 
 come ! You look for me on the beam ! I will straighten 
 the noose and jump from the beam, and then you may 
 look for me. The reins are here, that is good. {In 
 thought.) If it were any kind of a sorrow, it would pass 
 in time ; but this is in the heart, and it cannot be taken 
 out. {Looking at the yard.) She is coming again, I think. 
 {Mocking Anisya.) " Oh, how nice it is ! I will lie down 
 with you ! " Oh, you contemptible witch ! Embrace me 
 when they take me off from the beam. There will be an 
 end of it. {Takes the rope and pulls it.) 
 
 Mitrich {drunk. Pulls the rope hack and gets up). I 
 
 won't let you. I won't let anybody. I will bring it 
 
 ■ myself. I told you : I will bring the straw myself. 
 
 Nikita, is it you ? {Laughing.) Oh, the devil ! Did 
 
 you come for the straw ? 
 
 Nikita. Let me have the rope ! 
 
 Mitrich. No, wait ! The peasants sent me for it. I 
 will bring it. {Pases to his feet and begins to scrape up 
 some straw ; hut he totters, and finally falls down.) The 
 liquor is stronger : it has me down. 
 
 Nikita. Let me have the reins ! 
 
 Mitrich. I told you I wouldn't. Nikita, you are 
 a stupid ! {Laughing.) I love you, but you are a stupid.
 
 178 TUE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 You see I am druuk. The devil I care for you ! You 
 think that I need you — Look at me ! I am an under- 
 officer ! You are a stupid, and you can't even pronounce 
 it: Under-officer of the very first regiment of her Maj- 
 esty's Grenadiers. I have served my Tsar and my coun- 
 try faithfully and honestly. What am I ? You think I 
 am a soldier ? No, I am not a soldier, but the very worst 
 kind of a man, — an erring orphan. I swore off drinking, 
 and see how I am swilling ! Well, do you think I am 
 afraid of you ? I guess not. I am not afraid of anybody. 
 When I drink, I drink ! . I'll be on a tear for two weeks 
 now, — I'll paint things red ! I will spend everything I 
 have on me for drinks : I will sell my cap, pawn my 
 passport, — and I am not afraid of a soul ! They used to 
 flog me in the army to make me stop drinking. They 
 walloped me: " W^ell," they said, "will you stop it?" 
 " No," said I. I was not afraid of them, — that's the 
 kind of a man I am ! I am on the rampage now, and I 
 will drink ! I am not afraid of anybody. I am telling 
 you the truth — Why should I be afraid of them, darn 
 it ! That's what ! There was a pope who used to tell 
 me that the devil is a braggart, — the moment you begin 
 to brag, you lose your courage. And the moment you 
 lose your courage before people, the devil grabs you and 
 jams you where he has a mind to. As I am not afraid of 
 people, I live an easy life. I'll spit into his beard, with ' 
 his claws, — and on the mother of his brood ■ of pigs ! 
 Here, chaw at it ! 
 
 NiKiTA {crossing Jmnself). How foolish it was of me ! 
 {Throwing away the rope.) 
 
 MiTRiCH. What ? 
 
 NiKiTA {rising). You say I ought not to be afraid of 
 people ? 
 
 MiTRiCH. What is there to be afraid of, darn it ! Look 
 at them in the bath-house ! They are all made of the 
 same dough. One has a bigger belly than another —
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 179 
 
 that is all the difference between them. So, whom are 
 you to be afraid of ? Pea-pie choke them ! 
 
 Scene XI. Nikita, Mitrich, and Matr^na {coming out of 
 
 the yard). 
 
 Matrena {calling). Well, are you coming ? 
 NiKiTA. Oh ! Yes, it is better this way ! I am 
 coming ! {Goes toward the yard.) 
 
 Curtain. 
 
 Part II. 
 
 Change of scenery. Tlie room, as in the First Act, is full 
 of people, sitting at tables, and standing. In the fore 
 corner, Akulina and her husband. On a table are 
 images and bread. Among the guests are Marina, 
 her husband, and the officer. Women sing songs; 
 Anisya serves the liquor. The songs stop. 
 
 Scene I. Anisya, Marina, Marina's Husband, Akulina, 
 her Bridegroom, Driver, Officer, Bridegroom's Mother, 
 Best Man, Matr^na, Guests, and people. 
 
 Driver. It is time to start, — the church is far ofif. 
 
 Best Man. Just let the stepfather bless them. Where 
 is he ? 
 
 Anisya. He will be here in a minute, my dear, he 
 will. Take another glass, — don't refuse me ! 
 
 Bridegroom's Mother. What keeps him away ? We 
 have been waiting so long. 
 
 Anisya. He will come, — in a minute. He will be 
 here before a clean-shaven girl will have plaited her 
 braids. Take another glass, my dear guests ! {Serves 
 them.) He will be here at once. Pretty girls, sing another 
 song in the meantime !
 
 180 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 Driver. They have sung all the songs waiting for 
 him. {The women sing. During the song enter Nikita 
 and Akim.) 
 
 Scene II. The same, Nikita, and Akim. 
 
 Nikita (holding Akim hy his hand and pushing him 
 lefore himself). Go, father ! I can't do it without you. 
 
 Akim. I don't like it, so to speak — 
 
 Nikita {to the ivomen). Stop your singing ! {Survey- 
 ing everyhody in the room.) Marina, are you here ? 
 
 Bridegroom's Mother. Take the image and bless 
 them ! 
 
 Nikita. Wait, give me a chance ! {Looking around 
 him.) Akulina, are you here ? 
 
 Bridegroom's Mother. Why are you calling up all 
 the people? Where else is she to be? How strange 
 he is — 
 
 Anisya. Lord ! He is undressed. 
 
 Nikita. Father, are you here ? Look at me ! Ortho- 
 dox people, you are all here, and so am I ! Here I am ! 
 {Kneeling dovm.) 
 
 Anisya. Nikita, what is the matter with you? Oh, 
 my head ! 
 
 Bridegroom's Mother. Well, I declare ! 
 
 Matrena. I say he has drunk too much French wine. 
 Come to your senses ! What is the matter with you ? 
 (People try to lift him, but he pays no attention to anybody, 
 and keeps looking in front of him.) 
 
 Nikita. Orthodox people ! I am guilty, and I want 
 to make my confession. 
 
 Matrena (pulling him by the shoulder). What is the 
 matter with you ? Are you insane ? Dear people, he is 
 out of his mind, — we ought to take him away. 
 
 Nikita (brushing her aside with his shoulder). Leave 
 me alone ! Father, listen to me ! First of all, Marina,
 
 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 181 
 
 look toward me ! (^Bowing to her and getting up.) I am 
 guilty toward you : I had promised to marry you, aud I 
 seduced you. I deceived you and abandoned you, — for- 
 give me for Christ's sake ! {Again hows to her to the 
 ground.) 
 
 Anisya. Wliat are you raving about ? How indecent ! 
 Nobody is asking you about it. Get up and stop dis- 
 gracing yourself ! 
 
 Matkena. Oh, oh, he is bewitched. What is the 
 matter with him ? He has the evil eye upon him. Get 
 up and stop talking nonsense ! (Pulls him.) 
 
 NiKiTA (shaking his head). Don't touch me ! Forgive 
 me, Marina ! I have sinned toward you. Forgive me, for 
 Christ's sake ! (Marina covers her face with her hands 
 and keeps silent.) 
 
 Anisya. Get up, I say, and stop disgracing yourself I 
 Don't recall the past ! Don't act like that ! Shame on 
 you ! Oh, my head ! He must be insane. 
 
 NlKiTA (piLshing avjay his vjife and turning to Aku- 
 lina). Akuliua, now I have something to say to you. 
 Listen, Orthodox people ! I am a wretched sinner. 
 Akulina, I am guilty toward you ! Your father did not 
 die a natural death. He was poisoned. 
 
 Anisya (shouting). My head ! What is he talking 
 about ? 
 
 Matrena. He is beside himself. Take him away ' 
 (People walk up toward him, ivishing to take him away.) 
 
 Akim (warding them off). Wait ! Good men, wait, so 
 to speak ! 
 
 NiKiTA. Akulina, I poisoned him. Forgive me, for 
 Christ's sake ! 
 
 Akulina (jumping up). He is lying. I know who 
 has poisoned him. 
 
 Bridegroom's Mother. Stop ! Sit down ! 
 
 Akim. Lord ! The sin, the sin ! 
 
 Officer. Take him ! Send for the elder and the
 
 182 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 posse ! I must write up a protocol. Get up and come 
 over here ! 
 
 Akim {to the officer). You, bright-buttons, so to speak, 
 wait awhile, so to speak ! Give him a chance, so to 
 speak, to tell everything ! 
 
 Officer {to Alim). You, old man, look out, and don't 
 interfere ! I must write up a protocol. 
 
 Akim. What a queer fellow, so to speak, you are ! 
 Wait, I say ! Don't talk now about the protocol ! God's 
 business, so to speak, is being done here — a man is mak- 
 ing his confession, so to speak, and he talks about the 
 protocol, so to speak — 
 
 Officer. Send for the elder ! 
 
 Akim. Let him first attend to God's business, so to 
 speak, and then you may attend to yours, so to speak ! 
 
 NiKiTA. Akulina, there is another sin I have com- 
 mitted toward you. I have seduced you, — forgive me, 
 for Christ's sake ! {Bows to the ground before her.) 
 
 Akulina {coiyimg out from behind the table). Let me 
 go, — I will not be married ! He compelled me to, — 
 but now I won't ! 
 
 Officer. Eepeat what you have said ! 
 
 NiKiTA. Wait, Mr. Officer ! Let me finish first ! 
 
 Akim {in tra7isport). Speak, my child ! Tell every- 
 thing, and you will feel better ! Eepent you before God, 
 and don't be afraid of people ! God is the main thing, 
 God! 
 
 Nikita. I killed your father, and I, dog, have ruined 
 his daughter. I had the power over her, and I killed 
 also her baby. 
 
 Akulina. That is true, that is true ! 
 
 Nikita. I choked the baby to death with a board. I 
 sat down upon it — I choked it — and its bones crunched. 
 {Weejoing.) Then I buried it in the ground. I did it, 
 all by myself. 
 
 Akulina. He is lying. I told him to.
 
 THE POWER OF DAEKNESS 183 
 
 NiKiTA. Don't shield me ! I am not afraid of any- 
 body now ! Forgive me, Orthodox people ! {Bows to the 
 ground.) 
 
 {Silence.) 
 
 Officek. Bind him ! Your wedding is evidently 
 broken up. {People come wp with their belts.) 
 
 NiKiTA. Wait awhile, — you will have time enough. 
 {Bowing to the ground before his father.) Father dear ! 
 Forgive me, sinful man ! You told me, when I first 
 started on this life of debauch : " When the claw is 
 caught, the whole bird is lost," but I, dog, did not pay 
 any attention to you, and so everything turned out as 
 you said. Forgive me, for Christ's sake ! 
 
 Akim {in transpo7't). God will forgive you, my own 
 child ! {Embraces him.) You did not pity yourself, but 
 He will. God is the main thing, God ! 
 
 Scene III. The same and the Elder. 
 
 Elder {enter). We have a posse here. 
 
 Officer. We will hold the inquest at once. {Nihita is 
 being bound.) 
 
 Akulina {walking up and standing near him.) I will 
 tell the truth ! Ask me, too ! 
 
 NmixA (bound). There is nothing to ask. I have 
 done it all myself. It was my plan, and my deed. Lead 
 me where I belong ! I sha'n't say another word ! 
 
 Curtain.
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHT- 
 ENMENT 
 
 Comedy in Four Acts 
 
 1889
 
 DEAMATIS PERSONS 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich Zvyezdintsev, an ex-lieutenant of 
 the Horse-Guards, owner of twenty-four thousand 
 desyatinas in various Governments. A well-pre- 
 served man, about sixty years of age, — a meek, 
 pleasant gentleman. Beheves in spiritualism and 
 likes to amuse others with his stories. 
 
 Anna Pavlovxa Zvyezdintsev, his wife, a plump woman 
 who is trying to appear young. Worrying about 
 worldly proprieties, despising her husband, and 
 blindly trusting her doctor. An irritable lady. 
 
 Betsy, their daughter, a worldly girl, about twenty 
 years of age, with loose manners, imitating men, in 
 eye-glasses. A coquette and a giggler. Speaks very 
 rapidly and very distinctly, compressing her lips, 
 like a foreigner. 
 
 Vasili Leonidych, their son, twenty-five years old, a 
 bachelor of law, without any special occupation, 
 a member of a bicycle, a racing, and a kennel club. 
 A young man enjoying excellent health and imper- 
 turbable self-confidence. Speaks aloud and by jerks. 
 He is either entirely in earnest, almost gloomy, or 
 noisily vivacious, and laughs loud. 
 
 Professor Aleksyey Vladimirovich Krugosvyetlov, a 
 savant, about fifty years of age, with quiet, pleasantly 
 self-confident manners and a similarly hesitating and 
 chanting speech. Likes to talk. He treats with 
 gentle contempt those who do not agree with him. 
 
 Smokes much. A lean, mobile man. 
 
 187
 
 188 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Doctor, about forty, a healthy, stout, red-faced man. 
 Loud and coarse. All the time smiles with self- 
 satisfaction. 
 
 Marya Konstantinovna, a maiden of about twenty, a 
 graduate of a conservatory, teacher of music, with 
 tufts of hair over her brow, in an exaggeratedly 
 fashionable attire, flattering and easily confused. 
 
 Petrishchev, about twenty-eight years of age, bachelor 
 of philology, in search of an activity, member of 
 the same societies as Vasili Leouidych, and, in addi- 
 tion, of the society for promoting chintz and calico 
 evening parties. Bald, quick in his movements and 
 speech, and extremely poHte. 
 
 Baroness, a distinguished lady about fifty, indolent, 
 speaks without intonations. 
 
 Princess, a lady of the world, guest. 
 
 Young Princess, a young lady of the world, finical, guest. 
 
 Countess, an ancient lady, barely moving about, with 
 false hair and teeth. 
 
 Grossmann, dark-complexioned, of a Jewish type, very 
 mobile, nervous, speaks very loud. 
 
 Marya Vasilevna Tolbukhin, a very stout lady, very 
 dignified, rich, and good-natured ; acquainted with all 
 remarkable people, past and present. Speaks very 
 fast, trying to outtalk everybody else. Smokes. 
 
 Baron Klincen (Coco), a graduate of the St. Petersburg 
 University, a yunkei of the chamber, serving with 
 an embassy. Very correct, and therefore composed 
 and calmly gay. 
 
 A Lady. 
 
 A Gentleman {ivitliout words). 
 
 Sergyey Ivanovich Sakhatov, about fifty years old, ex- 
 associate minister, an elegant gentleman, of broad 
 European culture ; has no special occupation, but is 
 interested in everything. Holds himself with dignity 
 and even somewhat severely.
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 189 
 
 Fedor Iyanych, valet, about sixty years old, an edu- 
 cated mau, foud of culture. Misuses his eye-glasses 
 and handkerchief, which he unfolds slowly. Inter- 
 ested in pohtics. An intelligent and kind man. 
 
 Gkigoki, lackey, twenty-eight years old, fine-looking, dis- 
 sipated, envious, and bold. 
 
 Yakov, butler, about forty, zealous, good-natured, living 
 only for liis family interests in the village. 
 
 Semen, peasant of the pantry, about twenty years old, 
 a healthy, fresh country lad, blond, without a beard, 
 quiet, smiling. 
 
 Coachman, thirty-five years old, a fop, wearing mous- 
 tache only, coarse and determined. 
 
 Old Cook, forty -five years old, shaggy, unshaven, bloated, 
 yellow, trembling, in a torn nankeen summer over- 
 coat, dirty trousers, and torn boots ; speaks hoarsely ; 
 the words escape from him as though over au im- 
 pediment. 
 
 Woman Cook, great talker, dissatisfied, about thirty years 
 old. 
 
 Porter, ex-soldier. 
 
 Tanya, chambermaid, about nineteen years old, energetic, 
 strong, merry, and quickly passing from one mood to 
 another. Squeaks in moments of strong excitement 
 from joy. 
 
 First Peasant, about sixty years old ; has been an elder, 
 thinks that he knows how to treat gentlemen, and 
 hkes to hear himself talk. 
 
 Second Peasant, about forty-five years old, rude and 
 truthful ; does not like to say more than is necessary. 
 Semen's father. 
 
 Third Peasant, about seventy years old, in bast shoes, 
 nervous, restless, in haste ; easily embarrassed, and 
 covering up his embarrassment by talking. 
 
 First Footman of the countess, an old-fashioned old mar., 
 with a lackey's pride.
 
 190 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Second Footman, huge, robust, rude. 
 Shop Messenger, iu a blue sleeveless coat, with a fresh 
 ruddy face. Speaks firmly, impressively, and clearly. 
 
 Action takes place in the capital, in Zvyezdintsev's 
 house.
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHT- 
 ENMENT 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 The stage represents the antechamber of a rich house in 
 Moscoiv. TJiree doors : the outer, into Leonid Fedoro- 
 vich's private cabin, and into Vasili Zeonidych's 
 room. A staircase leading to the upper rooms ; back 
 of it, a passage to the butler's pantry. 
 
 Scene I. Grigori (a young, handsome lackey, looking in 
 the mirror and primping himself). 
 
 Grigori. I am sony for my moustache. She says a 
 moustache is not good for a lackey. Why ? That you may 
 see that I am a lackey, or else I might look finer than her 
 darling son. Who is he, anyway ? Even though I am 
 without a moustache, he can't come up to me — {Look- 
 ing in the mirror, smiling.) What a lot of women are 
 after me ! But I do not like any of them as much as 
 Tanya — A simple chambermaid, yes, but she is finer 
 than any lady ! {Smiling.) And so sweet ! {Listening.) 
 There she is herself ! {Smiling.) Just hear her strike 
 
 the floor with her heels ! Whew ! 
 
 191
 
 192 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Scene IL Grigori and Tanya {in fur coat and half- 
 shoes). 
 
 Grigori. My respect to Tatyana Makarovna ! 
 
 Tanya. What, are you looking at yourself ? You 
 imagine you are very good-looking ! 
 
 Grigori. Why, am I not ? 
 
 Tanya. Neither good, nor bad-looking, just half and 
 half. What are the furs doing here ? 
 
 Grigori. I shall take them away at once, madam. 
 {Takes down a fur coat and covers Tanya with it, embrac- 
 ing her.) Tanya, let me tell you — 
 
 Tanya. Go to ! What does this look like ? {Angrily 
 tearing herself away.) I tell you, leave me alone ! 
 
 Grigori {looking around). Kiss me ! 
 
 Tanya. What makes you bother me so much ? I will 
 give you a kiss ! — {Raises her hand to strike him.) 
 
 Vasili Leonidych {hehind the stage a hell is rung, and 
 then a voice is heard). Grigori ! 
 
 Tanya. Go ! Vasili Leonidych is calling you. 
 
 Grigori. He will wait: he has just opened his eyes. 
 Tell me, why do you not love me ? 
 
 Tanya. Don't talk about any of your loves ! I do 
 not love anybody. 
 
 Grigori. It is not so. You love Sem(5u. A tine 
 fellow to love ! A black-handed peasant of the pantry ! 
 
 Tanya. Let him be what he may, — but you are en- 
 vious. 
 
 Vasili Leonidych {hehind the scene). Grigori ! 
 
 Grigori. Wait ! — What have I to be envious of ? 
 You have just begun your education, and see with whom 
 you are keeping company ! It would be different if you 
 loved me — Tanya — 
 
 Tanya {angrily and sternly). I tell you, you must not 
 expect a thing. 
 
 VAsiLi Leonidych {hehind the scene). Grigori !
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 193 
 
 Grigori. You are dreadfully strict. 
 
 Vasili Leonidych (behind the scene, cries stubbornly, 
 evenly, and at the top of his voice). Grigori ! Grigori ! 
 Grigori! {Tanya and Grigori laugh.) 
 
 Grigori. You ought to see the women that have been 
 loving me ! {Bell.) 
 
 Tanya. Go to the master, and leave me alone ! 
 
 Grigori. You are foolish, when you come to think of 
 it. I am not Semen ! 
 
 Tanya. Sem^n wants to marry, and does not think of 
 foolishness — 
 
 Scene III. Grigdri, Tanya, and Messenger {carrying a 
 large paper box with a dress). 
 
 Messenger. Good morning to you ! 
 
 Grigori. Good morninsr. From whom is it ? 
 
 Messenger. From Bourdier, with a dress. Here is a 
 note to the lady. 
 
 Tanya {taking the note). Sit down here ! I will take 
 it in. {Exit.) 
 
 Scene IV. Grigori, Messenger, and Vasili Leonidych 
 {jnitting his head out of the door, in his shirt and 
 slippers). 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. Grigori ! 
 Grigori. Immediately. 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. Grigori, do you not hear me ? 
 Grigorl I have just come in. 
 Vasili Leonidych. Hot water and tea ! 
 Grigorl Sem^n will bring it in a minute. 
 Vasili Leonidych. What is this ? From Bourdier ? 
 Messenger. Yes, sir. ( Vasili Leonidych and Grigori 
 exeunt. Bell.)
 
 194 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Scene V. Messenger and Tanya {running in to answer 
 
 the hell). 
 
 Tanya {to the messenger). Wait ! 
 Messenger. That's what I have been doing. 
 
 Scene VI. Messenger, Tanya, and Sakhatov {ivalks in 
 
 thi'ough the door). 
 
 Tanya. Pardon me, the lackey has just gone out. 
 But please, let me help you ! {Takes off his fur coat.) 
 
 Sakhatov {adjusting his clothes). Is Leonid FMorovich 
 at home ? Is he up ? {Bell.) 
 
 Tanya. Certainly. Long ago. 
 
 Scene VII. Messenger, Tanya, Sakhatov, a7id Doctor 
 
 {entering). 
 
 Doctor {looking for the lackey. Seeing Sakhdtov, with 
 familiai'ity). Ah, my respects to you ! 
 
 Sakhatov {looking fixedly at him). I think you are 
 the doctor ? 
 
 Doctor. I thought you were abroad. Coming to see 
 Leonid F^dorovich ? 
 
 Sakhatov. Yes. What are you doing here ? Any- 
 body ill ? 
 
 Doctor {laughing). Not exactly ill, but, you know — 
 these ladies are in a bad shape. They play cards every 
 day until three o'clock in the morning, and then they 
 take to the wine-glass. The lady is stout and fat, and not 
 so very young, either. 
 
 Sakhatov. Do you tell your diagnosis to Anna Pav- 
 lovna ? I should think she would not Hke it. 
 
 Doctor {laughing). But it is the truth. They do all 
 these things, and then there is a disorder of the digestive 
 organs, pressure on the Hver, the nerves, — and all that
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 195 
 
 rigmarole, and I have to mend them. Lots of trouble 
 with them. {Laughing.) Aud you ? You are a spiri- 
 tualist yourself, I think. 
 
 Sakhatov. I ? Xo, I am not a spirituahst myself — 
 Well, my respects to you ! ( Wants to go, hut the doctor 
 stops him.) 
 
 Doctor. No, I do not myself absolutely deny, when 
 such a man as Krugos\'7etlov takes part in it. How 
 could I ? A professor, — a European celebrity ! There 
 must be something in it» I should like to take a look at 
 it, but I never have any time, — there is always something 
 else to do. 
 
 Sakhatov. Yes, yes. My respects to you ! ( Walks 
 away, ivith a light boiv.) 
 
 Doctor (to Tanya). Is she up ? 
 
 Tanya. In the chamber. If you please. (Sakhatov 
 and the doctor go in different directions.) 
 
 Scene VIII. Messenger, Tanya, and F^dor Ivanych 
 (entering with a newspaper in his hands). 
 
 Fedor IvAJSfYCH (to the messenger). What are you 
 doing here ? 
 
 Messenger. I am from Bourdier, with a dress and a 
 note. I was told to wait. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. Ah, from Bourdier ! (To Tanya.) 
 Who has come ? 
 
 Tan^ya, Sergy^y Ivanych Sakhatov, and the doctor. 
 They stood here awhile talking all about the spirituality. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych (correcting her). About spiritualism. 
 
 Tanya. That's what I say, about the spirituahty. 
 Did you hear, F^dor Ivanych, how well it all went last 
 time ? (Laughing) There were raps, and things flew 
 about. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. How do you know ? 
 
 Tanya. Lizav^ta Leonidovna told me.
 
 196 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Scene IX. Tanya, F^dor Ivanych, Messenger, and 
 Yakov, the butler (running in with a glass of tea). 
 
 Yakov {to the messenger). Good morning ! 
 Messengee {sadly). Good morning! {Yakov raps at 
 Vasili Lconidych's door.) 
 
 Scene X. The same and Grigori. 
 
 Grigori. Let me have it ! 
 
 Yakov. You have not brought yesterday's glasses 
 back, and the tray is still in Vasili Leonidych's room. I 
 shall be responsible for it. 
 
 Grigori. The tray is filled with cigars. 
 
 Yakov. Put them elsewhere ! I shall have to answer 
 for it. 
 
 Grigori. I will bring it, I will. 
 
 Yakov. You say you will bring it, but you don't. 
 The other day they asked for it, and I had nothing to 
 serve on. 
 
 Grigori. I say I will bring it. What zeal ! 
 
 Yakov. It is easy for you to say so, but this is the 
 third time I have to serve tea, and get ready for break- 
 fast. I am kept busy all day long. Who in the house 
 has more work to do than I ? And still I am no good ! 
 
 Grigori. What better could there be ? You are very 
 good ! 
 
 Tanya. Nobody is good enough for you, but you your- 
 self. 
 
 Grigori {to Tanya). Nobody asked you ! {Exit.) 
 
 Scene XL Tanya, Yakov, F^dor Ivanych, and Mes- 
 senger. 
 
 Yakov. No, I don't complain — Tatyana Markovna, 
 did the lady not say anything about yesterday ?
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 197 
 
 Tai-jya. About the lamp ? 
 
 Yakov. God knows how it escaped from my hands. 
 I just began to wipe it off and wanted to put my haud 
 around it, when it jumped out and broke into tiny bits. 
 What a misfortune ! It is easy enough for Grigori Mi- 
 khaylych to talk the way he does, for he is a single man, 
 but I have a family — I have to think about everything, 
 and feed them. Work does not trouble me — So she did 
 not say anything ? Well, thank God ! — F^dor Ivanych, 
 have you one spoon or two ? 
 
 Fedor Ivaxych. One, one ! (^Reading the newspaper. 
 Ydkov exit.) 
 
 Scene XII. Tauya, F^dor Ivauych, and Messenger. 
 Bell is rung. Enter Grigori tvith tray, and. Porter. 
 
 Porter {to Grigori). Announce to the master that the 
 peasants from the village are here ! 
 
 Grigori [pointing to Fedor Ivanych). Tell the valet ! 
 I have no time. [Exit.) 
 
 Scene XIII. Tanya, F^dor Ivanych, Porter, and Mes- 
 senger. 
 
 Tanya. Where are the peasants from ? 
 
 Porter. From the Government of Kursk, I think. 
 
 Tanya (squeaJdng). It is they — Semen's father, — 
 about the land. I will go and meet them. [Running 
 away.) 
 
 Scene XIV. F^dor Ivanych, Porter, and Messenger. 
 
 Porter. What do you say ? Shall I let them in here 
 or what ? They say they have come in regard to the 
 land, — the master knows. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. Yes, about the purchase of the land.
 
 198 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Yes, yes. He has a guest just now. You tell them to 
 wait. 
 
 Porter. Where shall they wait ? 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. Let them wait in the courtyard. I 
 will send for them. (Forter exit.) 
 
 Scene XV. F^dor Ivanych, Tanya, followed hi/ three 
 peasants, Grigori, and Messenger. 
 
 Tanya, To the right. This way, this way ! 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. I have ordered you not to let 
 them in. 
 
 Grigori. There you have it, hussy ! 
 
 Tanya. It will not harm, F^dor Ivanych ! They will 
 stand at the very edge. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. They will bring in dirt. 
 
 Tanya. They have cleaned their shoes, and I will 
 clean up. ( To the peasants.) You stand here ! 
 
 (^Enter the peasants, carrying presents in hercliiefs : white 
 loaves, eggs, towels. They are trying to find something 
 to cross themselves by. Cross themselves at the staircase, 
 bow to Fedor Ivanych, and take a firm stand.) 
 
 Grigori {to Fedor Ivanych). FMor Ivanych ! They 
 say that Pirouet's half-shoes are the latest fashion, but 
 this fellow has better ones ! {Fainting to the Third Feas- 
 ant in bast shoes.) 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. You must always make fun of 
 people. {Grigori exit.) 
 
 Scene XVI. Tanya, F^dor Ivanych, Messenger, and 
 
 three peasants. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych {rising and waUcing over to the peas- 
 ants). So you are from Knrsk, and have come in regard 
 to the purchase of the land ?
 
 THE FEUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 199 
 
 First Peasant. Yes, sir. It originates, you may take 
 it, iu regard to the accomplishment of the land purchase 
 that we are here. Can't you announce us ? 
 
 Fedor Ivaxycit. Yes, yes, I know, I know. Wait 
 here, I will announce you at once. {Exit.) 
 
 Scene XVII. Tanya, Messenger, and three peasants. 
 Vasili Leouidych (behind the scene). The peasants 
 look around, not knowing tvhat to do with their 
 presents. 
 
 First Peasant. Where, then, so to speak, I do not 
 know what to call it, is the thing to put it on ? Let us 
 do it according to regulations. Can't you let us have a 
 dish, or something ? 
 
 Tanya. Immediately, immediately. Let me have 
 them ; in the meanwhile I will place them here. (Puts 
 the presents on a small sofa.) 
 
 First Peasant. Of what standing, for example, is the 
 worthy one who came up to us ? 
 
 Tanya. It is the vally. 
 
 First Peasant. That's simple enough, — volly. This 
 means that he is, so to speak, in charge of things — (To 
 Tanya.) And you, for example, are also in the service ? 
 
 Tanya, I am a chambermaid. I am myself from 
 D^men. I know you and you, only this uncle I do not 
 know. (Pointing to the Third Peasant.) 
 
 Third Peasant. These you have recognized, and can't 
 you recognize me ? 
 
 Tanya. Are you Efim Antonych ? 
 
 First Peasant. In rivality. 
 
 Tanya. And are you Semen's father, Zakhar Trifdnych ? 
 
 Second Peasant. Correct ! 
 
 Third Peasant. And I am, you know, Mitri Chilikin. 
 Do you recognize me now ? 
 
 Tanya. Now I know you, too.
 
 200 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Second Peasant. Whose are you ? 
 
 Tanya. I am the orphan child of Aksinya, the sol- 
 dier's widow. 
 
 First and Third Peasants (m wonderment). Well ! 
 
 Second Peasant. Not in vain they say : Pay a penny 
 for a pig, put him in the rye, and he will grow big. 
 
 First Peasant. In rivality. Something like a mam- 
 zelle. 
 
 Third Peasant. That's so. Lord ! 
 
 Vasili Leonidych (rings the hell behind the scene, and 
 then cries). Grigori ! Grigori ! 
 
 First Peasant. Who is disturbing you so much, for 
 example ? 
 
 Tanya. This is the young master. 
 
 Third Peasant. Lord ! He said we had better 
 wait on the outside. (Silence.) 
 
 Second Peasant. Is Semen going to marry you ? 
 
 Tanya. Has he written you about it? (Covers her- 
 self with the apron.) 
 
 Second Peasant. You see he has ! He is not doing 
 right. I see the lad is getting spoiled. 
 
 Tanya (lively). No, he is not at all spoiled. Shall I 
 send him to you ? 
 
 Second Peasant. What is the use of sending for 
 him ? There will be plenty of time ! 
 
 (There are heard the desperate cries of Vasili Leo- 
 nidych : " Grigori, the devil take you ! " ) 
 
 Scene XVIII. The same and (in the door) Vasili Leo- 
 nidych (in shirt, putting on his eye-glasses). 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. Are they all dead ? 
 
 Tanya. He is not here, Vasili Leonidych — I will 
 send liim at once. (Goes toivard the door.) 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. I hear some voices here. Who 
 are these scarecrows ? Eh ?
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 201 
 
 Tanya. These are peasants from the Kursk village, 
 Vasili Leonidych ! 
 
 Vasili Leonidych {to the messenger). And who is 
 that ? Oh, yes, from Bourdier ! 
 
 i^The peasants how. 'Vasili Leonidych pays no atten- 
 tion to them. Grigori meets Tanya at the door. 
 Tanya remains.) 
 
 Scene XIX. The same and Grigori. 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. I tuld you the other shoes ! I 
 cannot wear these ! 
 
 Grigori. The others are standing there, too. 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. Where ? 
 
 Grigorl In the same place. 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. You are lying. 
 
 Grigori. You will see for yourself. ( Vasili Leonidych 
 and Grigori exeunt.) 
 
 Scene XX. Tanya, three peasants, and Messenger. 
 
 Third Peasant. Maybe, let me say, it is not time 
 now, and we had better go to our lodging and wait 
 awhile. 
 
 Tanya. No, never mind, just wait. I will bring you 
 at once some plates for the presents. {Exit.) 
 
 Scene XXL The same, Sakhatov, Leonid F^dorovich, 
 followed by F^dor Ivanych. 
 
 {The peasants pick up the presents and strike an 
 attitude.) 
 Leonid Fedorovich {to the peasants). In a minute, in a 
 minute, just wait! {To the messenger.) And who is this? 
 Messenger. From Bourdier. 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Ah, from Bourdier.
 
 202 THE FKUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Sakhatov {smiling). I do not deny. But you will 
 admit that, not having seen all that of which you speak, 
 it is hard for one of our kind, who are not initiated in 
 the matter, to believe it. 
 
 Leonid Fedohovich. You say you cannot believe it. 
 But we do not even demand faith. We demand that you 
 investigate it. How can I help not believing in this ring ? 
 I received my riug from there. 
 
 Sakhatov. From there ? From where ? 
 
 Leonid Fedokovich. From the other world. Yes. 
 
 Sakhatov {smiling). Very interesting ! Very inter- 
 esting ! 
 
 Leonid Fedokovich. Granted, you think that I am 
 easily carried away, that I imagine that which is not ; 
 but Aleksyey Vladimirovich Krugosvy^tlov is not so 
 easily to be brushed aside, — he is a professor, and he 
 acknowledges all that. Nor is he alone in this. And 
 Crooks? And Wallace?' 
 
 Sakhatov. I do not deny. All I say is that it is 
 very interesting. It would be interesting to know how 
 Krugosvy^tlov explains it. 
 
 Leonid Fedokovich. He has a theory of his own. 
 Come to see us this evening. At first Grossman will — 
 you know he is a famous mind-reader. 
 
 Sakhatov. Yes, I have heard of him, but have never 
 had a chance of seeing him. 
 
 Leonid Fedokovich. So come ! At first Grossman, 
 and then Kapchich, and our mediumistic stance — {To 
 IvdnycJi). Has the messenger come back from Kap- 
 chich ? 
 
 Fed ok Ivanych. Not yet. 
 
 Sakhatov. How am I to find out ? 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. Come, come all the same ! If Kap- 
 chich will not come, we will find another medium. Marya 
 Ignatevna is a medium, not so strong as Kapchich, but 
 still a medium.
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 203 
 
 Scene XXII. The same and Tanya {coming with the 
 plates for the presents. Listening to the conversation). 
 
 Sakhatov {smiling). Yes, yes. Here is a circum- 
 stance that puzzles me: why are the mediums always 
 from what we would call the educated class ? Both 
 Kapchich and Marya Ignatevna. If it is a special power 
 they possess, it ought to be met with everywhere, even 
 among peasants. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. And so it is. This occurs quite 
 often : we have a peasant in our house who has proved to 
 be a medium. The other day we called him in during 
 the stance. It was necessary to move a divan, and we 
 had all forgotten about him. He had evidently fallen 
 asleep. And just imagine: our stance was over, Kapchich 
 awoke, and suddenly we noticed mediumistic manifesta- 
 tions in the other corner of the room, near the peasant, — 
 the table moved. 
 
 Tanya {aside). That was when I crawled out from 
 under the table. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Apparently he, too, is a medium, 
 — the more so since he resembles Hume in face — Do 
 you remember Hume ? The naive blond. 
 
 Sakhatov {shrugging his shoulders). I declare ! This 
 is very interesting. Then you ought to test him. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. We are testing him. But he is 
 not the only one. There are no end of mediums. We 
 simply do not know them. Only the other day a sickly 
 old woman moved a stone wall. 
 
 Sakhatov. Moved a stone wall ? 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Yes, yes. She was lying in bed 
 and did not at all know that she was a medium. She 
 pressed her hand against the wall, and the wall gave 
 way. 
 
 Sakhatov. And did not cave in ? 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. And did not cave in.
 
 204 THE FKUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Sakhatov. Strange — Well, I will be here in the 
 evening. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Do come ! There will be a 
 stance in any case. 
 
 (Sakhdtov puts on his overcoat. Leonid Fedorovich 
 sees him out.) 
 
 Scene XXIII. The same, without Sakhatov. 
 
 Messenger {to Tanya). Tell the lady ! Am I tc 
 stay here overnight ? 
 
 Tanya. Wait a little ! She is going to drive out with 
 the young lady, and so she will be out soon. {Exit.) 
 
 Scene XXIV, The same, ivithout Tanya. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich {walks over to the peasants. TJie 
 peasants how and offer /it'm the presents). There is no 
 need of that ! 
 
 First Peasant {smiling). This originates from our 
 first duty. Thus even the Commune has ordered us. 
 
 Second Peasant. This is the proper thing. 
 
 Third Peasant. Don't mention it ! Because we are 
 very much satisfied — As our parents, let me say, served 
 your parents, even thus we wish with all our hearts, and 
 not merely — {Bov's.) 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. What is it? What is it you 
 want ? 
 
 First Peasant. We have come to your Grace, so to 
 speak. 
 
 Scene XXV. The same and Petrishchev {quickly runs 
 
 in in his overcoat). 
 
 Petrishchev. Is Vasili Leonidych up ? {Seeing Leonid 
 Fedorovich, he hows to him with his head only.)
 
 THE FRUITS OF EXLIGUTENMENT 205 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Are you going to my son ? 
 Petrishchev. I ? Yes, I want to see Vovo for a 
 minute. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Go on, go on ! 
 
 {Petrishchev takes off his overcoat and walks away 
 rapidly.) 
 
 Scene XXVL The same, tvithout Petrishchev. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich (to the peasants). Yes. Well, so 
 what do you want ? 
 
 Second Peasant. Accept our presents ! 
 
 First Peasant {smiling). So to speak, the country 
 prepositions. 
 
 Third Peasant. Don't even mention it! We greet 
 you as a father. So, don't mention it I 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Well — Fedor, receive these 
 things ! 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. Well, give them to me ! {Takes the 
 'presents.) 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Now, what business is it ? 
 
 First Peasant. We have come to your Grace. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. I see you have come to see me. 
 But what do you wdsh ? 
 
 First Peasant. To make a motion in regard to the 
 accomplishment of the sale of the land. It originates — 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. What is it? Are you buying 
 land ? 
 
 First Peasant. In rivality, it is so. It originates — 
 So to speak in regard to the purchase of the proprietorship 
 of land. Thus, for example, the Commune has inpow- 
 ered us to enter it, so to speak, as is proper, through the 
 government bank, with adhesion of a stamp of the legal- 
 ized date. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. That is, you wish to buy land 
 through the bank, — am I right ?
 
 206 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 First Peasant. That is as you had made the prepo- 
 sition to us last year. It originates, so to speak, from the 
 sum in its totality of 32,864 roubles for the purchase of 
 the proprietorship of the land. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. That is so. How about the pay ? 
 
 First Peasant. In respect to the pay the Commune 
 preposes, as has been said last year, to depone, so to 
 speak, the reception of the cash, by the laws of the stat- 
 utes, in the totality of four thousand roubles. 
 
 Second Peasant. That is, you will get four thousand 
 now, and for the rest you are to wait. 
 
 Third Peasant (unrolling the money). You may be 
 sure we will pawn ourselves, but we will not do, let me 
 say, in any slipshod manner, but, let me say, so to speak, 
 as is proper. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. But I wrote to you that I 
 should be willing only in case you had collected all the 
 money. 
 
 First Peasant. This would, in rivality, be pleasanter, 
 but it is not in the possibilities, so to speak. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. I cannot help it. 
 
 First Peasant. The Commune, for example, has been 
 relaying on your preposition of last year to depone the 
 payment — 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. That was last year ; then I was 
 willing, but now I cannot — 
 
 Second Peasant, How is that ? You had given us 
 hope, and we had the paper written up, and the money 
 collected. 
 
 Third Peasant. Have pity on us, father. Our laud 
 is small, there is not enough room to drive out a cow, 
 nay, not even a chick, let me say. (Bows.) Don't sin, 
 father ! (Boivs.) 
 
 Leonid Fl^iDOROViCH. I must say it is true that I was 
 willing last year to postpone the payment, but something 
 has happened — and so it is not convenient for me now.
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 207 
 
 Second Peasant. Without the land we shall have to 
 give up liviug. 
 
 First Peasant. In rivality, without the land our 
 domicility must weaken and ruin will originate. 
 
 Tried Peasant (bowing). Father! The land is 
 small : there is no place to drive out a cow, nay, not even 
 a chick. Father, have pity on us ! Accept the money, 
 father ! 
 
 Leonid Fedoeovich {in the meaniuliile looks through 
 the document). I understand. I should like to do you a 
 kindness. Wait. I will oive vou an answer in half an 
 hour — Fedor, tell them not to receive anybody. 
 
 F:^poE IvANYCH. Very well. (Leonid Fedorovich exit.) 
 
 Scene XXVII. The same, vjithout Leonid Fedorovich. 
 {Tlie peasants arc downcast.) 
 
 Second Peasant. What a business ! He says : 
 " Hand us the whole amount ! " Where shall we take 
 it from ? 
 
 FiEST Peasant. If he had not given us hope last 
 year. For we have, in rivahty, been relaying on what he 
 told us last year. 
 
 Third Peasant. Lord ! I had already unrolled 
 the money. ( Wraps iip the money.) What are we going 
 to do now ? 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. What is the matter with you ? 
 
 First Peasant. Our business, honourable man, de- 
 pends, for example, like this : he had proposed to us last 
 year to depone the payments. The Commune met in 
 opinion and inpowered us ; and now, for example, he 
 preposes to give him the whole sum in totality. But the 
 business comes out impossibly. 
 
 Fedoe Ivanych. How much money is it ? 
 
 FiEST Peasant. The whole sum in entrance is four 
 thousand roubles, so to speak.
 
 208 THE J'RUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. Well, hump yourselves and get some 
 more ! 
 
 First Peasant. We have collected this with difficulty. 
 There is not enough powder for these considerations, sir. 
 
 Second Peasant. When there is none, you can't get 
 it with your teeth. 
 
 Third Peasant. We should like to, but, we will say, 
 we have swept this up with a broom, as it is. 
 
 Scene XXVIII. The same, Vasili Leonidych, and Pe- 
 trishchev {at the door, both with cigarettes). 
 
 Yasili Leonidych. I told you I would try. I will do 
 my level best. Ah, what ? 
 
 Petrishchev. You must know that if you do not get 
 it, the devil knows what a nasty affair it will be ! 
 
 Yasili Leonidych. I told you I would try, and I will. 
 Ah, what ? 
 
 Petrishchev. Nothing. I only say I want you to 
 be sure and get it. I will wait. {Goes away, closing the 
 door.) 
 
 Scene XXIX. The same, without Petrishchev. 
 
 Yasili Leonidych {waving his hand). The devil 
 knows what it is ! 
 
 {The peasants how.) 
 
 Yasili Leonidych {looking at the messenger. To Fedor 
 Ivanych). Why don't you let off this man from Bour- 
 dier ? He has come to stay here. Look there, he is 
 asleep. Ah, what ? 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. He brought a note — He was told 
 to wait until Anna Pavlovna would come out. 
 
 Yasili Leonidych {looking at the peasants and gazing 
 at the money). What is this, — money ? For whom ?
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 209 
 
 Money for us ? {To Fcdor Ivdnych) "Who are these 
 people ? 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. The Kursk peasants. They have 
 come to buy land. 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. Is it sold ? 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. No, they have not come to any 
 agreement yet. They are stingy. 
 
 Vasili Leonid ych. Ah ? I must persuade them. {To 
 the peasants.) Well, are you buying, ah ? 
 
 First Peasant. In rivality we prepose as to how to 
 acquire the ownership of the possession of land. 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. You mus.t not be too stingy. You 
 know, I will tell you how a peasant needs the land ! Ah, 
 what ? Does he need it very much ? 
 
 First PEASyVNT. In rivality, the land is necessitous to 
 a peasant, A number one. That is so. 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. Well, then don't be so stingy. 
 What is the land ? You may sow the wheat in rows 
 upon it. You can take three hundred puds, at a rouble a 
 pud, which is three hundred roubles. Ah, what ? And 
 if you plant mint, you can skin a thousand roubles out of 
 a desyatina, I tell you. 
 
 First Peasant. In rivality, this is complete, — all 
 the produces may be advanced into action, if one has a 
 comprehension. 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. Then sow mint by all means. I 
 have studied it. They print that way in books. I will 
 show it to you. Ah, what ? 
 
 First Peasant. In rivality, regardly this subject, — 
 you can see better in books. It is intelligentness, so to 
 speak. 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. Buy it then, and don't be so 
 stingy ! Give the money ! ( To Fedor Ivdnych.) Where 
 is papa ? 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. At home. He asked not to be dis^ 
 turbed now.
 
 210 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. Well, I suppose he is asking the 
 spirit whether to sell the land or not. Ah, what ? 
 
 Fedor Iyanych. I can't say. I know that he went 
 away in indecision. 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. What do you think, FMor Ivanych, 
 has he any money ? Ah, what ? 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. I don't know. Hardly. Why do 
 you want to know? You took a good slice of it last 
 
 week ! 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. But I gave that away for the 
 dogs. You know we have a new society: Petrishchev 
 has been elected, and I^ have taken some money from 
 Petrishchev, so I have to pay now for him and for myself. 
 
 Ah, what ? 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. What kind of a new society is it ? 
 
 Of bicyclists ? 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. No. I will tell you in a minute : 
 it is a new society. Let me tell you, a very serious 
 society. And do you know who is the president of it ? 
 
 Ah, what ? 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. What does this new society consist 
 
 in ? 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. A society for the encouragement 
 of breeding ancient Eussian stout-bodied dogs. Ah, what ? 
 Let me tell you : to-day is the first meeting and a lunch. 
 And I have no money. I will go to him, and will try. 
 {Exit through the door.) 
 
 Scene XXX. The peasants, F^dor Ivanych, and Mes- 
 senger. 
 
 First Peasant {to Fedor Ivanych). Honourable man, 
 . who is this ? 
 
 Fedor Ivanych {smiling). The young gentleman. 
 
 Third Peasant. The heir, let us say. Lordl 
 {Hides the money.) I had better put it away in time.
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 211 
 
 First Peasant. We were told that he was a military 
 man, in the meritoriousness of the cavalry, for example. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. iSTo. Being an only son, he is free 
 from military service. 
 
 Third Peasant. He is left to take care of his parents, 
 let us say. That is regular. 
 
 Second Peasant {shaking Ms head). Nice care he will 
 take of them ! 
 
 Third Peasant. Lord ! 
 
 Scene XXXI. F^dor Ivanych, three peasants, Vasili 
 Leonidych, and {after him at the door) Leonid 
 F^dorovich. 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. It is always that way. Really it 
 is wonderful. At first they say that I have no occupa- 
 tion, and when I find an activity and am busy, — a seri- 
 ous society has been founded pursuing noble aims, — you 
 begrudge me some paltry three hundred roubles ! 
 
 Leonid Fedoroyich. I told you I could not, and that 
 is the end of it. I have none. 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. But you have sold the land ! 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. In the first place, I have not 
 sold it ; and, above everything else, leave me in peace ! 
 You were told that I was busy. {Slams the door.) 
 
 Scene XXXII. The same, without Leonid Fedorovich. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. I told you this was not the time 
 for it. 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. I tell you this is a bad business 
 for me, ah ? I will go to mamma, — this will be my only 
 salvation. He is raving with his spiritualism, and is for- 
 getting everybody. {Goes upstairs.' Fedor Ivanych sits 
 i^own to read his paper.)
 
 212 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Scene XXXIII. The same. Betsy and Marya Kon- 
 stantinovna come doivn-stairs, followed hy Grigori. 
 
 Betsy. Is the carriage ready ? 
 
 Grigori. It is driving up. 
 
 Betsy (to Mdrya KonsluiLtinovna). Come, come ! I 
 saw that it was he ! 
 
 Marya Konstantinovna. What he ? 
 
 Betsy. You know very well that it is Petrishchev. 
 
 Marya Konstantinovna. Where is he ? 
 
 Betsy. He is sitting in Vovo's room. You will see 
 yourself. 
 
 Marya Konstantinovna. But suppose it is not he ? 
 ( The peasants and the messenger hoiv.) 
 
 Betsy {to the messenger). Ah, you are from Bourdier, 
 with the dress ? 
 
 Messenger. Yes, madam. May I go now ? 
 
 Betsy. I do not know. This is for mamma. 
 
 Messenger. I do not know for whom. I was ordered 
 to bring it here and get the money for it. 
 
 Betsy. Well, then wait ! 
 
 Marya Konstantinovna. Is this the same costume 
 for the charade ? 
 
 Betsy. Yes, a superb costume ! But mamma does 
 not take it, and does not wish to pay for it. 
 
 Marya Konstantinovna. Why ? 
 
 Betsy. You ask mamma. For Vovo's dogs it is not 
 too much to pay five liundred roubles, but for a dress one 
 hundred is too much. I certainly can't play as a scare- 
 crow ! ( To the peasants.) Who are these ? . 
 
 Grigori. Peasants. They have come to buy some 
 land. 
 
 Betsy. I thought they were hunters. Are you not 
 hunters ? 
 
 First Peasant. Not by any means, madam. We 
 are here in regard to the accomplishment of the sale
 
 THE FKUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 213 
 
 of the transfer of the land. We came to see Leonid 
 F^dorovich. 
 
 Betsy. But how is that ? I am sure hunters were to 
 come for Vovo. Truly, you are no hunters? {TJie jJeas- 
 ants het}') silent.) How stupid they are ! ( Walks over to 
 the door.) Vovo ! {Laughs.) 
 
 Maeya Konstantinovna. We met him just a little 
 while ago. 
 
 Betsy. Who asks you to remember that ? Vovo, are 
 you here ? 
 
 Scene XXXIV. The same and Petrishchev. 
 
 Peteishchev. Vovo is not here, but I am ready to do 
 all that is expected of him. Good morning ! Good 
 morning, Mary a Konstantinovna ! {For a long time 
 firmly presses Betsy s and then Mdrya Konstantinovna' s 
 hand.) 
 
 Second Peasant. I declare, he looks as though he 
 were pumping water ! 
 
 Betsy. You can't take his place, but still you are 
 better than nothing. {Laughing.) What kind of busi- 
 ness have you with Vovo ? 
 
 Petrishchev. Business ? Fi-nancial business, that is, 
 our business is fie ! and at the same time nancial, besides 
 being financial. 
 
 Betsy. What do you mean by nancial ? 
 
 Peteishchev. That is the question ! The trick is it 
 does not mean anything ! 
 
 Betsy. Now, that was not a success, not at all ! 
 {Laughs.) 
 
 Peteishchev. You can't make it a success every time. 
 It is hke a raffle. At first it is nothing, and again noth- 
 ing, and then there is a prize. 
 
 {Fedor Ivdnych walks i^ito the cahinet of Leonid 
 Fedorovich.)
 
 214 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Scene XXXV. The same without F^dor Ivanych. 
 
 Betsy. This was not a success. Tell me, were you 
 yesterday at the Mergasovs' ? 
 
 Petrishchev. Not so much at mere Gassof as at pere 
 Gassof, and not even pere Gassof as Jils Gassof. 
 
 Betsy. Can't you get along without puns ? It is a 
 disease. Were there any gipsies there ? (Laughs.) 
 
 Petrishchev (sings). " Birds upon her apron fair, 
 golden combs upon her hair ! " 
 
 Betsy. How fortunate you are ! It was so dull for us 
 at Fofo's. 
 
 Petrishchev (continuing to chant). " And she swore 
 most solemnly, she would stay — " What is the rest ? 
 Marya Konstantinovna, what is the rest ? 
 
 Marya Konstantinovna. " An hour with me — " 
 
 Petrishchev. How? How is it, Marya Konstanti- 
 novna ? (Laughs.) 
 
 Betsy. Cessez, vous devenez impossible ! 
 
 Petrishchev. J'ai cesse, fai hebe, fai dede — 
 
 Betsy. I see only one means of getting rid of your 
 puns, and that is to make you sing. Let us go to Vovd's 
 room ! There is a guitar there. Come, Marya Konstan- 
 tinovna, come ! 
 
 (Betsy, Marya Konstantinovna, and Petrishchev walk 
 into the room of Vasili Leonidych.) 
 
 Scene XXXVI. Grigori, three peasants, and Messenger. 
 
 First Peasant. Who are these people ? 
 
 Grigori. One is the young lady, and the other a mam- 
 zelle who teaches music. 
 
 First Peasant. She promotes into science, so to 
 speak. And how accurate she is, a regular portrait ! 
 
 Second Peasant. Why don't they marry them off? 
 They are advanced in years, it seems.
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 215 
 
 Grigoei. You expect them to marry at fifteen, as with 
 you ? 
 
 First Peasant. And the man, for example, is a musi- 
 cianist ? 
 
 Grigoei (mocking him). A musicianist ! You do not 
 understand a thing ! 
 
 First Peasant. This is, in rivality, our stupidity, so to 
 speak, our ignorance. 
 
 Third Peasant. Lord ! 
 
 {Gipsi/ songs accompanied with a guitar are heard 
 in Vasili Leonidych's room.) 
 
 * 
 
 Scene XXXVII. Grigori, three peasants, Messenger. 
 Enter Sem^u and, after him, Tanya. {Tanya watches 
 the meeting of father and son.) 
 
 Grigori (to Semen). What do you want ? 
 Semen. I was sent to Mr. Kapchich's. 
 Geigoei. Well ? 
 
 Semen. He gave me the oral message that he could 
 not come under any consideration. 
 
 Geigoei. All right. I will report so. (Exit.) 
 
 Scene XXXVIII, The same, without Grigori. 
 
 Semen (to his father). You are welcome, father ! My 
 respects to Uncle Efim and Uncle Mitri ! All well at 
 
 home ? 
 
 Second Peasant. Welcome, Sem^n ! 
 
 First Peasant. Welcome, friend ! 
 
 Third Peasant. Welcome, lad ! Doing well ? 
 
 Semen (smiling). Well, father, come and have some 
 tea with me ! 
 
 Second Peasant. Wait till we get through here. 
 Don't you see we are busy ? 
 
 Semen. Very well, I wiU wait near the steps. (Exit.)
 
 216 THE FEUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Tanya (running after Mm). Why did you not say 
 anything ? 
 
 Semen. How could I say anything in presence of 
 people ? Give me a chance ! I will tell him at tea 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Scene XXXIX. The same, without Semen. {Fedor 
 Ivdnych comes out and sits down near the window 
 with his newspaper.) 
 
 First Peasant. Well, honourable man, how does our 
 affair originate ? * 
 
 Fedok Ivanych. Wait ! He will be out soon, he is 
 getting through. 
 
 Tanya (to Fedor Ivdnych). How do you know he is 
 getting through ? 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. I know, because when he gets 
 through with a question he reads aloud the question and 
 the answer. 
 
 Tanya. Is it true that you can talk with spirits by 
 means of the saucer ? 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. It seems so. 
 
 Tanya. Will he sign if they tell him to ? 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. Of course, he will. 
 
 Tanya. But they don't talk with words ? 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. No, by means of the alphabet. He 
 notices opposite what letter it stops. 
 
 Tanya. Well, and if a stance ? 
 
 Scene XL. The same and Leonid F^dorovich. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Well, my friends, I can't. I 
 should like to very much, but I can't by any means. If 
 you had all the money, it would be different. 
 
 First Peasant. Nothing would be better in rivality. 
 But the people are not well-to-do, they can't do it.
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 217 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. I can't, I can't by any means. 
 Here is your paper. I can't sign it. 
 
 Third Peasant. Father, pity us, take mercy on 
 us ! 
 
 Second Peasant. Why do you do so? This is an 
 offence. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. There is no offence meant, 
 friends. I told you then, in the summer, " If you want 
 to, all right!" You did not want to, and now I 
 cannot. 
 
 Third Peasant. Father, have mercy on us ! How 
 are we to live ? The land is small : there is not 
 enough room to drive out a cow, nay, a chick, let 
 me say. [Leonid Fedorovich walks away and stops in 
 the door.) 
 
 Scene XLI. The same, Anna Pavlovna, and Doctor, 
 descending the stairs. Followed Ijy Vasili Leonidych, 
 in a happy and playful frame of mind, putting the 
 money into his pocketbook. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna (tightly laced, wearing a hat). So 
 shall I take them ? 
 
 Doctor. Take them if the symptoms are repeated. 
 Above everything else, conduct yourself properly. How 
 can you expect thick syrup to pass through a capillary 
 tube, especially if you compress that tube ? Impossible ! 
 Just so it is with the bihary ducts. This is all very 
 simple. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. Well, all right, all right. 
 
 Doctor. You say it is all right, and go on as of 
 old. Madam, you can't do it, you can't. Well, good- 
 bye! 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. Not good-bye, but au revoir. I shall 
 be waiting for you in the evening, — without you I sha'n't 
 risk it.
 
 218 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Doctor. Very well, very well. If I have time, I 
 will call. {Exit.) 
 
 Scene XLII. The same, without Doctor. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna {seeing the peasants). What is this ? 
 What is this ? What kind of people are these ? {Feas- 
 ants how.) 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. These are peasants from the Kursk 
 estate : they have come to see Leonid .F^dorovich about 
 the purchase of some land. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. I see that they are peasants. But 
 v;ho has admitted them ? 
 
 Pedor Ivanych. Leonid F^dorovich has ordered them 
 to come. Leonid F^dorovich has just been talking with 
 them about the sale of the land. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. What sale ? There is no need of 
 selling it. Above everything else, how could you let the 
 people from the street straight into the house ? How 
 could you let people in from the street ? People that 
 sleep God knows where must not be admitted to the 
 house — {Becoming ever more excited.) The folds of their 
 dresses are full of all kinds of microbes : of scarlet fever 
 microbes, of smallpox microbes, of diphtheria microbes ! 
 They are from Kursk, from the Government of Kursk, 
 where there is an epidemic of diphtheria ! — Doctor, 
 doctor ! Bring back the doctor ! 
 
 {Leonid Fedorovich goes away, closing the door. Gri- 
 gori exit for the doctor.) 
 
 Scene XLIII. The same, without Leonid FMorovich 
 
 and Grisori. 
 
 &"■ 
 
 Vasili Leonidych {smoking into the peasants' faces). 
 Never mind, mamma ! If you want to, I will fumigate them 
 so that all the microbes will give up their ghost. Ah, what ?
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 219 
 
 (Anna Pdvlovna keeps strict silence, awaiting the 
 return of the doctor.) 
 
 Vasili Leoxidych {to the peasants). Do you fatten 
 pigs ? That is profitable ! 
 
 First Peasant. In rivality, we now and then let 
 loose on the pig business. 
 
 Vasili Leonid ych. Like this — yoo, yooo. {Grunts 
 like a young pig.) 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. Vovd, Vovo ! Stop ! 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. Is it correct ? Ah, what ? 
 
 FiEST Peasant. In rivality, there is similarity. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. Vovo, stop, I tell you ! 
 
 Second Peasant. What is that for ? 
 
 Third Peasant. I told you we had better stay in 
 our lodging — 
 
 Scene XLIV. The same, Doctor, and Grigori. 
 
 Doctor. \Vhiat is it again ? What ? 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. You tell me not to be agitated. 
 How can I be calm ? I have not seen my sister for 
 two months ; I beware of every suspicious visitor, — and 
 suddenly these people come from Kursk, — straight from 
 Kursk, where there is an epidemic of diphtheria, — and 
 straight into my house ! 
 
 Doctor. You refer to these good fellows ? 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. Yes, straight from a locality where 
 there is diphtheria ! 
 
 Doctor. Of course, if they come from a diphtheria 
 centre, it is careless, but there is no cause for agita- 
 tion. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. But you yourself prescribe caution ! 
 
 Doctor. Yes, yes, but there is no cause for being so 
 agitated. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. But there will have to be a com- 
 plete disinfection.
 
 220 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 DocTOK. No, not complete, — that is too expensive, 
 something like three hundred roubles, aud even more. 
 But I will fix it cheaply and just as efficaciously. To a 
 big bottle of water take — 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. Boiled water ? 
 
 DocTOK. Makes no difference. Boiled water is better. 
 To a bottle of water take a tablespoon of sahcyHc acid, and 
 have them wash everytliing which they have touched, 
 and the good fellows, of course, must be sent away. That 
 is all. Then you need have no fear. Sprinkle two or 
 three glasses of the same composition through the air by 
 means of the atomizer, and you will see how good it will 
 all be. It is quite harmless ! 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. Where is Tanya ? Call Tanya ! 
 
 Scene XLV. The same and Tanya. 
 
 Tanya. What do you wish ? 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. Do you know the big bottle in the 
 boudoir ? 
 
 Tanya. From which they have been sprinkling on 
 the laundress yesterday ? 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. Yes, yes. What else could I mean ? 
 Take this bottle and wash out first the place where they 
 are standing with soap and then with that — 
 
 Tanya. Yes, madam. I know how. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. Then take the atomizer — Still, I 
 will be back and will do it myself. 
 
 Doctor. Do as I tell you, and have no fear ! Well, 
 good-bye, until the evening. (Uxit.) 
 
 Scene XLVI. The same, without Doctor. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. And drive them out, so .that their 
 breath even shall not be here ! Get out, get out ! Go ! 
 What are you waiting for ?
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 221 
 
 FiKST Peasant. In rivality, we, iu our foolishness, as 
 it preposes — 
 
 Gkiguki {tahiny the 'peasants out). Come now, come 
 now ! 
 
 Second Peasant. Give me my kerchief ! 
 
 Third Peasant. Lord ! I told you that we ought 
 to have gone in the meanwhile to our lodging. {Grigori 
 pushes them out.) 
 
 Scene XLVIL Anna Pavlovna, Grigori. F^dor Ivanych, 
 Tanya, Yasili Leonidych, and Messenger. 
 
 Messenger (liaving made several attempts at saying 
 something.) Will there be any answer ? 
 
 Anna Pavlvona. Ah, this is from Bourdier ? {Excit- 
 edly.) Not any, not any, and take it back ! I told her I 
 had not ordered any such costume, and I will not allow 
 my daughter to wear it. 
 
 Messenger. I can't help it. I was sent. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. Go, go, and take it back ! I will 
 call there myself. 
 
 Vasili Leonidych {sole^nnly). Mr. Ambassador from 
 Bourdier, go ! 
 
 Messenger. You might have said so long ago. I 
 have been sitting here five hours. 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. Emissary of Bourdier, go ! 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. Please, stop ! {Messenger exit) 
 
 Scene XLVIII. The same, without Messenger. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. Betsy ! Where is she ? I am 
 eternally having to wait for her ! 
 
 Vasili Leonidych {yells at the top of his voice). 
 Betsy ! Petrishchev ! Come quick ! Quick ! Quick ! Ah, 
 what?
 
 222 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Scene XLIX. The same, Petrishchev, Betsy, and Marya 
 
 K on Stan tino vna. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. I am eternally having to wait for 
 you. 
 
 Betsy. On the contrary, it is I who have been wait- 
 ing for you. (Petrishchev bows with his head only and 
 kisses Anna Pdvlovna's hand.) 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. Good morning ! {To Betsy.) You 
 always answer back ! 
 
 Betsy. If you are not in good humour, mother, I 
 prefer not to drive out. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. Are we going or not ? 
 
 Betsy. Yes, let us go ! What is to be done ? 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. Have you seen the costume from 
 Bourdier ? 
 
 Betsy. I have, and I like it very much. I ordered 
 the costume, and I will put it on, when it is paid for. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. I will not pay for it, and I will not 
 permit you to put on an indecent costume. 
 
 Betsy. What has made it indecent all at once ? At 
 first it was proper, and now you are prudish — 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. Not prudish, but you will have to 
 get the whole waist made over, and then you may. 
 
 Betsy. Mamma, really, that can't be done ! 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. Well, put on your wraps ! {Tliey sit 
 down. Grigori puts on their overshoes.) 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. Marya Konstantinovna ! Do you 
 see what emptiness there is in the antechamber ? 
 
 Marya Konstantinovna. Why ? {Laughs in ad- 
 vance.) 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. The fellow from Bourdier has 
 gone. Ah, what ? Is it good ? (Hoars.) 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. WeU, let us go ! ( Goes out through 
 the door and imynediately comes hack.) Tanya ! 
 
 Tanya. What do you wish ?
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 223 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. Don't let Fifi catch cold while I am 
 away ! If it asks to be let out, be sure and put on the 
 yellow capote. It is not very well. 
 
 Tanya. Yes, madam. {Aniia Fdvlovna, Betsy, and 
 Grigori exeunt.) 
 
 Scene L. Petnshchev, Vasili Leonidych, Tanya, and 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. 
 
 Petrishchev. Well, did you get it ? 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. Let me tell you, I got it with 
 difficulty. At first I approached my male parent, — he 
 bellowed and kicked me out. Then I went to my mater- 
 nal parent, — and I got it ! Here it is ! {Slaps his pocket.) 
 When I undertake a thing, they don't get away from me, 
 — it's a dead grip. Ah, what ? They will bring my 
 wolf-dogs to-day ? 
 
 {Petrishchev and Vasili Leomdych jJut on their wraps 
 and exeunt. Tanya follows them.) 
 
 Scene LI. F^dor Ivanych {alone). 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. Yes, nothing but unpleasantness. 
 How can they live in such discord ? I must say the 
 younger generation is not exactly right. And the rule 
 of the women ? \\Tien lately Leonid Fedor ovich wanted 
 to interfere and saw that she was in ecstasy, he slammed 
 the door. He is a man of rare kindness ! Yes, of rare 
 kindness — What is that ? Is Tanya bringing them in 
 again ? 
 
 Scene LIL Fedor Ivanych, Tanya, and the three 
 
 peasants. 
 
 Tanya. Go, go, uncle, never mind ! 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. Why did you bring them in again ?
 
 224 THE FKUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Tanya. But, F^dor Ivanych, we must do something 
 for them. I will wash it all off later. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. I see, nothing will come of it. 
 
 First Peasant. How, honourable man, are we to 
 introduce our affair into action ? You, your Honour, 
 intercede for us, and we will be able to represent grati- 
 tude in full from the Commune as a reward for the 
 trouble. 
 
 Third Peasant. Try, little falcon, — we can't get 
 along without it. The land is small, and there is not 
 room enough to let out a cow, nay, not even a chick, 
 let me say. (Bows.) 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. I am sorry for you, friends, but I do 
 not know how to do it. I understand it all very well, — 
 but he has refused. How is it to be done now ? And 
 the lady does not consent, either. Hardly ! Well, let me 
 have the paper, — I will go and try. I will ask him. 
 (Uxit.) 
 
 Scene LIII. Tanya and the three peasants (sighing). 
 
 Tanya. Uncles, tell me what the matter now is. 
 
 First Peasant. If only we could get the signature of 
 the application of his hand ! 
 
 Tanya. You want the master to sign the paper, yes ? 
 
 First Peasant. We want him to apply his hand to 
 the paper, and take the money, — and that would be the 
 solution. 
 
 Third Peasant. If he only wrote down : " As the 
 peasants wish, let me say, so, let me say, I, too, wish." 
 And that would be all : he would sign it, and — the end 
 of it. 
 
 Tanya. Only to sign it ? All you want is for the 
 master to sign ? (In thought.) 
 
 First Peasant. In rivality, the whole affair depends 
 on it : he signs, so to speak, and no more of it.
 
 THE FRUITS OP' ENLIGHTENMENT 225 
 
 Tanya. Wait and let us hear what F^dor Ivanych has 
 to say. If he cannot persuade him, I will try a trick. 
 
 First Peasant. You will trick him ? 
 
 Tanya. I will tiy. 
 
 Third Peasant. Oh, the girl wants to intercede for 
 us ? You get our request granted, and, let me say, we 
 will agree to take care of you at the Commune's charge. 
 That's it. 
 
 First Peasant. If this aftair will be introduced into 
 action, in rivahty, we can pay you with gold. 
 
 Second Peasant. Of course ! 
 
 Tanya. I can't promise for sure. As the proverb 
 says : a trial is no joke, and — 
 
 First Peasant. And a request is no misfortune. 
 That is so in rivality. 
 
 Scene LIV. The same and FMor Ivanych. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. No, my friends, you will not succeed. 
 He does not consent, and he will not. Take your paper ! 
 Go, go ! 
 
 First Peasant (tahes the paper to Tanya). So, for 
 example, we will be relaying on you. 
 
 Tanya. In a minute, in a minute. Go and wait in 
 the street for me ! I will be there at once, and I will 
 tell you something. {Peasants exeunt.) 
 
 Scene LV. F^dor Ivanych and Tanya. 
 
 Tanya. F6dor Ivanych, my dear, please ask the mas- 
 ter to come out for a minute. I have to tell him a word 
 or two. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. What news is this ? 
 
 Tanya. It is important, Fedor Ivanych. Ask him, 
 F^dor Ivanych ! There is nothing bad about it, upon my 
 word !
 
 226 THE FKUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Fedor Ivanych (smiling). I can't understand what 
 you are up to ! Yes, I will tell him, I will. {Exit.) 
 
 Scene LVI. Tanya {alone). 
 
 Tanya. Keally, I will do it. He said himself that 
 there is a power in Sem^n, and I know how to do it all. 
 Nobody caught on then. Now I will teach Sem^n how 
 to do it. And if it does not succeed, there will be no sin 
 in doing it. There is no sin in doing it. 
 
 Scene LVII. Tanya, Leonid F(^dorovich/(9Z^ow?ec?%r^dor 
 
 Ivanych. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich {smiling). So you have a request 
 to make ! What kind of an affair have you ? 
 
 Tanya. A little secret, Leonid Fedorovich. Permit 
 me to tell it to you in private. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Indeed ! F^dor, go out for a 
 minute ! 
 
 Scene LVIII. Leonid Fedorovich and Tanya. 
 
 Tanya. As I have been living in your house, Leonid 
 Fedorovich, and have grown up here, and as I am grate- 
 ful to you for so much, I will tell you everything, as if you 
 were my own father. Semen, who is liviug in your house, 
 wants to marry me. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Indeed ? 
 
 Tanya. I will tell you everything, as before God. I 
 am an orphan, and I have no one to consult — 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Why not ? He seems to be a 
 nice fellow. 
 
 Tanya. Yes, he is. That would be all right, but I 
 have fears about one thing. I should like to ask you 
 about this matter : there is something about him which I
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 227 
 
 cannot understand, and I am afraid it might be something 
 bad. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. What is it ? He drinks ? 
 
 Tanya. No, God forfend ! But as I know that there 
 is such a thing as spirituality — 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. You do ? 
 
 Tanya. Of course I do ! I understand it very well. 
 Others, being ignorant, do not understand it — 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Well, what of it ? 
 
 Tanya. I have my fears about Sem^n. Such things 
 happen with him. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. What things ? 
 
 Tanya. Something like spirituahty. You ask the 
 servants ! The moment he falls asleep at the table the 
 table begins to shake ; it begins to creak hke this : tick, 
 ti-tick ! All the people have heard it. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. That's precisely what I told Ser- 
 gy^y Ivanovich this morning. Well ? 
 
 Tanya. So — when was it ? Oh, yes, on Wednesday. 
 We sat down to dinner. No sooner did he sit down than 
 the spoon came right into his hand, — it just jumped into 
 his hand. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Ah, this is interesting ! It just 
 jumped into his hand ? Well, did he fall asleep ? 
 
 Tanya. I did not notice. I think he did. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Well ? 
 
 Tanya. Well, I am afraid there might be some harm 
 from it, and so I wanted to ask you about it. I did not 
 know whether I could risk it to live with him, because he 
 has such a thing. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich {smiling). No, don't be afraid : 
 there is no harm from it. This only means that he is 
 a medium, simply a medium. I knew before that he was 
 a medium. 
 
 Tanya. That's all. I was so afraid ! 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. ' No, don't be afraid, it won't hurt.
 
 228 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 (Aside.) That is nice. Kapchich can't be here to-day, so 
 we will test him — No, my dear, don't be afraid, he will 
 make you a good husband, and all that. This is a special 
 power which is in everybody, — only weaker in some, and 
 stronger in others. 
 
 Tanya. A^ery much obhged to you. I sha'n't give it 
 any thought now. But before, I was afraid. This comes 
 from our ignorance ! 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. No, no, don't be afraid ! F6doT ! 
 
 Scene LIX. The same and F6doT Ivanych. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. I am going away. Have every- 
 thing ready for the seance this evening ! 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. But Kapchich cannot be here. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. That does not matter. We will 
 have it all the same. (Puts on his overcoat.) There will 
 be a trial s(^ance with our own medium. (Exit. Fedor 
 Ivanych sees him off.) 
 
 Scene LX. Tanya (alone). 
 
 Tanya. He believed me, he believed me ! (Squeaks 
 and leaps about.) Upon my word, he believed me ! 
 What a wonder ! (Squeaks.) I will do it now, if only 
 Sem^n is not shy. 
 
 Scene LXI. Tanya and F^dor Ivanych (returning). 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. Well, have you told him your 
 secret ? 
 
 Tanya. I have. I will tell it to you, too, only later. 
 I have a request to make of you, F^dor Ivanych. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. What request is it ? 
 
 Tanya (abashed). You have been like a second father 
 to me, and so I will tell you everything, as before God.
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 229 
 
 Fedor Ivanycii. Don't beat around the bush, but 
 talk business ! 
 
 Tanya. Business ? Well, the business is that Sem^u 
 wants to marry me. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. Indeed. I thought I noticed some- 
 thing. 
 
 Tanya. Why should I conceal it ? I am an orphan, 
 and you know yourself how it is here in the city : every- 
 body annoys me with his attentions. Take, for example, 
 Grigori Mikhaylych. He gives me no peace. They all 
 think that I have no soul, that I am intended for a toy 
 for them — 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. You are clever, — I like that ! Well, 
 what of it ? 
 
 Tanya. Sem^n wrote to his father, and when his 
 father saw me to-day, he said that his son was spoilt — 
 Fedor Ivanych ! {Bows.) Be in place of my father, and 
 speak with the old man, with Semen's father. I will 
 take them to the kitchen, if vou will come there and talk 
 with the old man. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych (smiling). Oh, you mean to have me 
 for a match-maker ? I do not object. 
 
 Tanya. Dear Fedor Ivanych, be in place of my father, 
 and I will all my life pray to God for you. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. All right, all right, I will be there. 
 I will do as I promise. {Takes the newspaper.) 
 
 Tanya. Be my second father ! 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. All right, all right ! 
 
 Tanya. Then I will hope. (Exit.) 
 
 Scene LXII. FMor Ivanych (alone. Sliahing his head). 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. She is a good, kindly girl. When 
 you think of it, how many of them get ruined ! Let 
 them make one false step, and down they go. Then you 
 can't pick them out from the mire. Take, for example,
 
 230 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 dear Natalya. She was a nice girl, and a mother had 
 borne and brought her up — [Takes his paper.) Well, 
 Ferdinand, how is she getting on ? 
 
 Curtain.
 
 ACT 11. 
 
 The scene represents the interior of the servants' kitchen. 
 The peasants, having taken off their wra.ps, are seated 
 at the table and, perspiring, are drinking tea. Fedor 
 Ivdnych, with a cigar, at the other end of the stage. 
 On the oven is the old cook, not visible during the 
 first four scenes. 
 
 Scene I. Three peasants and F^dor Ivanych. 
 
 Fedoe Ivaxych. My advice is for you not to inter- 
 fere with him. If he wants it, and she wants it, may 
 God help them ! She is a good girl. Don't pay any 
 attention to her being so dressed up ! This is city style, 
 — she can't help it ! She is a clever girl. 
 
 Second Peasant. Well, if he wants her, let him ! 
 It is not I who will live with her, but he. Only she 
 looks too clean. How can we take her to the hut ? She 
 won't even let her mother-in-law pat her. 
 
 Fedoe Ivanych. My friend, it does not depend upon 
 the cleanliness, but on the character. If she has a good 
 character, she will be submissive and respectful. 
 
 Second Peasant. I will take her if the lad has set 
 his heart upon her. Of course, it is bad to live with 
 one you do not love ! I will take counsel with the old 
 woman, and God aid them ! 
 
 Fedoe Ivanych. Agreed ? 
 
 Second Peasant. I suppose so. 
 
 FiEST Peasant. How it fortunes you, Zakh^r: you 
 
 have come for the accomplishment of business, and he- 
 
 231
 
 232 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 hold, what a queen of a girl you have gotten for a wife 
 for your son. Now you ought to set up the drinks, to do 
 it according to property. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. That is entirely unnecessary. (An 
 awkward silence.) 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. I understand your peasant life quite 
 well. I must tell you, I am myself considering about some 
 land somewhere. I should like to build me a little house, 
 and take to farming. I would not mind out your way. 
 
 Second Peasant. It is a very good thing ! 
 
 First Peasant. In rivality, with money you can 
 receive all kinds of pleasures in the village. 
 
 Third Peasant. I should say so ! The life in the 
 country, let me say, is in any case freer than in the city. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. Well, will you take me into your 
 Commune, if I should settle in your village ? 
 
 Second Peasant. Why not ? You will treat the old 
 men to liquor, and they will take you at once. 
 
 First Peasant. You will open a wine establishment, 
 for example, or an inn, and you will live such a life that 
 you won't have to die. You will lord it, and nothing more. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. We will see about that later. All 
 I want is to live out my days in peace. I live comfort- 
 ably here, and I should hate to leave the place : Leonid 
 F^dorovich is a man of rare kindness. 
 
 First Peasant. This is so in rivality. But how is it 
 about our affair ? Will it really be without consequences ? 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. He would like to help you. 
 
 Second Peasant. Evidently he is afraid of his wife. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. He is not afraid, but there is no 
 
 agreement. 
 
 Third Peasant. You ought to try for us, father, for 
 how can we get along without it ? The land is small — 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. We will see what will come of 
 Tatyana's attempt. She has undertaken to help you. 
 
 Third Peasant (drinking tea). Father, take pity on
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 233 
 
 US ! The laud is small, there is not enough room to drive 
 out a cow, nay, not even a chick. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. The affair is not in my hands. {To 
 the Second Peasant.) Well, well, friend, so we are the 
 match-makers ! Tanya's affair is settled, is it not ? 
 
 Second Peasant. I have told you, and I will not 
 back out, even without the drinks. If only our affair 
 came out right ! 
 
 Scene II. The same. Enter Woman Cook. She looks 
 into the stove, makes signs into that direction, and im- 
 mediately hegins to speak with animation to F^dor 
 Ivanych. 
 
 Cook. They have just called Sem^n away from the 
 family kitchen, and have taken him up-stairs ; the master 
 and the other fellow, the one that is bald and who makes 
 them come, have put him down in a chair and have 
 ordered liim to act in Kapchich's place. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. What nonsense ! 
 
 Cook. It is the truth ! Yakov has just told Tanya 
 about it. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. This is wonderful ! 
 
 Scene III. The same and Coachman. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. What do you want ? 
 
 Coachman {to Fedor Ivanych). Do tell them that I 
 was not hired to live with dogs. Let anybody else 
 live who wants to, but I am not willing. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. With what do^s ? 
 
 Coachman. They brought three dogs from Vasili 
 Leonidych to the coachman's room. They have dirtied it, 
 and they howl, and you can't get near them, for they bite. 
 They are angry devils, and they will eat me up if I do 
 not look out. I feel like breaking their legs with a stick.
 
 234 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. When was that done ? 
 
 Coachman. They brought them to-day from the expo- 
 sition : they are expensive beasts : pout-bodied they call 
 them, or some such name, — the devil take them ! Either 
 the dogs or the coachmen stay in the coachman's room. 
 You tell them so ! 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. Yes, that is improper. I will go and 
 ask about it. 
 
 Coachman. They ought to be here. I suppose Lu- 
 k^rya would hke to have them. 
 
 Cook {excitedly). People eat here, and you want to 
 shut up dogs. As it is — 
 
 Coachman. But I have caftans, rugs, harness. And 
 they demand that it be clean. Well, take them to the 
 servants' room. 
 
 Fedok Ivanych. I must tell VasiH Leonidych about it. 
 
 Coachman {angrily). Let him hang the dogs around 
 his neck, and walk around with them ! Anyway, he 
 likes too nmch to ride around : he has spoilt Beauty for 
 nothing. It was such a fine horse ! What a life ! (Exit, 
 slamming the duor.) 
 
 Scene IV. The same without Coachman. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. Yes, disorder, disorder! [To the 
 
 peasants.) Well, in the meantime, good-bye, good people ! 
 
 Peasants. God be with you ! (Fedor Ivanych exit.) 
 
 Scene V. The same, without F^dor Ivanych. 
 {The moment Fedor Ivanych has left, groans are heard on 
 
 the oven.) 
 
 Second Peasant. He is as smooth as a general. 
 
 Cook. What is the use of talking ? He has a sepa- 
 rate room ; he gets his linen from the masters ; sugar, tea, 
 — all from the masters, and the food is from the table.
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 235 
 
 Old Cook. How can the devil help living when he 
 has swiped a lot. 
 
 Second Peasant. Who is the man there on the 
 oven ? 
 
 Cook. Oh, just a man. {Silence.) 
 
 FiKST Peasant. Well, I saw you lately eating sup- 
 per, and it was a mighty good capital. 
 
 Cook. We can't complain. She is not stingy on that. 
 White bread on Sundays, fish on hoUday fasts, and if you 
 want to, you may eat meat. 
 
 Second Peasant. Do they not keep the fasts ? 
 
 Cook. Hardly one of them does. The only ones who 
 keep the fasts are the coachman (not the one that was 
 here, but an old fellow), and Sem^n, and I, and the house- 
 keeper ; the rest chew meat. 
 
 Second Peasant. Well, and he himself ? 
 
 Cook. What are you about ? He has even forgotten 
 what a fast means. 
 
 Third Peasant. Lord ! 
 
 First Peasant. That is the gentlemen's way, — they 
 have come to it from books, because it is intelligent- 
 ness ! 
 
 Third Peasant. Bolted bread every day, I suppose ? 
 
 Cook. Oh, bolted bread ! They don't know what 
 your bolted bread is ! You ought to see their food ! 
 What do they not have ? 
 
 First Peasant. The gentlemen's food, naturally, is 
 airlike. 
 
 Cook. That's it, airlike, and they are great hands at 
 chewing. 
 
 First Peasant. That means that they have appekites, 
 so to speak. 
 
 Cook. And so they wash it down. All those sweet 
 wines, brandy, frothing liquors, at every course a different 
 one. They eat and wash it down, they eat and wash it 
 down.
 
 23 C THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 First Peasant. That, so to speak, carries the food 
 into the preportiou. 
 
 Cook. They are great hands at chewing, — it is just 
 terrible ! They don't know anything about sitting down, 
 eating, crossing themselves, and getting up. No, they eat 
 without stopping. 
 
 Second Peasant. Like pigs, with their feet in the 
 trough. {Peasants laugh.) 
 
 Cook. God bless them, the moment they open their 
 eyes they immediately want their samovar, their tea, 
 coffee, or chocolate. No sooner have they emptied two 
 samovars than they want a third. Then comes breakfast, 
 then dinner, then again coffee. No sooner have they 
 rested than they begin to drink tea again. And then 
 all the dainties : confectionery, jams, — oh, there is no 
 end to it. They eat even while lying in bed. 
 
 Third Peasant. Well, I declare ! (Boars.) 
 
 First and Second Peasants. What is the matter 
 with you ? 
 
 Third Peasant, I should hke to live just one day 
 like that! 
 
 Second Peasant. When do they attend to business ? 
 
 Cook. What business ? All the business they have 
 is cards and the piano. The moment the young lady 
 opens her eyes, she makes for the piano, and begins to 
 bang. And the one that lives here, the teacher, stands 
 and waits for the piano to get disengaged. The moment 
 one drops off, the other one lets herself loose. Some- 
 times they put up two pianos, and two of them, and even 
 four persons, bang away at it. They bang so that we can 
 hear it here. 
 
 Third Peasant. Lord ! 
 
 Cook. That's all the business they have : the piano 
 and cards. The moment they come together, they begin 
 playing cards, drinking wine, and smoking, — and so it goes 
 all night. The moment they get up, they begin to eat !
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 237 
 
 Scene VI. The same and Sem^n. 
 
 Semen. Tea and sugar ! 
 
 First Peasant. Do us the favour and sit down. 
 
 Semen {lualking up to the talk). My humblest thanks ! 
 {First Peasant pours out a glass of tea for him.) 
 
 Second Peasant. Where have you been ? 
 
 Semen. Up-stairs. 
 
 Second Peasant. What were you doing there ? 
 
 Semen. I can't make it out. I don't know how to 
 tell it. 
 
 Second Peasant. What kind of a thing was it ? 
 
 Semen. I do not know how to tell it. They were 
 testing some power in me. I can't make it out. Tatyana 
 said to me : " Do it," says she, " and we will get him to 
 sell the land to our peasants." 
 
 Second Peasant. How is she going to do it ? 
 
 Semen. I can't make it out, for she does not tell. All 
 she says is : " Do as I tell you ! " 
 
 Second Peasant. Do what ? 
 
 Semen. Eeally nothing at all. They put me in a 
 chair, then they put out the lights, and told me to sleep. 
 Tatyana was hid near by. They did not see her, but I 
 did. 
 
 Second Peasant. AVhat was that for ? 
 
 Semen. God knows, — I can't make it out. 
 
 First Peasant. Of course, for pastime. 
 
 Second Peasant. Evidently you and I can't under- 
 stand it. Tell me : how much money have you spent ? 
 
 Semen. Not any. I hiive saved everything : twenty- 
 eight roubles, I think. 
 
 Second Peasant. That is good. If God grants us to 
 get the land, Sem^n, I will take you home with me. 
 
 Semen. ' That would please me. 
 
 Second Peasant. You are spoilt, I am afraid. You 
 won't like to do the ploughing.
 
 238 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Semen. Ploughing ? I would do it this minute. 
 Mowing and ploughing is not so easily forgotten. 
 
 First Peasant. After the city life you will not, for 
 example, have the patience. 
 
 Sem]6n. One can live well in the village, too. 
 
 First Peasant. Now here is Uncle Mitri, and he is 
 covetous of your delicate life. 
 
 Semen. Uncle Mitri, you would get tired of it. It 
 looks easy, but there is a great deal of ninning about. 
 One gets all mixed up. 
 
 Cook. Uncle Mitri, you ought just to see their balls, 
 
 — you would be surprised ! 
 
 Third Peasant. Why, do they eat all the time ? 
 
 Cook. No ! You ought to have seen it ! F^dor 
 Ivanych took me to see it. When I looked, I got scared. 
 Oh, how they were fitted out ! You never saw the like ! 
 Naked down to here, and their arms bare. 
 
 Third Peasant. Lord ! 
 
 Second Peasant. Fie, what nastiness ! 
 
 First Peasant. The chmate, so to speak, permits it. 
 
 Cook. So, uncle, I looked at them, and I saw they 
 were all of them naked. Would you believe it, the old ones 
 
 — even our lady who has grandchildren — were bare, too. 
 Second Peasant. Lord ! 
 
 Cook. What do you think ? Wlien the music struck 
 up, and they began to play, the gentlemen came up and 
 embraced the ladies and began to whirl around. 
 
 Second Peasant. The old women, too ? 
 
 Cook. The old women, too. 
 
 Semen. No, the old women remain sitting. 
 
 Cook. What are you saying ? I saw them myself. 
 
 Semen. I tell you, no. 
 
 Old Cook {sticking his head out, in a hoarse voice). 
 This is the polka-mazurka. Oh, you fool, you don't know 
 anything : that's the way they dance — 
 
 Cook. You, dancer, keep quiet ! Somebody is coming.
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 239 
 
 Scene VII. The same and Grigori. {The old cook 
 hastens to hide himself.) 
 
 Grigori (to the cook). Let me have sour cabbage ! 
 
 Cook. I have just come back from the cellar, and I 
 have to go there again. Who needs it ? 
 
 Grigori. The young ladies v;^ant sour soup with 
 croutons. Lively there! Send it up with Sem^n, for 
 I have no time ! 
 
 Cook. They stuff themselves with sweets, until they 
 can't swallow any more, and then they want cabbage. 
 
 First Peasant. For cleaning out, so to speak. 
 
 Cook. Yes, they make room for more stuffing ! (Takes 
 a howl and exit.) 
 
 Scene VIII. The same without Cook. 
 
 Grigori (to the peasants). How comfortable you look 
 here! Look out! The lady will find it out, and then 
 she will give you an overhauling which will be worse 
 than what it was in the morning. (Laughs and exit.) 
 
 Scene IX. The peasants, Sem^n, a7id Old Cook (on the 
 
 oven). 
 
 First Peasant. In rivality, she did storm then, — it 
 was just terrible ! 
 
 Second Peasant. At that time he wanted to take 
 our part, but when he saw that she was tearing the roof 
 down, he slammed the door, as much as to say : " All 
 right, carry on as you please ! " 
 
 Third Peasant (waving his hand). There is not 
 much difference. Many a time, let me say, my old 
 woman flames up terribly. Then I leave the house. Let 
 her carry on 1 At such times I am afraid that she might 
 hit me with the oven-fork. Lord !
 
 24:0 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Scene X. The same and Yakov (running in with a pre- 
 scription). 
 
 Yakov. Sem^n, ruu to the apothecary's, lively ! Get 
 these powders for the lady ! 
 
 Semen. But he told me not to leave. 
 
 Yakov. You will have plenty of time. Your business 
 begins after tea. Tea and sugar ! 
 
 First Peasant. You are welcome ! (Semen exit.) 
 
 Scene XL The same, witliout Sem^n. 
 
 Yakov. I have no time ! Fill up a cup for company's 
 sake ! 
 
 ^'iRST Peasant. We have preposed a conversation 
 how that your lady acted so proudly in the morning. 
 
 Yakov. Oh, she is dreadfully hot! She is so hot, 
 she forgets herself. Sometimes she bursts out weeping. 
 
 First Peasant. Here is, for example, what I wanted 
 to ask. In the morning she preposed something about 
 microtes : " You have brought microtes, microtes with 
 you," she said. What is this microte to be applied to ? 
 
 Yakov. Oh, you mean the microves. They say they 
 are a kind of bugs from which all diseases come. She 
 meant to say that you had them on you. Oh, how they 
 washed and sprinkled the place where you had been 
 standing ! There is a medicine from which they all die, 
 — I mean the bugs. 
 
 Second Peasant. Where are these bugs on us ? 
 
 Yakov (drinking tea). They say they are so tiny, you 
 can't see them even through glasses. 
 
 Second Peasant. How does she know they are on 
 me ? Maybe there is more of that nastiness upon her, 
 
 Yakov. Go and ask them ! 
 
 Second Peasant. I suppose it is all nonsense. 
 
 Yakov. Of course, nonsense. But the doctors have
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 241 
 
 to invent something, else what would they get the money 
 for ? He comes to see us every day. He comes, says 
 something, and gets ten roubles. 
 
 Second Peasant. Is it possible ? 
 
 Yakov. There is one of them who gets one hundred. 
 
 First Peasant. In rivality, one hundred ? 
 
 Yakov. One hundred ! You say : one hundred ? He 
 takes a thousand, if he goes out of the city. " Give me a 
 thousand," says he, " or you may give up the ghost ! " 
 
 Third Peasant. Lord ! 
 
 Second Peasant. Does he know some charm ? 
 
 Yakov. I suppose he does. I used to live at the 
 house of a general, not far from Moscow. This general was 
 such a high-tempered man, oh, so high-tempered ! So 
 once his daughter grew^ ill. They sent at once for this 
 doctor. " A thousand roubles, and I will come." They 
 agreed to it, and he came. In some way they did not 
 please the doctor: well, you ought to have heard him 
 yell out at the general ! " Ah," says he, " so this is the 
 way you treat me ? Ah, I will not cure her ! " Would 
 you beheve it ? The general forgot his pride, and tried 
 every way to quiet him down. " Sir, don't abandon 
 me f" 
 
 First Peasant. Did they give him the thousand? 
 
 Yakov. I should say they did. 
 
 Second Peasant. What a heap of money ! What a 
 peasant could do with it ! 
 
 Third Peasant. But I think it is all nonsense. At 
 one time my leg was sore. I doctored it, and doctored it, 
 — I spent about five roubles on doctoring. Then I gave 
 up doctoring, and it healed up by itself. {The Old Cook 
 on the oven coughs.) 
 
 Yakov. Our friend is there again ! 
 
 First Peasant. Who is that man ? 
 
 Yakov. He used to be our master's cook. He comes 
 to see Luk^rya.
 
 242 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 First Peasant. Chef, so to speak. Does he live 
 here ? 
 
 Yakov. No. He is not allowed to stay here. He is 
 in one place in the daytime, and in another in the night. 
 If he has three kopeks, he stays in a night lodging-house ; 
 and if he has spent it on drinks, he comes here. 
 
 Second Peasant. What is the matter with him ? 
 
 Yakov. He is weak. What a man he used to be ! 
 A real gentleman. He used to wear a gold watch, and 
 received as high as forty roubles a month in wages. 
 And now he would have starved long ago, if Luk^rya had 
 not helped him out. 
 
 Scene XII. The same and Cook {with the cabbage). 
 
 Yakov {to Lukerya). I see, Pavel Petrovich is here 
 again. 
 
 Cook. Wliere shall he go to ? Shall he freeze to death ? 
 
 Third Peasant. See what liquor will do ! The 
 liquor, let me say — {Clicks his tongue in compassion.) 
 
 Second Peasant. Of course : if a man wants to be 
 firm, he is firmer than rock ; if he weakens, he is weaker 
 than water. 
 
 Old Cook {crawls cloum from the oven, trembling with 
 his legs and arms). Lukerya, I say, — let me have a 
 wine-glass ! 
 
 Cook. Where are you going ? I will let you have 
 such a wine-glass — 
 
 Old Cook. For the love of God! I am dying. 
 Friends, let me have five kopeks ! 
 
 Cook. I tell you, climb back on the oven ! 
 
 Old Cook. Cook! Half a glass! For Christ's sake, 
 I say, — you understand ? I beg you, for Christ's 
 sake. 
 
 Cook. Go, go ! You may have some tea. 
 
 Old Cook. What tea ? What is tea ? A stupid and
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 243 
 
 weak drink. Let me have liquor, only a swallow! 
 Luk^rya ! 
 
 Third Peasant. How the poor fellow is suffering ! 
 
 Second Peasant. Had you not better let him have 
 some? 
 
 Cook {goes to the safe and pours out a wine-glassftd). 
 Here ! That is all I \vill give you ! 
 
 Old Cook (seizes it, and drinks it ivith trcmlling hands). 
 Luk^rya ! Cook ! I drink, but you must understand — 
 
 Cook. That will do ! Climb on the oven, and let me 
 not hear a word from you ! 
 
 {Tlie Old Cook submissively climhs, on the oven, and 
 continues to grumble something to himself.) 
 
 Second Peasant. Just see what it means for a man 
 to weaken ! 
 
 FmsT Peasant. In rivality, what is human weakness ? 
 
 Third Peasant. What is the use of mentioning it ? 
 {TJie Old Cook lies down, continuing to grumble. Silence.) 
 
 Second Peasant. I wanted to ask you : there is a 
 girl from our village, Aksinya's daughter, living here ; 
 well, — how is she ? Is she a good girl, so to speak ? 
 
 Yakov. Yes, she is, — I may honestly say so. 
 
 Cook. Let me tell you truthfully, uncle, for I know 
 the conditions here pretty well, — if you want to marry 
 your sou to her, take her away at once, before she has a 
 chance to get spoilt, — or else it is bound to happen. 
 
 Yakov. That is so. For example, last year there 
 was a girl, Natalya by name, living in our house. She 
 was a nice girl. She was completely ruined, just hke 
 this fellow. {Points to the Old Cook.) 
 
 Cook. A whole lot of us women go to ruin here. 
 They all hanker for hght work and sweet food. Behold, 
 before they know it, the sweet food leads them astray, 
 and when they are led astray, nobody wants them. 
 They are at once sent away, and fresh ones take their 
 place. Just so it happened with poor Natalya: she
 
 244 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 went wrong, and so she was immediately sent away. 
 She had a child, then grew ill, and last spring she died 
 in the hospital. What a fine girl she was ! 
 
 Thikd Peasant. Lord ! They are weak creatures, 
 and ought to be pitied. 
 
 Old Cook. Yes, you wait for the devils to pity them ! 
 {Dangles his legs over the oven.) I had been roasting at 
 the stove for thirty years. When I became useless to 
 them, they left me to die like a dog. Yes, they will pity 
 a soul ! 
 
 First Peasant. This, in rivahty, is a well-known siti- 
 vation. 
 
 Second Peasant. While eating and drinking they 
 call you curly-head ; through eating and drinking, good- 
 bye, scald-head ! 
 
 Third Peasant. Lord ! 
 
 Old Cook. You don't know much. What means 
 saute tt la Beaumont '^ What means havasaril That's 
 what I was able to do ! Think of it ! The emperor used 
 to eat my dishes. And now I am of no use to the devils. 
 But I will not submit ! 
 
 Cook. Don't talk so much ! Look out ! Crawl back 
 into your corner so that you can't be seen, or else F^dor 
 Ivanych will come in, or somebody else, and then they 
 will drive me away with you. 
 
 {Silence^ 
 
 Yakov. Do you know my village, Voznes^nskoe 
 
 Second Peasant. Certainly I do. It is about seven- 
 teen versts, not more than that, from us, and by cross- 
 roads it is even less. Do you have any land there ? 
 
 Yakov. My brother has, and I send him money. 
 Although I am staying here, I am dying to be at home. 
 
 First Peasant. In rivality ! 
 
 Second Peasant. Anisim, then, is your brother ?
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 245 
 
 Yakov. Yes, he ! At the farther end. 
 Second Peasant. I know, the tMrcl farm. 
 
 Scene XIII. The same and Tanya {running in). 
 
 Tanya. Yakov Ivanych ! Don't take it easy here ! 
 She is caUing ! 
 
 Yakov. I am coming. Wiiat is up ? 
 
 Tanya. Fifi is barking and wants to eat. She is 
 scolding you. " What a bad man he is," she says. " He 
 has no pity at all," says she. " It wants to eat, aud he 
 does not bring anything ! " {Laughs.) 
 
 Yakov {about to go). Oh, she is angry ? I hope there 
 won't be anything bad ' 
 
 Cook {to Yakov). Take the cabbage along ! 
 
 Yakov. Let me have it ! {Takes the cabbage, and exit.) 
 
 Scene XIV. The same, without Yakov. 
 
 First Peasant. Who is going to dine now ? 
 
 Tanya. The dog. That is her dog. {Sits down and 
 takes hold of the teapot.) Have you any tea ? I have 
 brought some more. {Pours it in.) 
 
 Second Peasant. Dinner for a dog ? 
 
 Tanya. Why, of course ! They prepare a special 
 cutlet for the dog, one that is not too fat. I wash the 
 dog's linen. 
 
 Thikd Peasant. Lord ! 
 
 Tanya. Like that gentleman who buried his dog. 
 
 Second Peasant. What about him ? 
 
 Tanya. A man was telling that a gentleman's dog 
 had died. It was in winter, and he drove out to bury 
 him. He buried him, and he drove back again, and kept 
 weeping. It was a biting frost, and the coachman's nose 
 was running all the time, and he wiped it off — Let 
 me fill you the glass. {Fills the glass.) His nose ran,
 
 246 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 and he kept wiping it. His master saw it, and says he : 
 " What is it ? What makes you weep ? " And the coach- 
 man said : " How can I help weeping when I think of 
 the dog ? " (^Laughs.) 
 
 Second Peasant. And, I suppose, he was all the 
 time thinking : " I would not weep even if you gave up 
 the ghost." (Laughs.) 
 
 Old Cook {on the oven). That is correct ! That is 
 so ! 
 
 Tanya. Very well. The uiaster came home, and says 
 he to the lady : " What a kind man our coachman is ! 
 He has been crying all the way home : he is so sorry 
 for my dog. Call him in ! Here, take some brandy ! 
 And here is a rouble as a reward ! " And just so she 
 carries on, because Yakov does not take care of her dog. 
 
 {Peasants roar) 
 
 First Peasant. As is properly ! 
 
 SECOND Peasant. Well, I declare ! 
 
 Third Peasant, girl, you have given us some 
 fun! 
 
 Tanya {pouring out more tea). Drink some more ! 
 And so, although you may think we are having a good 
 time, it makes me sick to clean up all their nastiness. 
 Pshaw ! It is better in the village. 
 
 {Tlie peasants turn their cups upside down.) 
 
 Tanya (filling them). Drink, and may it give you 
 health ! Efim Antonych ! Let me pour you out another 
 glass, Mitri Vlasevich ! 
 
 Third Peasant. Well, fill it, fill it ! 
 
 First Peasant. Well, how does our affair originate, 
 clever girl ? 
 
 Tanya. All right, it is progressing —
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 247 
 
 First Peasant. Sem^n said — 
 
 Tanya (rapidli/). He said ? 
 
 Second Peasant. But I can't make him out. 
 
 Tanya. I can't tell you now, but I will try, I will. 
 Here is your document ! (Points to the document under 
 her apron.) If just one thing goes right ! {Squeaks.) Oh, 
 how good it would be ! 
 
 Second Peasant. Lcok out and don't lose the paper. 
 It has cost us a little something. 
 
 Tanya. Have no fear ! All you want is for him to 
 sign it ? 
 
 Third Peasant. What else ? If he has signed it, let 
 me say, that is the end of it ! [Turns his cup u2Jside 
 down.) That will do. 
 
 Tanya (aside). He will sign it. You will see, he 
 will. Drink some more ! (Fills the glass.) 
 
 First Peasant. You just fix the accomplishment of 
 the sale of the land, and we will get you married at the 
 Commune's expense. (He/uses the tea.) 
 
 Tanya (filing a glass and handing it). Drink ! 
 
 Third Peasant. Do it, and we will get you married, 
 and, let me say, we will dance at your wedding. Although 
 I have never danced in all my hfe, I will then. 
 
 Tanya (laughing). I shall expect that. (Silence.) 
 
 Second Peasant (examining Tanya). All right, but 
 you are not good for peasant work. 
 
 Tanya. Who, I ? You think I am not strong enough ? 
 You ought to see me pull in the lady. Many a peasant 
 could not pull her in that way. 
 
 Second Peasant. Where do you pull her in ? 
 
 Tanya. It is made of bone, like a jacket, as high as 
 this. It is laced with cords, and you have to pull it in, 
 just as people spit in their hands and hitch up. 
 
 Second Peasant. That is, you pull in the^ girth ? 
 
 Tanya. Yes, yes, I pull in the girth. But I dare not 
 put my foot on her. (Laughing.)
 
 248 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Second Peasant. Why do you pull her in ? 
 
 Tanya. Because. 
 
 Second Peasant. Has she made such a vow ? 
 
 Tanya. No, for beauty's sake. 
 
 First Peasant. That is, you lace her belly for form's 
 sake. 
 
 Tanya, I pull her in so that her eyes all bulge out, 
 but she says : " More ! " It makes both my hands smart, 
 and you say I have no strength. {Tlic 'peasants laugh and 
 shake their heads.) 
 
 Tanya. I have chatted too long. {Runs away, 
 laughing.) 
 
 Third Peasant. How the girl has amused us ! 
 
 First Peasant. How accurate she is ! 
 
 Second Peasant. She is all right. 
 
 Scene XV. Tliree peasants. Cook, Old Cook (on the 
 oven). Enter Sakhatov and Vasili Leonidych. 
 Sakhatov has a teaspoon in his hand. 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. Not exactly a dinner, but a 
 dejeuner dinatoirc. It was a fine breakfast, let me tell 
 you ! The ham was glorious ! Roulier feeds you nicely. 
 I have just come back. {Seeing the peasants.) The peas- 
 ants are again here ? 
 
 Sakhatov. Yes, yes, that is all very beautiful, but we 
 have come to conceal an object. So, where had we better 
 put it ? 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. Pardon me, I will at once — 
 ( To the Cook.) Where are the dogs ? 
 
 Cook. The dogs are in the coachman's room. How 
 could we keep them in the servants' room ? 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. Ah, in the coachman's room ? 
 Very well. 
 
 Sakhatov. I am waiting. 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. Pardon, pardon. Ah, what ? Con-
 
 ■3
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 249 
 
 ceal it ? Yes, Sergy(5y Ivanovich, so let me tell you : let 
 us put it into the pocket of one of these peasants. Into 
 this fellow's pocket. Say ! Ah, what ? Where is your 
 pocket ? 
 
 Third Peasant. What do you want with my pocket ? 
 I declare, my pocket ! I have money in my pocket. 
 
 Vasili Leoxidych. Well, and where is your purse ? 
 
 Third Peasant. What do you want with it ? 
 
 Cook. What are you doing ? This is the young 
 master. 
 
 Vasili Leoxidych (laugMng). Do you know why he 
 is so frightened ? I will tell you why : he has a lot of 
 money. Ah, what ? 
 
 Sakhatov. Yes, yes, I understand. You talk wdth 
 them, and in the meantime I will put it into this wallet, 
 so that they shall not know anything and shall not be 
 able to tell him. You talk with them. 
 
 Vasili Leoxidych. At once, at once. Well, boys, are 
 you going to buy the land ? Ah, what ? 
 
 First Peasant. We have preposed so with all our 
 hearts. But somehow the affair does not originate into 
 motion. 
 
 Vasili Leoxidych. Don't be stingy ! The land is an 
 important matter. I told you to sow mint. You might 
 plant tobacco, too. 
 
 First Peasant. This is so, in rivality. We can sow 
 all kinds of produces. 
 
 Third Peasaxt. Good sir, can't vou ask vour father 
 for us ? Else how are we to live ? Our land is small : 
 there is not enough room, let me say, to drive out a cow, 
 nay, not even a chick, 
 
 Sakhatov {having placed the spoon in the wallet of 
 the Third Peasant). C'est fait. Eeady. Let us go ! 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Vasili Leoxidych. Don't be stingy, ah? Well, 
 good-bye ! {Exit.)
 
 250 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Scene XVI. Three peasants, Cook, aiid Old Cook {on 
 
 the oven). 
 
 Third Peasant. I told you, we ought to have gone 
 to the lodging. We should have paid a dime each, and 
 would have had our peace ; but God save us from what 
 they are doing here. " Give me the money," says he. 
 "What is this for?" 
 
 Second Peasant. He must have drunk a little too 
 much. {Tlie peasants turn over their cups, get up, and 
 cross themselves.) 
 
 First Peasant. Don't forget the words he has cast 
 about sowing mint ! You must understand this ! 
 
 Second Peasant. Yes, sow mint ! You try and bend 
 your back, and you won't ask for any mint, I am sure ! 
 Thank you ! Well, clever woman, where shall we lie 
 down ? 
 
 Cook. One of you can lie down on the oven, and the 
 other two on the benches. 
 
 Third Peasant. Christ save us ! (Prays.) 
 
 First Peasant. If God should give us the accomplish- 
 ment of the affair {lying doivn), we could slide down on 
 the train to-morrow, and on Tuesday we should be at home. 
 
 Second Peasant. Will you put out the light ? 
 
 Cook. Indeed not ! They will be running in all the 
 time : now for one thing, now for another. Lie down, 
 and I will turn down the light. 
 
 Second Peasant. How can one live on a small plot ? 
 I have been buying grain ever since Christmas. The oat 
 straw is giving out, too. If I could, I should get four 
 desyatinas, and would take Sem^n home. 
 
 First Peasant. You have a family. You will have 
 no trouble looking after the land, if you get it. If only 
 the affair were accomplished. 
 
 Third Peasant. We must ask the Queen of Heaven. 
 Maybe She will take pity on us.
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 251 
 
 Scene XVII. Silence. Sighs. Then are heard the 
 thud of footsteps, the din of voices, and the door is 
 opened wide, and there rush in headlong : Grossmann 
 with tied tip eyes, holding Sakhatov's hand, the Pro- 
 fessor and Doctor, Stout Lady and Leonid r^doro- 
 vich, Betsy and Petrishchev, Vasili Leonidych and 
 Marya Konstautinovna, Anna Pavlovna and Baron- 
 ess, F^dor Ivanych and Tanya. Three peasants, 
 Cook, and Old Cook (invisible). (Peasants jump up. 
 Grossmann enters with rajnd steps, then stops.) 
 
 Stout Lady. Don't worry ! I have undertaken to 
 watch it, and I strictly fulfil my duty. Sergy^y Ivano- 
 vich, you are not leading him ? 
 
 Sakhatov. No. 
 
 Stout Lady. Don't lead him, but, on the other hand, 
 don't oppose yourself ! (To Leonid Fedorovich.) I know 
 these experiments, I used to make them myself. I 
 would feel the efflux, and the moment I felt — 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Permit me to ask you to observe 
 silence. 
 
 Stout Lady. Ah, I understand that well! I have 
 experienced it myself. The moment my attention was 
 • distracted, I could not — 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Hush — 
 
 (They walk around, searching near First and Second 
 Peasant, and then walk over to Third Peasant. 
 Grossmann runs up against a bench.) 
 
 Baroness. Mais dites-moi, on le paye ? 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. Je ne saurais vous dire. 
 
 Baroness. Mais c'est un monsieur ? 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. Oh ! oui. 
 
 Baroness. Ca tient du miraculeux. N'est-ce pas ? 
 Comment est-ce qu'il trouve ? 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. Je ne saurais vous dire. Mon 
 mart vous I'expliquera. (Seeing the peasants, looks around
 
 252 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 and sees the Cool:) Pardou ? What is tins ? {Baroness 
 walks over to the group.) 
 
 Anna Pavlovna {to Cook). Who let in the peasants ? 
 Cook. Yakov brought them here. 
 Anna Pavlovna. Who told Yakov to bring them ? 
 Cook. I can't tell you. FMor Ivauych has seen 
 them. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. Leouid ! 
 
 {Leonid Fedorovich does not hear, being husy ivith 
 
 ndnd-readAng , and says : " Hush ! ") 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. F^dor Ivanych ! What does this 
 
 mean ? Did you not see me disinfect the antechamber ? 
 
 And now you have infected the whole kitchen ! Black 
 
 bread, kvas, — 
 
 Fedor Ivanvch. I thought that it was not daugerous 
 in here, and the men have come on business. It is far 
 for them to go elsewhere, and they are away from their 
 village. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. That is the trouble : they are from 
 a Kursk village, where they are dying from diphtheria like 
 flies. The main thing is I ordered them away from the 
 house ! Did I order so or not ? ( Walks over to the group 
 gathered about the p)casants.) Be careful ! Don't touch 
 them ! They are infected with diphtheria ! 
 
 {Nobody pays any attention to her. She walks 
 away with dignity, and stands motionless, in 
 expectation.) 
 Petkisiighev {snujflcs aloud). I don't know about diph- 
 theria, but there is some other infection in the air. Do 
 you smell it ? 
 
 Betsy. Stop your nonsense ! Vovo, in which wallet 
 is it ? 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. In that one, in that. He is going 
 up to it, he is going up ! 
 
 Petrishchev. What is this ? Spirits or spirit ? 
 Betsy. Now your cigarettes would be in place. Smoke,
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 253 
 
 smoke, and nearer to me ! (Fetrishchev bends down and 
 smokes over her.) 
 
 Vasili Leoxidych. He is getting near it, I tell you. 
 Ah, what ? 
 
 Gkossmann (restlessl)/ groping around the Third Peas- 
 ant). Here, here. I feel that it is here. 
 
 Stout Lady. Do you feel an eiiiux ? (Grossmann 
 lends doivn to the wallet and takes the spoon out of it.) 
 
 All. Bravo ! ( Universal ecstasy.) 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. So this is where our spoon was ? 
 {To the Peasant.) So that's what you did ? 
 
 Third Peasant. What did I do ? I did not take 
 your spoon. Don't accuse me ! I did not take it, I did 
 not, and my soul know's nothing about it. Let him gay 
 what he please ! I knew, when he came, that it would 
 not lead to anything good. " Give me your purse," he 
 said. I did not take it, so help me Christ, I did not ! 
 {Tlte young ijcople su7'round him and laugh.) 
 
 Leonid Fedoeovich (angrily to his son). Eternally 
 your foolishness ! (To Third Peasant.) Don't worry, my 
 friend ! We know that you did not take it. It was only 
 a trial. 
 
 Grossmann (takes off his bandage and pretends to be 
 waking up). A little water, if you please. (Everybody 
 is busy about him.) 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. Let us go from here to the coach- 
 nnan's room. I will show you a bitch I have there ! 
 Eptitant ! Ah, what ! 
 
 Betsy. What a nasty word ! Can't you say " dog " ? 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. Impossible. One could not say 
 about you : What an epdtant man Betsy is ? One has to 
 say " girl," just so in this case. Ah, what ? Marya 
 Konstantiuovna, is it so ? Was it good ? (Laughs) 
 
 Marya Konstantinovna. Well, let us go ! 
 
 (Alary a Konstantinovna, Betsy, Petrishchev, and 
 Vasili Leonidych exeunt.)
 
 254 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 « 
 
 Scene XVIII. The same, without Betsy, Mary a Kon- 
 stantinovna, Petrishchev, and Vasili Leouidych. 
 
 Stout Lady (to Grossmann). What ? How ? Are 
 you rested ? (Grossmcmn does not ansiver. To Sakhdtov.) 
 Sergy^y Ivanych, did you feel the efflux ? 
 
 Sakhatov. I did not feel anything. But it was nice, 
 very nice, — quite a success. 
 
 Baroness. Admirable ! Ga ne le fait pas souffrir ? 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Pas le moins du monde. 
 
 Professor {to Grossmann). Permit me to ask you. 
 {Giving him the therm,ometer.) At the beginning of the 
 test it was thirty-seven and two. {To the doctor.) That 
 is correct, I think ? Be so kind as to verify the pulse. 
 A loss is unavoidable. 
 
 Doctor {to Grossmann). Well, sir, let me take your 
 pulse. We will verify it, we will. {Takes out his watch 
 and holds his hand.) 
 
 Stout Lady {to Grossmann). Excuse me ! The condi- 
 tion in which you were cannot be called sleep ? 
 
 Grossmann {tired). It is the same hypnosis. 
 
 Sakhatov. Then we must understand it in the sense 
 of your having hypnotized yourself ? 
 
 Grossmann. Why not ? Hypnosis can take place not 
 only through association, as, for example, at the sound of 
 a tam-tam, as with Charcot, but by a mere entrance into a 
 hypnogenic zone. 
 
 Sakhatov. I shall admit that that is coiTect, but it is 
 desirable more clearly to define what hypnosis is. 
 
 Professor. Hypnosis is the phenomenon of the trans- 
 mutation of one energy into another. 
 
 Grossmann. Charcot did not define it thus. 
 
 Sakhatov. Excuse me, excuse me. Such is your defi- 
 nition, but Libot told me himself — 
 
 Doctor {giving up the pulse). Ah, it is aU right, all 
 right. Now the temperature.
 
 THE FEUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 255 
 
 Stout Lady (interposing). No, excuse me! I agree 
 with Aleksy^y Vladimirovich. Here you have the 
 best proof of all. When, after my illness, I lay sense- 
 less, I was overcome by a desire to talk. I am in 
 general reserved, but suddenly the desire to talk de- 
 veloped in me, and they tell me I talked so that they all 
 wondered. (To Sakhdtov.) However, I think I inter- 
 rupted you. 
 
 Sakhatov (with dignitu). Not in the least. Proceed ! 
 
 DocTOK. The pulse is eighty-two, the temperature has 
 risen by three-tenths. 
 
 Professor. So here you have the proof. That is what 
 it ought to be. ( Takes out a note-book and makes a mem- 
 orandum.) Eighty-two, am I right ? And thirty-seven 
 and five ? As soon as hypnosis is caused, there is at once 
 an intensified action of the heart. 
 
 Doctor. I can testify, as a doctor, that your prediction 
 has fully been realized. 
 
 Professor (to Sakhdtov). And you said ? — 
 
 Sakhatov. I wanted to say that Libot himself told 
 me that hypnosis is only a special psychic condition which 
 increases suggestion. 
 
 Professor. However, Libot is not an authority, while 
 Charcot has made an all-around investigation of the sul> 
 ject and has proved that hypnosis produced by a blow, 
 trauma — 
 
 Sakhatov. I do not deny Charcot's labours. I 
 know him, too. All I say is that Libot told me so. 
 
 Grossmann (hotly). In the Salpetriere there are 
 three thousand patients, and I have taken a full 
 course. 
 
 Professor. Excuse me, gentlemen, that is not 
 the point. 
 
 Stout Lady (interposing). I will explain it to you in 
 two words. When my husband was ill, all the doctors re- 
 fused — 

 
 256 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Leonid Fedokovich. Let us go back to the house. 
 Baroness, if you please. 
 
 (Jl£xeunt all speaking together and interrupting each 
 other.) 
 
 Scene XIX. Three peasants, Cook, F^dor Ivanych, Tanya, 
 Old Cook {on the oven), Leonid F^dorovich, and Anna 
 Pavlovna. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna {pulling Leonid Fedorovich's sleeve and 
 stoppiiig him). How many times have I told you not to 
 give orders in the house ! You know only your fooHsh- 
 ness, and the house is on my shoulders. You will infect 
 everybody. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Who ? What ? I do not under- 
 stand a word. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. You ask ? People sick with diph- 
 theria sleep in the kitchen, where there is a constant 
 intercourse with the house ! 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. I — 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. What I ? 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. I do not know anything. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. You ought to know, since you are 
 the father of a family. You ought not to do this. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. I did not think — I thought — 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. It makes me sick to listen to 
 you! 
 
 {Leonid Fedorovich remains silent.) 
 
 Anna Pavlovna {to Fedor Ivdngch). Out with them 
 this very minute ! Let them not be in my kitchen ! 
 This is terrible. Nobody obeys me ! Everything against 
 me — 1 drive them away from one place, and they let 
 them in here. {Becomes ever more agitated until tears ap- 
 pear.) Everything to spite me ! Everything to spite
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 257 
 
 me ! And with my ailing — Doctor, doctor ! Peter 
 Petrovich ! He has gone ! 
 
 (Sobs and exit, followed by Leonid Fedorovich.) 
 
 Scene XX. Three peasants, Tanya, FMor Ivanych, Cook, 
 and Old Cook (on oven). 
 
 (Tableau. All stand for a long while in silence.) 
 
 Third Peasant. God be merciful with them ! Before 
 you know it a man will here be hauled up by the police. 
 I have not been in court in all my life. Let us go to a 
 lodging, boys ! 
 
 Fedor Ivanych (to Tanya). What is to be done ? 
 
 Tanya. Nothing, F6dor Ivanych. Let them go to 
 the coachman's room. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. How can they go to the coachman's 
 room ? The coachman has been complaining, as it is, that 
 there are too many dogs there. 
 
 Tanya. Well, then, to the male servants' room. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. But if they should find out ? 
 
 Tanya. They will not find out. Have no fear, FMor 
 Ivanych. How can we drive them away at night ? They 
 would not even find a place. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. Well, do as you think best, so they 
 are away from here. (Exit.) 
 
 Scene XXL Three Peasants, Tanya, Cook, and Old 
 Cook. (Feasants pick up tJieir wallets.) 
 
 Old Cook. I declare, they are accursed devils ! They 
 are having too good a time ! The devils ! 
 
 Cook. You shut up ! Thank the Lord they did not 
 see you ! 
 
 Tanya. Come, my uncles, to the servants' room ! 
 
 First Peasant. Well, how is our affair ? How, for
 
 258 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 example, is it in regard to the signature, the application of 
 the hand ? Well, are we to be in hope ? 
 
 Tanya. You will find out in an hour. 
 
 Second Peasant. Shall you be sly enough ? 
 
 Tanya (laughing). If God is willing. 
 
 {Curtain.)
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Action takes place, the same evening, in a small drawing- 
 room, where all the tests of Leonid Fedorovich are 
 made. 
 
 Scene I. Leonid Fedorovicli and Professor. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich, Well, shall we risk a stance 
 with our new medium ? 
 
 Professor. By all means. The medium is unques- 
 tionably a powerful one. Besides, it is desirable that the 
 mediumistic stance should be this evening and with the 
 same composition of the audience. Grossmann will, no 
 doubt, have an effect on the mediumistic energy, and 
 then the connection and oneness of the phenomena will 
 be much more manifest. You will see that if the medium 
 will be as strong as before, Grossmann will vibrate. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. In that case, you know, I will 
 send for Sem^n, and will invite volunteers. 
 
 Professor. Yes, yes. In the meantime I want to 
 make a few notes. (^Takcs out a note-hook and writes.) 
 
 Scene IL The same and Sakhatov. 
 
 Sakhatov. They have just sat down to cards in Anna 
 Pavlovna's apartments. Being an odd number, and, be- 
 sides, having an interest in the seance, I have made my 
 appearance here. Well, will there be a seance ? 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. There will be, by all means. 
 
 259
 
 260 THE FRUITS OF E^TLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Sakhatov. What, without Mr. Kapchich's mediumis- 
 tic power ? 
 
 Leonid Fedoeovich. Vo7is avez la main heureuse. 
 Just imagine, the peasant of whom I told you turns out 
 to be a real medium. 
 
 Sakhatov. I declare ! Oh, but that is particularly 
 interesting ! 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Yes, yes. After dinner we made 
 a little preliminary test with him. 
 
 Sakhatov. You have had time to have it and to con- 
 vince yourself ? 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Completely so. He has proved 
 to be a medium of wonderful power. 
 
 Sakhatov {incredulously). I declare ! 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. It now turns out that this had 
 been known quite awhile in the servants' room. When 
 he sits down to a cup, the spoon jumps into his hand, 
 (^To the Professor.) Have you heard this ? 
 
 Professor. No, I have not heard this particular thing. 
 
 Sakhatov {to the Professor). Still, you admit the pos- 
 sibility of such phenomena ? 
 
 Professor. Of what phenomena ? 
 
 Sakhatov. Well, in general, the spiritualistic, the 
 mediumistic, in general, the supernatural phenomena. 
 
 Professor. The question is what do we call super- 
 natural ? When not a living man, but a piece of stone, 
 attracted a nail, how did such a phenomenon seem to the 
 spectators, natural or supernatural ? 
 
 Sakhatov. Yes, of course. Only, such phenomena, 
 as the attraction of the magnet, are continually repeated. 
 
 Professor. The same thing happens here. The 
 phenomenon is repeated, and we subject it to investiga- 
 tion. More than that, we subject the phenomena under 
 investigation to the laws which are common to other 
 phenomena. Phenomena seem to be supernatural only 
 because the causes of the phenomena are ascribed to the
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 261 
 
 medium himself. But this is incorrect. The phenomena 
 are produced, not by the medium, but by a spiritual energy 
 working in the medium, and that is a great difference. 
 The whole matter lies in the law of equivalency. 
 Sakhatov. Yes, of course, but — 
 
 Scene III. The same and Tanya {who enters and stands 
 
 behind the jiortiere). 
 
 Leonid Fedokovich, You must remember this much : 
 as with Hume and Kapchich, so even now you can't 
 count on anything for certain with this medium. There 
 may be a failure, and there may be a complete material- 
 ization. 
 
 Sakhatov. Even materialization ? What kind of a 
 materialization can it be ? 
 
 Leonid Fedoro vigil For example, a dead person may 
 come : your father or grandfather will take your hand 
 and will give you something ; or somebody will rise in 
 the air, as was last time the case with Aleksy^y Vladi- 
 mirovich. 
 
 Professor. Of course, of course. But the main thing 
 IS to explam all these phenomena and to bring them 
 under common laws. 
 
 Scene IV. The same and Stout Lady. 
 
 Stout Lady. Anna Pavlovna permitted me to come 
 to see you. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. You are welcome ! 
 
 Stout Lady. How tired out this Grossmann is ! He 
 could not hold a cup. Did you notice how pale he grew 
 {to the Professor) as he came near it ? I noticed it at 
 once, and I was the first to mention it to Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 Professor. No doubt. There was a loss of vital 
 energy.
 
 262 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Stout Lady. That's what I say, — we ought not to 
 misuse it. A hypnotizer had suggested to a friend of 
 mine, Vy^rochka Konshin, — you know her, — to stop 
 smoking, and her spine began to ache. 
 
 Pkofessor {wants to begin speaking). The measure- 
 ment of the temperature and of the pulse show ob- 
 viously — 
 
 Stout Lady. Just a minute, excuse me. So I told her 
 it would be better to smoke than to suffer from the nerves. 
 Of course, smoking is harmful, and I should hke to give 
 it up, but do what you please, I can't. I once stopped 
 for two weeks, but I could not stand it any longer. 
 
 Professor (again makes an attempt to speak). Show 
 conclusively — 
 
 Stout Lady. No, just let me finish. I have only two 
 words more to say. You say it is a loss of strength ? I 
 wanted to tell you that when I travelled post — The 
 roads were dreadful then, — you can't remember that, 
 but I have noticed that all our nervousness comes from 
 the railroads, for example, I can't sleep on the road, — 
 kill me, but I can't fall asleep. 
 
 Professor (begins again, but the Stout Lady gives him 
 no chance to speak). The loss of strength — 
 
 Sakuatov (smiling). Yes, yes. 
 
 (Leonid Fedorovich rings the bell.) 
 
 Stout Lady. Though I have been without sleep, one, 
 two, three nights, I cannot fall asleep. 
 
 Scene V. The same and Grigdri. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Please, tell Fedor to prepare 
 everything for the stance and call Sem^n here, — Sem^n, 
 the peasant of the pantry, — do you hear? 
 
 Grigori. Yes, sir ! (Exit.)
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 263 
 
 Scene VI. Leonid Fedorovich, Professor, Stout Lady, 
 and Tanya (concealed). 
 
 Professor {to Sakhdtov). The measurement of the 
 temperature and pulse show a loss of vital energy. 
 The same will happen at mediumistic phenomena. The 
 law of the preservation of energy — 
 
 Stout Lady. Yes, yes. I wanted to say that I am 
 very glad to see that a common peasant has turned out 
 to be a medium. That is nice. I always said that the 
 Slavophiles — 
 
 Leoxid Fedorovich. Let us meanwhile go to the 
 drawing-room ! 
 
 Stout Lady. Permit me to say just two words. The 
 Slavophiles are right, but I always tell my husband that 
 there is no reason for exaggerating. The golden means, 
 you know — How can one affirm that everything is 
 good with the masses, when I myself saw — 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Won't you, please, go to the 
 drawing-room ? 
 
 Stout Lady. A boy not bigger than this, and he 
 drinks. I scolded him. He was grateful to me for it 
 later on. They are children, and children, so I always 
 said, need love and severity — {All exeunt, talking.) 
 
 Scene VII. Tanya {alone, coming out from behind the 
 
 door). 
 
 Tanya. Oh, if I only may succeed ! {Ties twine.) 
 
 Scene VIIL Tanya and Betsy {walks in hurriedly). 
 
 Betsy. Is papa not here ? {Looking at Tanya.) What 
 are you doing here ? 
 
 Tanya. Oh, Lizaveta Leonidovna, I just came in — I 
 wanted — I just came in — {Confused.)
 
 264 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Betsy. Isn't there going to be a st^ance here at once ? 
 (^Noticing that Tanya is gathering up ihc tivine, looks 
 fixedly at her, and bursts out laughing.) Tanya ! You 
 have been doing it all ! Don't deny it ! And you did 
 it last time ! Yes, you did, you did ! 
 
 Tanya. Dear Lizav(5ta Leonidovna ! 
 
 Betsy (in cestasy). Ah, how good that is ! I did not 
 expect that ! Why did you do it all ? 
 
 Tanya. My dear Lizaveta Leonidovna, don't give me 
 away ! 
 
 Betsy. No, not for anything in the world. I am so 
 glad ! How do you do it ? 
 
 Tanya. Like this : I will hide myself, and then, when 
 they put out the lights, I will crawl out and do it. 
 
 Betsy {piointing to the tivinc). What is this for ? 
 Yes, I understand, you don't have to tell me : you catch 
 them — 
 
 Tanya. Dear Lizaveta Leonidovna, I will tell you 
 everything. Before this I only joked, but now I want 
 to get something done. 
 
 Betsy. How ? What ? Something done ? 
 
 Tanya. You have seen the peasants that have come 
 to buy some land. jSTow, your papa will not sell it to 
 them, and he has returned the document to them without 
 signing it. F^dor Ivanych says he did so because the 
 spirits have told him to. So I am trying it this way. 
 
 Betsy. Ah, what a clever girl you are ! Do it, do it ! 
 How are you going to do it ? 
 
 Tanya. Like this : the moment they put out the 
 lights, I will begin to rap, to throw the twine on their heads, 
 and finally to hurl the paper on the floor, and ou the 
 table, — I have it with me. 
 
 Betsy. Well, and — ? 
 
 Tanya. Well, they will be astonished. The paper 
 was in the hands of the peasants, and suddenly it is here. 
 I will order —
 
 THE FRUITS OP ENLIGHTENMENT 265 
 
 Betsy. Oh, yes, Sem^n is the medium to-day ! 
 
 Tanya. I will order him {Can't speak for laughter.) — 
 will order him to choke anybody that gets into his hands, 
 — only not your papa, — that he will not dare to do, — 
 and to choke them until the paper is signed. 
 
 Betsy (lauglLing). But that is not the way it is done. 
 A medium does not do anything himself. 
 
 Tanya. Oh, that won't hurt, — maybe it will be all 
 right. 
 
 Scene IX. Tanya and F^dor Ivanych. {Betsy makes 
 a sig7i to Tanya and exit.) 
 
 Fedor Ivanych {to Tanya). "What are you doing here ? 
 
 Tanya. My dear F^dor Ivanych, I have come to see 
 you — 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. What is it ? 
 
 Tanya. About what I have been asking you. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych {laughing). I have made the match, 
 I have. We have shaken hands, but we have not drunk 
 anything. 
 
 Tanya {squeakiiig). Is it really so ? 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. I tell you it is. He said he would 
 take counsel with the old woman, and God aid you ! 
 
 Tanya. He did say that ? {Squeaking.) Ah, my 
 dear F^dor Ivanych, I will pray all my life for you ! 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. All right, all right! I am busy 
 now. I was told to fix things for the stance. 
 
 Tanya. Let me help you ! How do you want to fix it ? 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. How ? Like this : the table in the 
 middle of the room, chairs, the guitar, the accordion. Xo 
 lamps, — just candles. 
 
 ■ Tanya {arranges things tvith Fedor Ivanych). Is this 
 right ? The guitar here, the inkstand here — {Placing 
 things.) Like this ? 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. Will they really put Sem^n down ?
 
 266 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Tanya. I suppose so. They have had him in the 
 chair once. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. Wonderful! {Putting on his eye- 
 glasses.) But is he clean ? 
 
 Tanya. How do I know ? 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. So you had better — 
 
 Tanya. What, F^dor Ivanych ? 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. Go, take a nail-brush and scented 
 soap, — take mine, if you want to, — and cut his nails 
 and wash them clean. 
 
 Tanya. He wiU wash them himself. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. Well, tell him to do so. And let 
 him put on clean linen. 
 
 Tanya. All right, F(^dor Ivanych. {Exit.) 
 
 Scene X. F^dor Ivanych {alone, sitting down in an 
 
 annchair). 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. He is learned, yes, Aleksy^y Vladl- 
 mirovich is a professor, but I often have my doubts about 
 him. Popular superstitions are coarse, and they are des- 
 troyed: the superstitions about house-spirits, wizards, 
 witches — And when you come to think of it, this is 
 just such a superstition. Eeally, is it possible for the 
 spirits of the dead to speak and play the guitar ? Some- 
 body is foohng them, or maybe they are foohng them- 
 selves. I can't make it out about Sem^u. {Looking 
 through the album.) Here is their spiritualistic album. 
 How can one take a photograph of a spirit ? Here is a 
 picture of a Turk sitting with Leonid F^dorovich — A 
 wonderful human weakness ! 
 
 Scene XL F^dor Ivanych and Leonid F^dorovich. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich {entering). Well, is everything 
 ready ?
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 267 . 
 
 Fedok Ivanych {rising withotit haste). Yes. (Smil- 
 ing.) Ouly I am afraid your new medium may dis- 
 grace himself, Leonid F^dorovich, 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. No, Aleksy^y Vladimirovich and 
 I have tested him. He is a wonderfully strong medium ! 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. I do not know about that. But is 
 he clean ? You have not troubled yourself about order- 
 ing him to wash his hands. It might cause some 
 inconvenience. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. His hands ? Oh, yes ! You 
 think they might be dirty ? 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. Yes, he being a peasant. And there 
 will be ladies present, and Marya Vasilevna. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich, Let them be ! 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. I wanted to tell you something else : 
 Timofey, the coachman, came to complain about the 
 dogs ; he says it is impossible to keep clean on account 
 of them. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich {placing things on the table, dis- 
 tractedly). What dogs ? 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. They brought three greyhounds from 
 Vasih Leonidych this morning, and they were put in the 
 coachman's room. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich {annoyed). Tell Anna Pavlovna 
 about it ! Let her do as she pleases ! I have no time. 
 
 Fedor Ivan^^ch. You know her weakness for Vasili 
 Leonidych — 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Let her do as she pleases. From 
 him nothing but annoyance — Well, I have no time. 
 
 Scene XII. The same and Sem^n (in sleeveless coat, 
 
 enters smiling). 
 
 Semen. Did you call me ? 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Yes, yes. Let me see your 
 hands ! All right, all right ! So, my dear, you do just
 
 268 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 as you did before ! Sit down and abandon yourself to 
 your feeling ! Don't do any thinking. 
 
 Semen. Why should I think ? It is only worse if 
 you do. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovicii. That*s it, that's it! The less 
 you are conscious, the stronger it will be. Don't do any 
 thinking, and abandon yourself to your nioud : if you feel 
 like sleeping, sleep ; if you feel like walking, walk ; you 
 understand ? 
 
 Semen. Why should I not understand ? Tliere is no 
 cunning in this ! 
 
 Leonid Fedoeovich. The main thing is not to get 
 confused, for you might be surprised at yourself. You 
 must understand that just as we live, so the invisible 
 world of spirits lives with us. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych {correcting him). Unseen feelings, you 
 understand ? 
 
 Semen (laughing). Why should I not ? What you 
 say is so simple. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. If you feel like rising in the 
 air, or something like it, don't lose courage. 
 
 Semen. Why should I lose courage ? What do I 
 care ? 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Well, then I will go and call 
 them all. Is everything ready ? 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. I think, yes. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. And the slates ? 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. They are down-stairs. I will bring 
 them in at once. {Exit.) 
 
 Scene XIII. Leonid Fedorovich and Sem^n. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Well, all right, then. So don't 
 get confused, and be at your ease ! 
 
 Semen. Shall I take off my coat ? That will make 
 ine more at my ease.
 
 THE FRUITS OF EXLIGIITEXMEKT 2G9 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Your coat ? No, no, keep it on ! 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Scene XIV, Sem^u (alone). 
 
 Semen. She told me to do the same again, and she 
 will hurl around things as then. I wonder how it is she 
 is not afraid. 
 
 Scene XV. Sem^n and Tanya (comes in without shoes 
 in a dress of the colour of the wall-paper. Semen roars). 
 
 Tanya. Hush ■ They will hear us ! Eub some 
 matches on your fingers as you did the last time. (Bubs 
 them 071.) Well, do you remember everything ? 
 
 Semen (bending his fingers). First, to moisten the 
 matches. Wave the hands, — that is one thing. Then 
 to gnash my teeth, — that is the second. I have forgotten 
 the third. 
 
 Tanya. The third thing is the most important. Lis- 
 ten : when the paper falls on the table, and I ring a bell, 
 you stretch out your arms like this. Stretch them out as 
 far as you can and catch a person. Catch anybody that 
 is sitting nearest to you. And when you get hold of 
 some one, press as hard as you can. (Laughs.) Whether 
 it be a lady or a gentleman, press as hard as you can, and 
 don't let the person get away ! Do it, as though you 
 were asleep, and gnash your teeth, or bellow, like this — 
 (Bellows.) When I begin to play on the guitar, act as 
 though you were waking up ! Stretch yourself, and wake 
 up ! Do you remember everything ? 
 
 Semen. I do, but it is too funny. 
 
 Tanya. Don't laugh ! If you do, that will not be so 
 bad. They will think you are doing it in your sleep. 
 Only don't fall asleep for good, when they put out the 
 lights. 
 
 Semen. Don't be afraid i T will be pinching ray ears.
 
 270 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Tanya. Do everything right, Sem^n dear. Only do 
 everything, and don't be afraid ! He will sign the paper, 
 you will see he will. They are coming. {Crawls under 
 the sofa.) 
 
 Scene XVI. Sem^n a7id Tanya. Enter: Grossnaann, 
 Professor, Leonid F^dorovich, Stout Lady, Sakhdtov, 
 a,nd Anna Pavlovna. Sem(^n stands at the door. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. If you please, all unbehevers ! 
 Notwithstanding the fact that to-night we have a new, 
 casual medium, I expect some remarkable manifestations. 
 
 Sakhatov. Very, very interesting ! 
 
 Stout Lady [pointing to Semen). Mais il est tres 
 hien ! 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. As a peasant of the pantry, only — 
 
 Sakhatov. M^'ives never believe in the affairs of their 
 husbands. You do not admit at all ? 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. Of course not. In Kapchich, it is 
 true, there is something especial, but not so much, 
 either. 
 
 Stout Lady. Excuse me, Anna Pavlovna, you must 
 not judge this way. Before I was married I once had a 
 remarkable dream. You know, there are dreams of such 
 a kind that you do not know when they begin and when 
 they end. So I had such a dream — 
 
 Scene XVII. The same, Vasili Leonidych and Pe- 
 
 trishchev (enter). 
 
 Stout Lady. I had much revealed to me in 
 that dream. Nowadays these young people (pointing 
 to Petrishchev and to Vasili Leonidycli) deny every- 
 thing. 
 
 VAsfLi Leonidych. I never deny anything, let me 
 tell you. Ah, what ?
 
 TEE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 271 
 
 Scene XVIII. The same. Enter Betsy and M^rya 
 Konstantiuovua. They begin to talk with Petrishchev. 
 
 Stout Lady. How can one deny the supernatural ? 
 They say that it does not agree with reason. But there 
 may be a stupid reason, then what ? Now, on Sadovaya 
 Street, — have you heard about it ? — there was an appari- 
 tion which came every night. The brother of my husband, 
 — what do you call him ? — not heau frere, but in Kus- 
 sian, — oh, I never can remember those Eussian family 
 relations, — well, he went there three nights in succes- 
 sion, and could not see anything, so I said — 
 
 Leonid Fedoeovich. So, who will stay ? 
 
 Stout Lady. I, I ! 
 
 Sakhatoy. I ! 
 
 Anna Pavlovna {to Doctor). And you, too, will stay ? 
 
 DocTOK. I want to see at least once what it is Aleksyey 
 Vladimirovich finds here. I can't deny without having 
 had any proofs, 
 
 Anna Paylovna. And so you want me by aU means 
 to take them to-night ? 
 
 Doctor. Take whom ? Oh, the pills ! Yes, take them, 
 if you please ! Yes, yes, take them — I will call 
 
 again. 
 
 Anna Pavloyna. If you please. {Aloud.) When 
 you get through, messieurs et mesdames, please come to 
 my apartment to rest from your emotion, and to finish 
 the game of cards. 
 
 Stout Lady. By all means. 
 
 Sakhatov. Yes, yes ! {Anna Pavlovna exit.) 
 
 Scene XIX. The same, without Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 Betsy {to Petrishchev). I tell you, stay. I promise 
 you unusual things. Will you wager ? 
 
 Marya Konstantinovna. Do you believe in it ?
 
 272 THE FEUITS OF ENLIGnTEKMENT 
 
 Betsy. To-uight I do. 
 
 Maeya Konstantinovna {to Petrishchev). And do 
 you believe ? 
 
 Petrishchev. " I believe not, I believe not thy cun- 
 ning vows." Well, if Elizaveta Leonidovna commands — 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. Let us stay, Marya Konstanti- 
 novna ! Ah, what ? I will concoct something epatant. 
 
 Marya Konstantinovna. No, don't make me laugh. 
 I can't keep from laughing. 
 
 Vasili Leonidych {aloud). I will stay ! 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich {sternly). All I ask is that those 
 who stay will not turn this into a joke. This is a serious 
 matter. 
 
 Petrishchev. You hear ? Well, we will stay. Vovo, 
 sit down here, and don't you lose your courage ! 
 
 Betsy. You are laughing, but wait and see ! 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. Well, what is it indeed ? It will 
 be a fine thing ' Ah, what ? 
 
 Petrishchev {tremUimj). Oh, I am afraid, I am afraid. 
 Marya Konstantinovna, I am afraid ! My little legs are 
 cremblimr. 
 
 Betsy {laughing). Hush up ! {All sit down.) 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Sit down, if you please ! Sem^n, 
 sit down ! 
 
 Semen. Yes, sir. {Sits doion on the edge of the chair.) 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Sit down better ! 
 
 Professor. Sit down regularly, on the middle of the 
 chair, at your ease. {Seats Semen.) 
 
 {Betsy, Marya Konstantinovna, and Vasili Leonidych 
 laugh?) 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich {raising his voice). I ask those 
 who remain not to jest, but to take the matter seriously. 
 There might be evil consequences. Vovo, do you hear ? 
 If you can't sit quietly, go out ! 
 
 VAsiLi Leonidych. Quiet ! {Hides himself behind the 
 back of Stout Lady.)
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 273 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Aleksy^y Vladimirovich, put 
 him in a trance ! 
 
 Professor. No, Anton Borisovich is here, and he has 
 more practice in this matter than I, and power — Anton 
 Borisovich ! 
 
 Grossmaxn. Ladies and gentlemen, I am not really a 
 spiritualist. I have only studied hypnosis. Hypnosis I 
 have studied, it is true, in all its known manifestations, 
 but that which is called spiritualism is entirely unknown 
 to me. From the trance of a subject I may expect certain 
 familiar phenomena of hypnosis : lethargy, aboulia, anaes- 
 thesia, analgesia, catalepsy, and all kinds of suggestion. 
 But here not these, but other phenomena are to be sub- 
 jected to investigation, and so it would be desirable to 
 know what these expected phenomena are, and what sci- 
 entific siguificauce they have. 
 
 Sakhatov. I fully concur with Mr. Grossmann's 
 opinion. Such an elucidation would be very interesting. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich {to the Professor). I think, Alek- 
 syey Vladimirovich, you will uot refuse to make a short 
 explanation. 
 
 Professor. I do not object. I can explain it, if you 
 so wish. {To the Doctor.) You, please, measure the tem- 
 perature and pulse. My exposition will, unavoidably, be 
 superficial and brief. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Yes, brief, brief. 
 
 Doctor. Directly. {Takes out a tTiermometer and gives 
 it to Semen.) Well, my good fellow ! {Places it in his 
 mouth.) 
 
 Semen. Yes, sir. 
 
 Professor {rising and turning to the Stout Lady, then 
 sitting doivn). Ladies and gentlemen ! The phenomenon 
 which we are investigating generally represents itself, on 
 the one hand, as something novel, and, on the other, 
 as something transcending the natural order of things. 
 Neither the one nor the other is correct. This phenome-
 
 274 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 non is not new, but as old as the world, and not super- 
 natural, but is subject to the same eternal laws to which 
 everything in existence is subject. This phenomenon has 
 usually been defined as a communion with the spiritual 
 world. This definition is not exact. According to this 
 definition, the spiritual world is opposed to the material 
 world, but this is not right : there is no such opposition. 
 Both worlds are contiguous, so that it is impossible to 
 draw a line of demarcation, which should separate the 
 one world from the other. We say that matter is com- 
 posed of molecules — 
 
 Petrishchev. Dull matter ! ( Whispering, laughter.) 
 Professor (stopping, and then continuing). Molecules 
 of atoms, but atoms, having no extension, are in reality 
 nothing but points of application of forces, that is, 
 strictly speaking, not of forces, but of energy, — of that 
 same energy which is as one and indestructible as matter. 
 But just as matter is one and its forms are different, even 
 so it is with energy. Within recent time we have been 
 acquainted with only four forms of energy, which change 
 one into another. We know the dynamic, thermic, elec- 
 trical, and chemical energies. But these four forms of 
 energy are far from exhausting all the varieties of its 
 manifestations. The forms of the manifestations of energy 
 are manifold, and one of these new, httle known forms of 
 energy is now to be investigated by us. I am speaking 
 of the energy of mediumism. 
 
 (Again whispers and laughter in the corner of the 
 young people.) 
 Professor (stops and, looking ste^^nly around him, con- 
 tinues). The mediumistic energy has been known to 
 humanity since time immemorial : predictions, presenti- 
 ments, visions, and many others, — all those are nothing 
 else but manifestations of mediumistic energy. The 
 phenomena produced by it have been known since time 
 immemorial But the energy itself has not been acknowl-
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 275 
 
 edged as such until recently, when, at last, we came to 
 acknowledge the medium, the vibration of which pro- 
 duces the mediumistic phenomena. And just as the 
 phenomena of light remained inexplicable until the exist- 
 ence of an imponderable substance, that of ether, was 
 accepted, even so mediumistic phenomena seemed myste- 
 rious as long as we did not accept the now undoubted 
 truth that in the interstices of the ether there is another 
 even more delicate and imponderable substance, which 
 is not subject to the law of the three dimensions — 
 
 (Again lohisper, laughter, and squeaking.) 
 
 Pkofessor {agoAn looking sternly around him). And 
 just as mathematical calculations have irrefragably con- 
 firmed the existence of imponderable ether which pro- 
 duces the phenomena of light and electricity, even so a 
 brilhant series of most exact investigations of Hermann, 
 Schmidt, and Joseph Schmatzofen have undeniably con- 
 firmed the exi.stence of that substance which fills the 
 universe and which may be denominated as spiritual 
 ether. 
 
 Stout Lady. Now I understand. How thankful I 
 am — 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Yes. But, Aleksy^y Vladimiro- 
 vich, can't you — abbreviate — a little ? 
 
 Professor (without replying to him). And thus, a 
 series of strictly scientific experiments and investigations, 
 as I have had the honour of informing you, has made 
 clear to us the laws of mediumistic phenomena. These 
 experiments have made it clear to us that the putting of 
 certain individuals into a hypnotic state, which differs from 
 common sleep only in that by falling into this sleep the 
 physiological activity is not only not lowered, but always 
 raised, as we have just seen, — it has become manifest 
 that the putting into this condition of any subject whatso- 
 ever invariably causes certain perturbations in the spiritual 
 ether, — perturbations which completely resemble those
 
 276 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 perturbatious which are produced by the immersion of 
 a solid body in a liquid. These perturbations are what 
 we call mediumistic phenomena — {Laughter, whisper- 
 ing.) 
 
 Sakhatov. This is quite just and intelligible ; but 
 permit me to ask you : If, as you have said, putting a 
 medium to sleep produces perturbations of the spiritual 
 ether, why, then, do these perturbations find their expres- 
 sions, as is generally understood in spiritualistic stances, 
 in manifestations of the activity of dead persons ? 
 
 Professor. Because the particles of this spiritual 
 ether are nothing but the souls of the living, the dead, 
 and those not born, so that every concussion of this spir- 
 itual ether inevitably causes a certain motion of its par- 
 ticles. But these particles are nothing but the souls of 
 men which by this motion are brought into communion. 
 
 Stout Lady {to Sakhatov). What is there here not to 
 understand ? This is so simple — I thank you very, 
 very much ! 
 
 Leonid Fedorovigh. It seems to me that everything 
 is clear now, and that we can begin. 
 
 Doctor. The lad is in the most normal of conditions : 
 temperature, 37.2 ; pulse, 74. 
 
 Professor {takes out a note-booh, and makes a memo- 
 randum). As a confirmation of that which I have had 
 the honour of presenting to you will be the fact that put- 
 ting the medium to sleep inevitably brings with it, as we 
 shall soon see, a rise in temperature and pulse, just as in 
 the case of hypnosis. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovigh. Pardon me, but I should like to 
 answer Sergy^y Tvanych's question as to how it is we 
 know that the spirits of deceased persons are communing 
 with us. We know this because the spirit who comes 
 tells us so straight out, — just as simply as I am saying 
 this, — he tells us who he is, why he has come, where he 
 is, and whether he is happy. At the last stance came
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 277 
 
 the Spaniard Don Castillos, and he told us everything. 
 He told us who he was, and when he died, and that he 
 was suffering for having taken part in the Inquisition. 
 More than that : he informed us of what was taking place 
 during the very time he was speaking with us, namely, 
 while he was speaking with us he had to be reborn upon 
 earth, and so he could not finish the conversation which 
 he had begun — Well, you will see for yourself. 
 
 Stout Lady {intcrruipting liim). Ah, how interesting ! 
 Maybe the Spaniard was born in our house, and is now 
 a baby. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Not impossible. 
 Professor. I think it is time to begin. 
 Leonid Fedoeoyich. I only wanted to say — 
 Professor. It is late already. 
 
 Leonid Pedoroyich. Well, all right. So we can 
 begin. Anton Borisovich, please, put the medium to 
 sleep — 
 
 Grossmann. How do you wish me to put the subject 
 to sleeps There are many possible means. There is 
 Brede's system, there is the Egyptian symbol, there is 
 Charcot's system. 
 
 Leonid Pedorovich {to Professor). That makes no 
 diflference, I think. 
 
 Professor. It is a matter of indifference. 
 Grossmann. Then I will apply my own system, 
 which I have demonstrated in Odessa. 
 Leonid Pedorovich. If you please ! 
 
 ( Grossmann waves his hands over Semen. Semen closes 
 his eyes and stretches himself.) 
 Grossmann {looUng closely at him). He is falhng 
 asleep — He is asleep. A remarkably quick appear- 
 ance of hypnosis ! The subject has apparently already 
 entered upon his anaesthetic condition. A remarkably, 
 unusually receptive subject, and he might be subjected 
 to interesting experiments ! {Sits down, gets up, and again
 
 278 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 sits down.) We now could put a needle through his 
 hand. If you wish — 
 
 Professor (to Leonid Fedorovich). Do you notice how 
 the medium's sleep is affecting Grossmann ? He is be- 
 ginning to vibrate. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich, Yes, yes — Can we now put 
 out the lights ? 
 
 Sakhatov, But why must we have darkness ? 
 
 Professor. Darkness ? Because darkness is one of 
 the conditions under which mediumistic energy is mani- 
 fested, just as a certain temperature is the condition for 
 certain manifestations of chemical and dynamic energy. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Not always. Many people have 
 things happen to them at caudle-light, and even in day- 
 light. They have happened to me. 
 
 Professor (interrupting him). May we now have the 
 lights out ? 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Yes, yes. (Fids out the lights.) 
 Ladies and gentlemen ! Please pay attention now ! 
 
 (Tanya crawls out from under the sofa and takes 
 hold of the thread which is attached to the can- 
 delabrum.) 
 
 Petrishchev. Really, I like the Spaniard. How, dur- 
 ing the conversation, he — down his head — how do you 
 translate inquer une tete ? 
 
 Betsy. No, you just wait, and you will see what will 
 happen ! 
 
 Petrishchev. I am afraid of one thing only, and that 
 is, that Vovo will grunt like a pig. 
 
 Vasili Leonidych, Do you want me to do it? I 
 will grab — 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich, Ladies and gentlemen ! I ask 
 you not to speak — 
 
 (Silence. Semen sucks his finger, rubs the spittle on 
 his knuckles, and waves his hands.) 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. A light ! Do you see a light ?
 
 THE FKUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 279 
 
 Sakhatov. a light? Yes, yes, I see, but permit 
 Die — 
 
 Stout Lady. Where, where ? Ah, I have not seen 
 it ! There it is ! Ah ! 
 
 Professor {to Leonid Fedorovich, in a whisper, pointing 
 to Grossmann, who is moving about). Notice how he is 
 vibrating ! A double force ! {Again a phosphorescence.) 
 
 Leonid Fedoeovich {to Professor). That is he ? 
 
 Sakhatov. What he ? 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. The Greek Nicholas. It is his 
 hght. Is it not so, Aleksyey Vladimirovich ? 
 
 Sakhatov. ^\'Tio is this Greek Nicholas ? 
 
 Professor. A certain Greek, who was a monk in the 
 time of Constantiue at Constantinople and who visited us 
 last time. 
 
 Stout Lady. Where is he, where ? I do not see. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. He cannot be seen yet — 
 Aleksyey Vladimirovich, he is always especially well 
 disposed to you. Ask him ! 
 
 Professor {in a pectdiar voice). Nicholas, is it 
 you ? 
 
 {Tanya raps tiuice against the wall.) 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich {joyfully). He, he ! 
 
 Stout Lady. Oh, oh ! I am going away ! 
 
 Sakhatov. On what ground is it assumed that it is 
 he? 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Two raps are an affirmative 
 answer. Else there would have been a silence. 
 
 {Silence. Repressed laughter in the young people's 
 corner. Tanya throws upon the table a lamp- 
 shade, a 'pencil, and a pen-wiper.) 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich {in a whisper). Notice, ladies 
 and gentlemen, here is a lamp-shade. Something else. 
 A pencil ! Aleksyey Vladimirovich, a pencil ! 
 
 Professor. All right, all right. I am watching him 
 and Grossmann. Do you notice ?
 
 280 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 (^Grossmann 7'ises and looks at the objects which have 
 fallen on the table.) 
 
 Sakhatov. Excuse me, excuse me ! I should like to 
 see whether the medium is not doing it all himself. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Do you think so ? Then sit 
 down near him, and hold his hands. But you may be 
 sure he is asleep. 
 
 Sakhatov (walks over, catches with his head into the 
 thread, which Tanya has lowered, and stoops in fright). 
 Yes! Strange, strange! (Goes wp, takes Semen by the 
 elbow. Semen bellows.) 
 
 Professor {to Leonid Fedorovich). Do you hear how 
 Grossmann's presence affects him ? A new phenomenon, 
 — I must note it down — (Runs out of the room, notes 
 it down, and returns.) 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Yes. But we ought not to leave 
 Nicholas without an answer. We ought to begin — 
 
 Grossmann (gets up, walks over to Semen, raises and 
 drops his Jtand). Now it would be interesting to pro- 
 duce a contracture. The subject is in a state of absolute 
 hypnosis. 
 
 Professor (to Leonid Fedorovich). Do you see, do you 
 see? 
 
 Grossmann. If you wish — 
 
 Doctor. Permit, sir, Aleksyey Vladimirovich to go 
 through with it : it is a serious matter. 
 
 Professor. Leave him alone ! He is already speaking 
 in his sleep. 
 
 Stout Lady. How glad I am I have decided to stay'i 
 It frightens me, but still I am glad, because I always told 
 my husband — 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. I beg you to keep quiet. 
 
 (Tiinya passes the thread over the head of the Stout 
 Lady.) 
 
 Stout Lady. Ouch! 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. What, what is it ?
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 281 
 
 Stout Lady. He took me by my hair ! 
 
 Leonid Fedoeoyich (in a whisper). Don't be afraid ! 
 It will not hurt ! Give him your hand ! The hand is 
 generally cold, but I like it. 
 
 Stout Lady {hiding her hands). Not for the world ! 
 
 Sakhatov. Yes, it is strange, it is strange. 
 
 Leonid Fedoroyich. He is here and wants to com- 
 municate. Who wants to ask any question ? 
 
 Sakhatoy. Please let me ask ? — Do I believe, or 
 not ? {Tanya raps twice.) 
 
 Peofessor, An affirmative answer. 
 
 Sakhatov. Allow me to ask again. Have I a ten- 
 rouble bill in my pocket ? 
 
 {Tanya raps seveixd times and passes the thread over 
 SakhdtGvs head.) 
 
 Sakhatov, Ah ! {Catches the thread and hreaks it 
 
 off.) 
 
 Professor. I should like those present not to put 
 
 any indefinite or jocular remarks. He does not like 
 
 it. 
 
 Sakhatov. Excuse me, but I have a thread in my 
 hand. 
 
 Leonid Fedoroyich. A thread ? Keep it ! That fre- 
 quently happens. Not only threads, but silk cords, very 
 antique cords, too. 
 
 Sakhatov. Still, where does the thread come from ? 
 
 {Tclnya throivs a cushion at him.) 
 
 Sakhatov. Excuse me, excuse me ! Something soft 
 has struck my head. Let us have some light. There is 
 something here — 
 
 Professor. We beg you not to interfere wdth the 
 manifestations. 
 
 Stout Lady. For the Lord's sake, don't interfere ! I 
 want to ask something. May I ? 
 
 Leonid Fedoroyich. You may, you may. Ask 
 him !
 
 282 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Stout Lady. I want to ask about my stomach. May 
 I ? I want to ask what I had better take, aconite or 
 belladonna ? 
 
 {Silence. WTiispering in the young people's corner, 
 and suddenly Vasili Leonidych cries like a suck- 
 ling lobe : " Ooali, ooah ! " Laughter. Holding 
 their noses and mouths, and snorting, the young 
 women run out with Petrishchev.) 
 Stout Lady. Ah, no doubt, this monk is born anew ! 
 Leonid Fedorovich {furious, in an angry whisper). 
 You can't do anything but foohsh things ' If you can't 
 behave, go out ! ( Vasili Leonidych exit.) 
 
 Scene XX. Leonid Fedorovich, Professor, Stout Lady, 
 Sakhatov, Grossmann, Doctor, Sem^n, and Tanya. 
 Darkness and silence. 
 
 Stout Lady. Oh, what a pity! Now I can't ask 
 any more ! He is born now ! 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Not at all. That was Vovo's 
 foolishness. He is here. Ask him ! 
 
 Professor. This often happens : these jests and this 
 ridicule are a very common phenomenon. I assume that 
 he is still here. Anyway, we may ask. Leonid Fedo- 
 rovich, you ask ! 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. No, if you please, you ask ! 
 This has put me out. It is so disagreeable ! This tact- 
 lessness — 
 
 Professor. All right ! All right ! Nicholas, are you 
 here? 
 
 {Tanya raps twice and ri7igs the bell. Semen begins 
 to bellow and to wave his hands. Gets hold of 
 Sakhatov and of the Professor and chokes them.) 
 
 Professor. Such an unexpected manifestation ! An 
 interaction on the medium himself. This is entirely new. 
 Leonid Fedorovich, you keep watch, I am in an uncom-
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 283 
 
 fortable position. He is choking me. See what Gross- 
 niann is doiug. Now you must be as attentive as pos- 
 sible. 
 
 (Tanya throws the peasants' paper on the table.) 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Something has fallen on the 
 table. 
 
 Professor. See what it is. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. A paper! A folded sheet of 
 paper! {Tanya throws a pocket inkstand on the table.) 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. An inkstand ! 
 
 (Tanya throws a pen on the table.) 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. A pen ! 
 
 [Semen bellows and chokes them.) 
 
 Professor (out of breath). Excuse me, this is an 
 absolutely new phenomenon. Not the elicited medium- 
 istic energy is here at work, but the medium himself. 
 Open the inkstand, and put the pen on the paper ! He 
 will write. 
 
 (Tanya walks up to Leonid Fedorovich from behind, 
 and bangs his head with the guitar.) 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. He has struck my head ! (Look- 
 ing at the table.) The pen is not writing yet, and the 
 paper is folded. 
 
 Professor. See what kind of paper it is, and be quick 
 about it ! Apparently a double force, his and Grossmann's, 
 is producing the perturbations. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich (goes out with the paper, and 
 immediately returns). Extraordinary ! This paper is a 
 contract with the peasants, which I declined this morn- 
 ing to sign, and which I gave back to the peasants. 
 Apparently he wants me to sign it. 
 
 Professor. Of course ! Of course ! You ask him ! 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Nicholas ! Shall I do so ? 
 
 (Tanya raps twice.) 
 
 Professor. Do you hear ? There is no doubt about 
 it!
 
 284 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 (Leonid Fedorovich takes the pen and goes out. Tanya 
 raps, plays on the guitar and accordion, and 
 again creeps under the sofa. Leonid Fedorovich 
 returns. Semen stretches himself and coughs.) 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. He is waking up. May I light 
 the candles ? 
 
 Professor (Jmrriedly). Doctor, doctor, if you please, 
 the temperature and pulse ! You will see that there will 
 prove to be a rise. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich {lights the candles). Well, unbe- 
 lievers ? 
 
 Doctor {going up to Semen and putting the thermometer 
 into his mouth). Well, my good fellow ? Have you 
 slept well ? Put this in your mouth, and let me have 
 your hand ! {Looks at his watch.) 
 
 Sakhatov {shrugging his shoulders). I can affirm that 
 the medium did not do any of these things. But the 
 thread ? I should like to have an explanation of the thread. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. The thread, the thread ! There 
 were more serious phenomena than that ! 
 
 Sakhatov. I do not know. But, in any case, je 
 reserve mon opinion. 
 
 Stout Lady {to Sakhatov). How can you say : Je 
 reserve mon opinion ? And what about the baby with 
 the wings ? Did you not see him ? At first I thought 
 I was only dreaming ; but later it was as clear, as clear, 
 as though he were alive — 
 
 Sakhatov. I can speak only of what I have seen. I 
 did not see that, I did not. 
 
 Stout Lady. Well ! It was so plain. On the left 
 side the monk in black attire leaned down over him — 
 
 Sakhatov {walking away). What exaggeration ! 
 
 Stout Lady {turning to the Doctor). You must have 
 seen it. He rose on your side. {Doctor, paying no 
 attention to her, continues to count the pulse.) 
 
 Stout Lady {to Grossmann). And there was a light
 
 THE FEUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 285 
 
 from him, especially around the face. And his expression 
 was so gentle, so truly angelic ! (Smiles gently herself.) 
 
 Grossmann. I saw a phosphorescent light and that 
 objects changed places, but nothing else. 
 
 Stout Lady. Don't say that ! You are just joking. 
 You do so because you, learned men of the school of 
 Charcot, do not believe in the life after death. Nobody 
 will now make me change my faith in a future life ! 
 {Grossmann walks away from Iter.) 
 
 Stout Lady. No, you may say what you please, but 
 this is one of the happiest moments of my life. When 
 Sarasate played, and this one — Yes ! (Nohody pays 
 any attention to her. She goes up to Semen.) Tell me, my 
 friend, how did you feel ? Was it hard for you ? 
 
 Semen (laughing). Yes, madam. 
 
 Stout Lady. Still, you could stand it ? 
 
 Semen. Yes, madam. (To Leonid Fedorovich.) May 
 I go? 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Go, go ! 
 
 Doctor (to Pi^ofessor). The pulse is the same, but the 
 temperature is lower. 
 
 Professor. Lower ? (In thought and suddenly mak- 
 ing it out.) That is what it ought to be, — there ought to 
 be a fall ! The double energy, crossing, ought to have pro- 
 duced something in the nature of an interference. Yes, yes. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. I am sorry that there was ^ 
 no complete materialization, but still — Ladies and 
 gentlemen, please go to the drawing-room ! 
 
 Stout Lady. I was particularly impressed by 
 the flapping of his wings, and I could see liim rise in 
 the air. [> 
 
 Grossmann (to Sakhdtov). If one were to stick 
 to hypnosis alone, one might produce complete epi- 
 lepsy. The success might be absolute. 
 
 Sakhatov. Interesting, but not convincing, — 
 that is all I can say ! 
 
 &5 
 
 ft-
 
 286 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Scene XXI. Leonid F^dorovich loith the paper. Enter 
 
 r^dor Ivanych. 
 
 Leonid Fedokovich. Well, F(5dor, it was a remark- 
 able stance ! It now turns out that I must give the 
 peasants the land upon their own conditions. 
 
 Fedor Ivanycii. Indeed ! 
 
 Leonid Fedokovich. I should say so! (Shows the 
 paper to him.) Just think of it ! The paper which I 
 had returned to them was thrown down on the table. 
 I signed it. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. How did it get there ? 
 
 Leonid Fedokovich. It just got there, (Uxit, Fedor 
 Ivanych follows him out.) 
 
 Scene XXII. Tanya (alone, creeping out from under- 
 neath the sofa, and laughing). 
 
 Tanya. My saints ! How frightened I got when he 
 caught hold of the thread ! (Squeaking.) StiU, it has 
 come out all right, — he has signed it ! 
 
 Scene XXIII. Tanya and Grigori. 
 
 Grigoki. So it is you who has been fooling them ? 
 
 Tanya. What is that to you ? 
 
 Grigori. Do you suppose the lady will praise you for 
 it ? No, you are mistaken ! Now you are caught. I 
 will tell of your tricks, if you will not do as I want 
 you to. 
 
 Tanya. I will not do as you want me to, and you 
 won't dare to do anything to me. 
 
 Curtain.
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 The theatre represents the scene of the First Act. 
 
 Scene I. Two footmen in liveries, F^dor Ivanych, and 
 
 Grigdri. 
 
 First Footman {with gray side-whiskers). You are the 
 third to-day. I am glad the receptions are all in the same 
 part of the city. You used to have them on Thursdays. 
 
 Fedoe Ivanych. Then we changed it to Saturday, so 
 as to have it on the same day with the Goldvkins, and 
 with Grade- von-Grabe — 
 
 Second Footman. It is so nice at the Shcherbakovs : 
 the lackeys are treated as though there were a ball there. 
 
 Scene II. The same. The Princess and her Daughter 
 descend the stairs. Betsy sees them off. The Prin- 
 cess looks into a note-hook and at the clock, and sits 
 down on the clothes-chest. Grigdri piUs on her over- 
 shoes. 
 
 Young Princess. Yes, be sure and come! If you 
 don't come, and Dodo does not, — there will nothing 
 come of it. 
 
 Betsy. I do not know. I must go to the Shubins 
 anyway. Then comes the rehearsal. 
 
 Young Princess. You will have time. Do come! 
 Ne nous fais pas faux bond ! F^dya and Coco will be 
 there. 
 
 Betsy. J 'en ai par dessus la tete de voire Coco. 
 
 287
 
 288 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Young Pkincess. I thought I should find him here. 
 
 Ordinairemcnt il est d'une exactitude. 
 
 Betsy. He certainly will be here. 
 
 Young Pkincess. When I see him with you, I always 
 think that he has just proposed to you, or that he will 
 do so in a minute. 
 
 Betsy. I suppose I shall have to go through it. It is 
 so unpleasant ! 
 
 Young Princess. Poor Coco ! He is so in love ! 
 
 Betsy. Cessez, les gens ! 
 
 {Young Princess sits down on the sofa, speaking in 
 a ivhisper. Grigori puts on her overshoes.) 
 
 Young Princess. Good-bye until evening ! 
 
 Betsy. I will try. 
 
 Princess. Tell your papa that I do not believe a thing, 
 but that I will come to see his new medium, if he will 
 let me know when. Good-bye, ma toute belle ! {Kisses 
 her and exit with Young Princess. Betsy goes upstairs.) 
 
 Scene III, The two footmen, F^dor Ivanych, and 
 
 Grigori. 
 
 Grigori. I do not like to put overshoes on old women : 
 they don't bend, and they can't see anything, because their 
 bellies are so large, and so they keep sticking their feet any- 
 where but into the overshoes. It is quite different with a 
 young woman : it is pleasant to take her foot into the hand. 
 
 Second Footman. How dainty he is ! 
 
 First Lackey. It is not for people of our class to be 
 dainty. 
 
 Grigori. Why should we not be dainty ? Are we 
 not human beings ? They think we do not understand 
 anything : when they began to talk, they looked at me, 
 and immediately said " les gens." 
 
 Second Footman. What does that mean ? 
 
 Grigori. That means in Eussian : " Don't say it, for
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 289 
 
 they will understand I" They say the same thing at 
 dinner, but I understand it. You say there is a difier- 
 ence, but I say there is none. 
 
 First Footman. There is a great difference, if a per- 
 son understands anything. 
 
 Grigori. There is no difference whatsoever. To-day 
 I am a lackey, and to-morrow I may be living as well 
 as they. Fine women sometimes marry lackeys : such 
 things have happened. I will go and take a smoke. 
 (Bxit) 
 
 Scene IV. The same, without Grigori, 
 
 Second Footman. That young fellow of yours is a 
 bold chap. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. a worthless lad and unfit for serv- 
 ice : he has served in an office, and that has spoiled him. 
 I advised against taking him, but the lady wanted him 
 because he makes such a fine appearance in the carriage. 
 
 First Footman. I should like to see him serving 
 under our count: he would straighten him out in no 
 time. Oh, how he hates such sleek fellows ! If you are 
 a lackey, stay a lackey, and do justice to your calling ! 
 This pride does not become him. 
 
 Scene V. The same. Petrishchev runs down-stairs 
 and takes out a cigarette. 
 
 Petrishchev {in thought). Yes, yes. No " ta " — my 
 second. No-ta-ry. My whole — Yes, yes. ( Coco Klin- 
 gen, in eye-glasses, enters, and goes up to him.) Ah, Coco- 
 late, Choco-late ! Where do you come from ? 
 
 Coco Klingen. From the Shcherbakovs. Will you 
 never stop your foohshness ? 
 
 Petrishchev. Just listen to my charade : My first is 
 no " rial " ; no " ta " — my second ; my whole is quite 
 contrary.
 
 290 THE FRUITS OP ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Coco Klingen. I don't know, I don't know, and I 
 have no time. 
 
 Petkishchev. Where are you going ? 
 
 Coco Klingen. Where am I going ? To the Ivins, 
 to practise singing. Then to the Shubins, and then to the 
 rehearsal. Aren't you going to be there ? 
 
 Petrishchev. Of course I will. I wiU be at the 
 re-hearse-al and at the re-burial. I was a savage before, 
 and now I am both a savage and a general. 
 
 Coco Klingen. Well, how was the stance last night ? 
 
 Petrishchev. It was killing ! There was a peasant 
 there ; but the main thing is it was all in the dark. 
 Vovo mewled like a baby, the professor explained, and 
 Marya Vasilevna made glosses. It was great fun ! What 
 a pity you were not there ! 
 
 Coco Klingen. I am afraid, mon cher. You manage 
 to keep out of trouble with all your jokes ; but it seems 
 to me that the moment I say a word, they will make me 
 out as having proposed. Et fa ne m'arrange pas du tout, 
 du tout. Mais du tout, du tout ! 
 
 Petrishchev. You make a proposition with a predi- 
 cate, and nothing will happen to you. Go in to Vovo's, 
 and we will go together to the re-burial. 
 
 Coco Klingen. I can't understand how you can keep 
 company with such an ass. He is so stupid, — such a 
 real good-for-nothing ! 
 
 Petrishchev. I love him. I love Vovo, but " with a 
 strange love," " to him the people's path will not be over- 
 grown — " (Goes into Vasili Leonidych's room.) 
 
 Scene VI. The two lackeys, F^dor Ivanych, a7id Coco 
 Klingen. Betsy sees Lady off 
 
 (Coco makes a deep bow.) 
 
 Betsy (shakes his head sidewise. To the Lady). 
 Are you not acquainted ?
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 291 
 
 Lady. No. 
 
 Betsy. Baron Klingen — Wliy were you not here 
 yesterday ? 
 
 Coco Klingen. I could not, — I was so busy. 
 Betsy. What a pity ! It was so interesting. 
 {Laughing.) You ought to have seen what manifes- 
 tations there were ! Well, how is our charade getting 
 on ? 
 
 Coco Klingen. Oh, yes ! The verses for my second 
 are ready. Nik has made them up, and I have added the 
 music. 
 
 Betsy. How is it, how ? Let me hear them ! 
 Coco Klingen. iVature is so beautiful 
 
 Where bawawas native are, 
 Nanna, Nanna ! Na, na, na i 
 Lady. My second is na, and what is my first ? 
 Coco Klingen. My first is Are, the name of a savage 
 woman. 
 
 Betsv. Are, you see, is a savage, who wants to eat 
 up the object of her love. {Laughs loud.) She walks 
 around, and pines, and sings. 
 Ah, my appetite ! 
 Coco Klingen {interrupting her). 
 
 If I but had a bite ! 
 Betsy {continues). 
 
 I want some one to eat, 
 I walk with saddened mind — 
 Coco Klingen. 
 
 No person do I find — 
 Betsy. 
 
 No flesh to chew, no meat — 
 Coco Klingen. 
 
 Behold, a raft I see — 
 Betsy. 
 
 It is swimming to me, 
 On it two generals are —
 
 292 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Coco Klingen. 
 
 Generals we are, 
 Fate has brought us from afar, 
 Fate has brought us, — here we are ! 
 And again the refrain : 
 
 Fate has brought us from afar, 
 Fate has brought us, — here we are ! 
 Lady. Charmant ! 
 
 Betsy. Do you perceive how stupid it is ? 
 Coco Klingen. But that is where the charm of it is ! 
 Lady. Who is Are ? 
 
 Betsy. I. I have had a costume made, but mamma 
 says it is indecent. It is not a bit more indecent than a 
 ball-dress. {To Fedor Ivdnych.) Well, is the man here 
 from Bourdier ? 
 
 Fedor Iyanych. Yes, he is sitting in the kitchen. 
 Lady. Well, and how is the Arena going to be ? 
 Betsy. You will see. I do not wish to spoil your 
 pleasure. Au revoir. 
 
 Lady. Good-bye! (Tlieij bow to each other. Lady 
 exit.) 
 
 Betsy (to Coco Klingen). Let us go to mamma! 
 {Betsy and Coco Klingen ascend the stairs.) 
 
 Scene VIL F^dor Ivanych, the two lackeys, and Yakov 
 {comes out of the butler's roorn, vdth a tray, on which 
 there are glasses of tea and pastry. Walks through 
 the anteroom, out of breath). 
 
 Yakov {to the lackeys). My regards to you, my regards ! 
 
 {TJie lackeys bow.) 
 
 Yakov {to Fedor Ivdnych). Can't you tell Grigori Mi- 
 khaylych to give me a lift ? Getting things ready has 
 tired me out. {Exit.)
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 293 
 
 Scene VIII. The same, without Yakov. 
 
 FiKST Footman. He is a hard-working man ! 
 
 Fedok Ivanych. He is a good man, but the lady 
 does not hke him. She says he does not make a 
 good appearance. They accused him yesterday of 
 letting some peasants into the kitchen, and I am afraid 
 they will discharge him. And he is such a nice 
 fellow. 
 
 Second Footman. What peasants ? 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. Some peasants from our Kursk vil- 
 lage came to buy some land. It was night-time, and they 
 are his countrymen. One of them is also the father of 
 the peasant of the pantry. So they took them to the 
 kitchen. They happened to have mind-reading here last 
 night : they hid something in the kitcheu. Then all the 
 company went into the kitchen, and there the lady 
 saw them. Well, it was terrible ! " These people," 
 says she, " might be infected, and you let them stay 
 in the kitchen I " She is dreadfully afraid of the 
 infection. 
 
 Scene IX. The same and Grigdri. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. Go, Grigori, and help Yakov Ivanych, 
 while I will stay here by myself. He can't get it done 
 himseK. 
 
 Grigori. He can't get it done because he is awkward. 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Scene X. The same, without Grigdri. 
 
 First Footman. A new fashion they have started 
 
 with this infection ! And so your lady is afraid of it, 
 too? 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. She is afraid of it worse than of
 
 294 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 fire. We are doing nothing now but fumigating, washing, 
 and sprinkling. 
 
 First rooTMAN. I thought I smelled something 
 strong. (With animation.) It is a perfect shame how 
 they carry on with these infections. Perfectly disgrace- 
 ful ! They have forgotten God. The daughter of Princess 
 Mosdlov, the sister of our master, died. What do you 
 suppose they did ? Neither father nor mother came into 
 the room to bid her farewell. And the daughter kept 
 weeping and begging for her parents to tell them good-bye, 
 but they did not go in. The doctor had discovered some 
 kind of an infection. And yet the chambermaid and a 
 nurse attended to her, and they are alive ! 
 
 Scene XI. The same, Vasili Leonidych, and Petrishchev 
 
 (coming out of the door tvith cigarettes). 
 
 Petrishchev. Let us go ! I just want to fetch Coco- 
 late — Chocolate. 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. Your Cocolate is a stupid ! Let 
 me tell you: I can't bear him. He is such a brainless 
 fellow, a genuine loafer ! He does nothing but loaf. Ah, 
 what? 
 
 Petrishchev. Wait, anyway ! I want to tell him 
 good-bye. 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. All right. I will go and take a 
 look in the coachman's room. One of the dogs is so 
 vicious that the coachman says he has almost eaten him 
 up. Ah, what ? 
 
 Petrishchev. Who has eaten whom? Do you 
 mean to tell me that the coachman has eaten up the 
 dog ? 
 
 Vasili Leonidych. Your eternal jokes — (Puts on 
 his wraps and exit.) 
 
 Petrishchev (in thought). Ma-no-rial, no-ta-ry — 
 Yes, yes. (Goes iip-stairs.)
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 295 
 
 Scene XII. The two footmen, F^dor Ivanych, and 
 Yakov (ivho runs over the stage in the beginning 
 and at the end of the scene). 
 
 Fedor Ivanych (to Ydkov). What is it again ? 
 
 Yakov. I did not bring the sandwiches ! I said — 
 {Exit) 
 
 Second Footman. Then our young master fell ill, so 
 they took him with a nurse to a hotel, and there he died 
 without his mother. 
 
 First Footman. They are forgetting God ; but I 
 think you can't get away from God. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. I thiuk so myseK. {Ydkov runs up- 
 stairs with the sandwiches.) 
 
 First Footman. You must consider that if you are to 
 be afraid of everything, you will have to shut yourself up 
 within four walls, as in a prison, and stay there. 
 
 Scene XIII. The same and Tanya, then Yakov. 
 
 Tanya (bowing to the footmen). Good evening! {The 
 footmen how.) 
 
 Tanya. F^dor Ivanych, I have a word or two to tell you. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. Well, what is it ? 
 
 Tanya. Fedor Ivanych, the peasants have come back — 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. What of it? I gave the paper to 
 Sem^n — 
 
 TxVNYA. I gave them the paper. I can't tell you how 
 thankful they are. Now they ask that their money be 
 accepted. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. Where are they ? 
 
 Tanya. They are standing near the porch. 
 
 F^DOR Ivanych. Well, I will report it. 
 
 Tanya. I, too, want to ask you for something, dear 
 F^dor Ivanych. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. What is it ?
 
 296 THE FKUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Tanya. Fedor Ivauych, I can't stay here any longer. 
 Will you ask for my dismissal ? ( Ydkov running in.) 
 
 Fedor Ivanych {to Ydkov). What do you want ? 
 
 Yakov. Another samovar, and some oranges. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. Ask the housekeeper for them ! 
 (Ydkov runs away.) 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. What is that for? 
 
 Tanya. Why, you know what I want to do ! 
 
 Yakov {running in). There are not enough oranges 
 there. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. Serve as many as there are. {Ydkov 
 runs aivay.) You have chosen a bad time : you see what 
 an upheaval there is here now — 
 
 Tanya. You know yourself, F^dor Ivanych, that there 
 will be no end to this upheaval, no matter how long I may 
 wait, and what I am about to do is for a lifetime — You, 
 dear F^dor Ivanych, have already done me a great favour. 
 Be now again in place of my own father, and choose the 
 right time and tell the master about it. Or else he will 
 get angry, and will not let me have my papers. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. You are in a terrible hurry ! 
 
 Tanya. Everything has been settled, F^dor Ivanych, 
 and I should like to go back to godmother, and get ready. 
 The wedding is to be after Quasimodo Sunday. Do tell 
 him, Fedor Ivanych ! 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. Go now, — this is not the place for 
 you just now. 
 
 {An elderly gentleman comes down-stairs and, with- 
 out saying a word, goes away with Second 
 Footman. Tanya exit.) 
 
 Scene XIV. FMor Ivanych, First Footman, and Yakov 
 
 {who enters). 
 
 Yakov. FMor Ivauych, this is a burning shame ! 
 She wants to discharge me. She says : " You are bun-
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 297 
 
 gling everything, and you do not attend to Fifi, and you 
 took the peasants to the kitchen against my order." You 
 know yourself that I did not know anything about it. 
 Tatyana told me to take them to the kitchen, and I did 
 not know by whose order it was. 
 
 Fedoe Ivanych. Did she talk to you about it ? 
 
 Yakov. This very minute. F^dor Ivanych, intercede 
 for me ! My family has just been getting on its legs, 
 and if I should lose this place, who knows when I should 
 find another ? Ft^dor Ivanych, do me the favour ! 
 
 Scene XV. Fedor Ivanych, First Footman, and Anna 
 Pavlovna seeing off Old Countess, with false teeth 
 and hair. First Footman puts the wraps on the 
 Countess. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. Of course. I am truly touched. 
 
 Countess. If it were not for my ill health, I should 
 come to see you more frequently. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. Eeally, you ought to try Peter Pe- 
 trovich. He is rough, but no one will soothe you better. 
 Everything is so simple and clear with him. 
 
 Countess. No, I am used to my own doctor. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. Look out ! 
 
 Countess. Merci, milk fois merci ! 
 
 Scene XVI. The same and Grigori {dishevelled, in agita- 
 tion, runs out from the butlers room. Behind him is 
 seen Semen). 
 
 Semen. You leave her alone ! 
 
 Grigori. I will teach you, rascal, how to fight ! You 
 good-for-notliing ! 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. What is this? Are you in an 
 inn ? 
 
 Gkigori. I can't stand this coarse peasant.
 
 298 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. You are crazy ! Don't you see ? 
 {To the Countess.) Merci, mille fois merci ! A mardi ! 
 {Countess and First Footman exeunt.) 
 
 Scene XVIL F^dor Ivanych, Anna Pavlovna, Grig6ri, 
 
 and Sem^n. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna {to Grigori). What is this ? 
 
 Gpjgori. Although I am only a lackey, I have my 
 pride, and I will not allow any peasant to push me. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. But what has happened ? 
 
 Grigori. Sem^n has become stuck up from having 
 sat with gentlemen, and now he fights. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. What is it ? For what ? 
 
 Grigorl God knows. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna {to Semen). What does this mean ? 
 
 Semen. Let him keep away from her ! 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. What has happened between you ? 
 
 Semen {smiling). It is hke this : he keeps grabbing 
 chambermaid Tanya, and she does not want him to do it. 
 So I pushed him a little aside. 
 
 Grigori. I should say he did push me aside ! He 
 nearly broke my ribs. He has torn my dress coat. He 
 said : " My strength of yesterday has come back to me," 
 and he began to choke me. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna {to Semen). How dare you fight in 
 my house ? 
 
 F^DOR Ivanych. Permit me to inform you, Anna 
 Pavlovna, that Sem^n has certain feelings for Tanya, and 
 as they are engaged to be married, and Grigori — I must 
 tell you the truth — acts badly and dishonourably, I 
 suppose, Sem^n would not stand his behaviour. 
 
 Grigori. Not at all. It is all because they are angry, 
 knowing that I am up to their trickery. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. What trickery ? 
 
 Grigori. At the stance. AU the tricks of last night
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 299 
 
 were not done by Sem^n, but by Tatyana. I saw her 
 myseK creeping out from under the sofa. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. What ? She crept out from under 
 the sofa ? 
 
 Grigori. My word of honour. She also brought the 
 paper and threw it on the table. If it had not been for 
 her, the paper would not have been signed, and the land 
 would not have been sold to them. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. You saw it yourself ? 
 
 Grigori. With my own eyes. Have her come in, 
 and she will not deny it. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. Call her in ! {Grigori exit.) 
 
 Scene XVIII. The same, without Grigori. Noise behind 
 the scenes ; the Porter's voice : " You can't get in ! 
 Stop there ! " TJie Porter aiopears, and the three 
 peasants break in, past him. Second Peasant in front. 
 Third Peasant stumbles, falls, and clasps his nose. 
 
 Porter. You can't go there ! Get out ! 
 
 Second Peasant. No harm is meant ! We are not up 
 to any trouble. We want to give him the money. 
 
 First Peasant. In rivality, since by the signature of 
 the application of the hand our affair has come into a 
 finishing, we wish to present the money with our gratitude. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. Wait, wait ! Don't thank ! It was 
 all a trick. It is not ended yet. The land is not sold 
 yet, Leonid ! Call Leonid F^dorovich ! {Porter exit.) 
 
 Scene XIX. The same and Leonid F^dorovich, wJio, seeing 
 the peasants and Anna Pavlovna, loants to withdraw. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. No, no, please come here ! I told 
 you that the land must not be sold with an outstanding 
 indebtedness, and everybody else told you so. And then 
 you are deceived like a most stupid man.
 
 300 THE FEUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. That is, how ? I do not under- 
 stand what deception you are speaking about. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. You ought to be ashamed ! You 
 have gray hair, and yet they deceive you hke a boy and 
 make fun of you. You begrudge your son some paltry 
 three hundred roubles to help him in his social standing, 
 and you yourself are cheated out of thousands like the 
 greatest fool. 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Annette, calm yourself ! 
 
 First Peasant. We are only in the reception of the 
 sum, so to speak — 
 
 Third Peasant (draws out the money). Send us away, 
 for Christ's sake ! 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. Wait, wait ! 
 
 Scene XX. The same, Grigdri, and Tanya. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna {sternly to Tanya). Were you in 
 the drawing-room last night during the seance ? 
 
 {Tanya, sighing, looks at Fedor Ivdnych, Leonid 
 Fedorovicli, and Semen.) 
 
 Grigori. You needn't beat around the bush. I saw 
 you there myself — 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. Speak ! Were you there ? I know 
 everything, so you had better confess. 1 only want to 
 accuse him (jiointing to Leonid, Fedorovich) — the master. 
 Did you throw the paper on the table ? 
 
 Tanya. I do not know what to answer, except to ask 
 you to let me go home. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna {to Leonid Fedorovich). Now, you 
 see, they have been fooling you. 
 
 Scene XXI. The same. Enter Betsy in the beginning 
 of the scene and stands unnoticed. 
 
 Tanya. Let me go, Anna Pavlovna ! 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. No, my dear ! You may have
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 301 
 
 caused a loss of several thousand. He sold the land 
 which ought not to have been sold. 
 
 Tanya. Let me go, Anna Pavlovna ! 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. No, you will have to answer. You 
 can't cheat like that. I will take you before a justice of 
 the peace. 
 
 Betsy {stepping forivard). Let her go, mother ! If 
 you wish to sue her, you will have to sue me, too : I did 
 it all with her last night. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. Of course, if you had anything to 
 do with it, it could have been nothing but the nastiest 
 thing. 
 
 Scene XXTI. The same and Professor. 
 
 Professor. Good day, Anna Pavlovna ! Good day, 
 madam ! I am bringing you, Leonid F^dorovich, the 
 report of the thirteenth meeting of the spiritualists at 
 Chicago. Schmidt delivered a wonderful speech ! 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Ah, that will be interesting ! 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. I will tell you something which is 
 more interesting still. It turns out that this girl has been 
 foohng you and my husband. Betsy takes it upon her- 
 self, but that is only to tease me ; it was really this 
 ilhterate girl who has been fooling you, and you believed it 
 all. There were none of your mediumistic phenomena last 
 night, but this girl here [pointing to Tanya) has done it all. 
 
 Professor (angrily). What do you mean ? 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. I mean that it was she who played the 
 guitar in the dark, and who struck my husband on the head, 
 and who did all that foolishness. She has just confessed. 
 
 Professor {smiling). What does that prove ? 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. It proves that your mediumism is 
 nonsense, that is what it proves ! 
 
 Professor. Because this girl wanted to cheat, medi- 
 umism is nonsense, as you have deigned to express your- 
 self ? {Smiling.) A strange conclusion ! It may well
 
 302 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 be that this girl wanted to cheat : this often happens ; and 
 it may be that she really did do something ; but what she 
 did, she did, and that which was a manifestation of medi- 
 umistic energy was a manifestation of mediumistic energy. 
 It is even very probable that that which this girl did, 
 evoked, solicitated, so to speak, the manifestation of 
 mediumistic energy, and gave it definite form. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. Another lecture ! 
 
 Professor {sternly). You say, Anna Pavlovna, that 
 this girl, and maybe this charming young lady, did some- 
 thing ; but the light which we all saw, and in the first 
 case the fall, and in the second the rise of the temperature, 
 and Grossmann's agitation and vibration, — well, did the 
 girl do that, too ? But these are facts, facts, Anna 
 Pavlovna ! Anna Pavlovna, there are things which must 
 be investigated and fully understood in order to speak of 
 them, — things which are too serious, too serious — 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. And the child whom Mdrya 
 Vasilevna saw plainly ? I myself saw it. This girl could 
 not do that ! 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. You think that you are clever ? 
 But I tell you you are a fool ! 
 
 Leonid Fedorovich. Well, I will go away — Aleksy^y 
 Vladimirovich, come to my room. (^Goes into the cabinet.) 
 
 Professor {shrugging his shoulders, follows him). Oh, 
 how far removed from Europe we still are ! 
 
 Scene XXIII. Anna Pavlovna, three peasants, FMor 
 Ivanych, Tanya, Betsy, Grigori, Sem^n, and Yakov 
 (e7iter). 
 
 Anna Pavlovna (to retreating Leonid Fedorovich). 
 They have cheated him like a fool, and he does not see 
 anything. {To Yako2\) What do you want ? 
 
 Yakov. For how many persons shall I set the table ? 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. For how many ? F^dor Ivanych,
 
 THE FKUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 303 
 
 take the silver away from him ! Out with him ! He is 
 the cause of everythiug. This man will bring me to the 
 grave. Yesterday he came very near starving my dog, 
 which had done him no harm. He is not satisfied with 
 that. Last night he took the iufected peasants to the 
 kitchen, and now they are here again. He is the cause 
 of everything. Out with him, this very minute ! Dis- 
 charge him, discharge him! {To Semen.) If you ever 
 dare to make a noise in my house again, I will teach you ! 
 
 Second Peasant. If he is not a good man, don't keep 
 him ! Discharge him, and that will be the end of it. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna {listening to him, looks at the Third 
 Peasant). Look there ! He has an eruption on his nose, 
 an eruption ! He is a sick man, a reservoir of infection ! 
 I told you yesterday not to let them in, and they are here 
 again. Drive them out ! 
 
 Fed OR IvANYGH. Well, will you not order me to 
 accept their money ? 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. The money ? Take the money, but 
 drive them out this very minute, particularly that sick 
 man ! He is all rotten I 
 
 Third Peasant. In vain do you say this, motherkin, 
 in vain ! Let me say, ask my old woman and she will 
 tell you that I am not rotten. I am like glass, let me say. 
 
 Anna Pavlovna. He dares discuss it. Out with 
 them, out with them ! They want to spite me ! No, 
 I cannot stand it, I cannot ! Send for Peter Petrovich. 
 {Runs out, sobbing. Ydkov and Grigori exeunt.) 
 
 Scene XXIV. The same, without Anna Pavlovna, Ydkov, 
 
 and Grigori. 
 
 Tanya {to Betsy). My dear Lizav^ta Leonidovna, what 
 shall I do now ? 
 
 Betsy. Nothing, nothing. Go with them to the vil- 
 lage ! I will arrange it all. {Exit.)
 
 304 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT 
 
 Scene XXV. F^dor Iv^nych, three peasants, Tanya, and 
 
 Porter. 
 
 First Peasant. How is it, honourable man, about the 
 reception of the sum ? 
 
 Second Peasant. Let us depart! 
 
 Third Peasant (pushes forward with the money). If 
 I had known this, I would never have undertaken it. 
 This will dry me up worse than consumption. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych (to Porter). Take them to my 
 room. I have au abacus there. There I will receive it. 
 Go, go ! 
 
 Porter. Come, come ! 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. Thank Tanya for it ! If it had not 
 been for her, you would not have the land now. 
 
 First Peasant. In rivality, as she made the preposi- 
 tion, just so she advanced it into motion. 
 
 Third Peasant. She has made men of us. What 
 should we have done without it ? The land is small, 
 there is not room enough to drive out a cow, nay, let me 
 say, not even a chick. Good-bye, clever girl ! When 
 you come to the village, you will eat honey with us. 
 
 Second Peasant. When I get home, I will get ready 
 for the wedding, and I will brew the beer. Be sure and 
 come soon ! 
 
 Tanya. I will, I will ! {Squeaking.) Sem^n, isn't it 
 nice ? (Peasants exeunt.) 
 
 Scene XXVI. F(^dor Ivanych, Tanya, and Semt^n. 
 
 Fedor Ivanych. God be with you ! Remember this, 
 Tanya ! When you have your own house, I will come to 
 be your guest. Will you receive me ? 
 
 Tanya. My dear F^dor Ivanych, I will receive you 
 like a father ! (Embraces and kisses him.) 
 , Curtain.
 
 THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 1889
 
 THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 " But I say unto you, That whosoever looketh on a 
 woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her 
 already in his heart " (Matt. v. 28). 
 
 " His disciples say unto him, If the case of the man be so 
 with his wife, it is not good to marry. But he said unto 
 them, All men cannot receive this saying, save they to whom 
 it is given" (Matt. xx. 10-11). 
 
 This was early in the spring. We had been travelling 
 for two days. People who were going but a short dis- 
 tance kept coming in and going out of the car ; but three 
 persons travelled, like myself, from the starting-point of 
 the train : a plain-looking, no longer young lady, with a 
 drawn face, dressed in a semi-masculine overcoat and cap, 
 and smokiug cigarettes ; her acquaintance, a talkative 
 man of about forty, in fashionable new clothes ; and an- 
 other, an undersized gentleman, with jerky motions, who 
 kept to himself. The latter w^as not old, but his curly 
 hair was apparently prematurely gray, and his uncom- 
 monly sparkling eyes rapidly flitted from one object to 
 another. He wore an old, tailor-made overcoat, with a 
 curly lamb-fur collar, and a tall lamb-fur cap. Under 
 his overcoat, whenever he unbuttoned it, could be seen 
 the national sleeveless coat and embroidered shirt. The 
 peculiarity of this gentleman consisted further in his now 
 
 307
 
 308 THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 and then emitting strange sounds which resembled a 
 clearing of the throat or a jerky laugh. 
 
 This gentleman during the whole journey carefully 
 avoided conversing and becoming acquainted with the 
 passengers. To his neighbours' remarks he answered 
 curtly, or he read, or smoked, looking out of the window, 
 or, fetching some provisions out of his old bag, drank 
 tea or ate a lunch. 
 
 I thought that his loneliness weighed upon him, and 
 I tried several times to start a conversation with him, but 
 every time when our eyes met, which was often, because 
 we were sitting diagonally opposite each other, he turned 
 away and picked up a book, or looked out of the window. 
 
 During a stop, in the evening of the second day, at a 
 large station, this nervous gentleman got some hot water 
 and brewed some tea for himself, while the gentleman in 
 the fashionable new clothes, — a lawyer, as I learned 
 later, — with his neighbour, the smoking lady in the 
 semi-masculine overcoat, went to drink tea at the station. 
 
 During the absence of the gentleman and the lady, a 
 few new persons entered our car ; among them was a tall, 
 cleanly shaven, wrinkled old man, apparently a merchant, 
 in a fitchew-fur coat and a cloth cap with an immense 
 visor. The merchant sat down opposite the lady's and 
 the lawyer's places, and immediately entered into a con- 
 versation with a young man, evidently a merchant's clerk, 
 who had also entered the car at this station. 
 
 I was sitting diagonally across from them, and, as the 
 train was not moving, w^as able to catch bits of their con- 
 versation whenever there was no one passing between us. 
 The merchant informed him at first that he was going to 
 his estate, which was but one station away ; then, as is 
 always the case, they began to speak about prices and 
 about trade, and about business in Moscow and at the 
 Nizhni-Novgorod Fair. The clerk began to tell about the 
 carousals of a certain rich merchant, whom they both
 
 THE KKEUTZER SONATA 309 
 
 knew, at the fair, but the old man interrupted him, and 
 himself told of past carousals at Kunavin, in which he 
 had taken part. He was apparently proud of the part 
 taken by him in them, and was telling with obvious joy 
 how once he and this acquEimtance of his were drunk in 
 Kunavin and did somethiug of such a nature that it was 
 necessary to tell it in a whisper, whereat the clerk roared 
 so that he could be heard through the whole car, and the 
 old man laughed, displaying his yellow teeth. 
 
 As I did not expect to hear anything interesting, I got 
 up to walk up and down the platform until the departure 
 of the train. I met the lawyer and the lady in the door, 
 who were with animation talking about something, while 
 making for the car. 
 
 " You will have no time," the affable lawyer said to 
 me. " The second bell will ring in a minute." 
 
 And so it was. I had not reached the end of the train 
 when the bell rang out. When I returned, the animated 
 conversation between the lady and the lav»-yer was still 
 in progress. The old merchant sat silently opposite them, 
 sternly looking in front of him, and now and then disap- 
 provingly gnashing his teeth. 
 
 " Then she franklv informed her husband," the lawyer 
 was saying, with a smile, just as I passed by him, " that 
 she could not and would not live with him because — " 
 
 He continued to tell her the rest, but I could not make 
 out what he was saying. After me, other passengers 
 passed in ; then the conductor ; then a porter ran in, and 
 there was a dm for quite awhile, so that their conversa- 
 tion could not be heard. WTien all had quieted down, 
 and I again heard the lawj^er's voice, the conversation 
 had evidently passed from the particular case to generali- 
 zations. 
 
 The lawyer was saying that the question of divorce now 
 occupied pubhc opinion in Europe, and that such cases 
 were becoming ever more frequent in our country. Upon
 
 310 THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 noticing that he was the only person whose voice was 
 heard, he interrupted his speech, and addressed himself 
 to the old man. " Such things did not happen in olden 
 times, did they ? " he said, with a pleasant smile. 
 
 The old man wanted to make a reply, but just then 
 the train started, and the old man took off his cap and 
 began to make the sign of the cross and to whisper a 
 prayer. The lawyer turned his eyes away and waited 
 respectfully. Having finished his prayer and the three- 
 fold sign of the cross, the old man pulled his cap down over 
 his head, adjusted himself in his seat, and began to speak : 
 
 " It used to happen, sir, only not so often," he said. 
 " It could not be different considering the times we are 
 living in. People are too much educated nowadays." 
 
 The train moved faster and faster, rumbling over the 
 rail ends, so that I could not hear them weU. As I was 
 interested in what they were saying, I seated myself 
 nearer to them. My neighbour, the nervous gentleman 
 with the sparkling eyes, was apparently interested him- 
 self : he listened attentively, without getting up. 
 
 " What makes education bad ? " the lady said, with 
 a scarcely perceptible smile. " Do you think it is better 
 to marry as of old, when bridegroom and bride did not 
 see each other ? " she continued, replying, as is the habit 
 with women, not to the words of her interlocutor, but to 
 the words which she supposed he would utter. 
 
 " They did not know whether they loved each, other or 
 could love each other, and married by chance, and then 
 suffered all their lives. In your opinion this is better ? " 
 she said, obviously directing her remarks to me and 
 to the lawyer, and least of all to the old man, with 
 whom she was speaking. 
 
 " People are too much educated," repeated the merchant, 
 looking contemptuously at the lady and leaving her ques- 
 tion unanswered. 
 
 " It would be desirable to know how you explain the
 
 THE KREUTZER SONATA 311 
 
 connection between education and marital incompatibil- 
 ity," the lawyer said, with a slight smile. 
 
 The merchant wanted to say something, but the lady 
 interrupted him : 
 
 " No, that time has passed," she said. But the lawyer 
 stopped her : 
 
 " Permit the gentleman to express his idea ! " 
 
 " Foolishness comes from education," the old man said, 
 with determination. 
 
 " They join in marriage those who do not love each 
 other, and then they wonder why it is they do not live in 
 peace," the lady hastened to say, looking at the lawyer 
 and at me, and even at the clerk, who had raised himself 
 in his seat and, leaning on the hand-rest, was listening to 
 the conversation. " Only animals may be paired accord- 
 ing to their master's will, but people have their inclina- 
 tions and attachments," said the lady, evidently wishing 
 to sting the merchant. 
 
 " Madam, you say this in vain," said the old man, 
 " An animal is a beast, but law is given to man." 
 
 " But how can you want one to hve with a person, when 
 there is no love between them ? " the lady still hastened 
 to express her sentiments, which, no doubt, seemed very 
 novel to her. 
 
 " In former days this was not considered," the old man 
 said, in an impressive voice. " This has only come in 
 lately. Let the least thing happen, and the wife says : 
 ' I will leave you ! ' Even peasants have taken to it. 
 ' Here,' she says, ' are your shirt and trousers, but I will 
 go with Yanka, because his hair is more curly than yours.' 
 Go and talk with them ! Woman must, above everything 
 else, have fear." 
 
 The clerk glanced at the lawyer, and at the lady, and 
 at me, apparently holding back a smile, and ready to 
 approve or ridicule the merchant's speech, according to the 
 way it was accepted.
 
 312 THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 '■' What fear ? " asked the lady. 
 
 " Namely, let her fear her husband ! That's the fear 
 I mean ! " 
 
 " But, my friend, that time has passed," the lady said, 
 almost with annoyance. 
 
 " No, madam, that time never can pass. Just as Eve 
 was created from the rib of a man, so she will always 
 remain, to the end of the world," said the old man, shak- 
 ing his head so sternly and victoriously that the clerk at 
 once decided that victory was on the side of the mer- 
 chant, and so laughed out loud. 
 
 " You men judge like this," said the lady, looking at 
 us, and not giving in. " You have taken liberty for your- 
 selves, and you want to keep woman in her chamber, but 
 you take all kinds of liberties yourselves." 
 
 " Nobody gives them such a permission. However, 
 there will be no increase in the house through a man, 
 whereas a woman is a weak vessel," the merchant con- 
 tinued, in an impressive voice. The impressiveness of 
 the merchant's intonations obviously vanquished his 
 hearers, and even the lady felt herself crushed, but she 
 would not submit. 
 
 " Yes. But I think you will agree with me that 
 woman is a human being and has feelings like a man. 
 What is she to do if she does not love her husband ? " 
 
 " If she does not love ? " the merchant repeated, 
 austerely, moving his brows and lips. " Never mind, 
 she will love him ! " This unexpected argument gave 
 special pleasure to the clerk, and he emitted a sound of 
 approval. 
 
 " No, she will not," said the lady. " If there is no 
 love, you can't force her to love." 
 
 " Well, and if the wife is false to her husband, what 
 then ? " said the lawyer, 
 
 " That is not supposed to happen," said the merchant, 
 " and has to be watched."
 
 THE KREUTZER SONATA 313 
 
 " But if it does happen, then what ? Such things do 
 occur." 
 
 " Maybe these things happen elsewhere, only not with 
 us," said the old man. 
 
 Everybody was silent. The clerk moved forward rest-- 
 lessly, and, apparently not vdshing to be behind the others, 
 smiled and said : 
 
 " Yes, there was once a scandal with a fellow of our 
 set. It is pretty hard to make it out. His wife happened 
 to be a loose woman, and off she went, gallivanting. He 
 was a sober kind of a fellov/, with great ability. At first 
 it was with a clerk. Her husband tried to check her 
 with kind treatment, — but she did not stop. She did 
 all kinds of unseemly things, and began to steal his 
 money. Then he beat her. Well ? She got worse and 
 worse. She began intrigues with an infidel Jew% excuse 
 me for mentioning it. What could he do ? He gave her 
 up entirely. And so he lives single, and she walks the 
 streets." 
 
 " Because he is a fool," said the old man. " If he had 
 not given her the reins at first, but had checked her in, 
 she would have been all right. You must not give them 
 their liberty at first. Don't trust a horse in the field, nor 
 a woman in the house ! " 
 
 Just then the conductor came to ask for the tickets to 
 the next station. The old man gave up his. 
 
 " Yes, you must check in the women at the start, or 
 else all is lost." 
 
 "What about the jollification married men have at 
 the Kunavin Fair, of which you were telling awhile ago ? " 
 I asked, having lOvSt my patience. 
 
 " That is a different matter," said the merchant, and 
 buried himself in silence. 
 
 ^^^len the whistle blew, the merchant got up, got his 
 bag out from under the bench, wrapped himself in his 
 coat, and, raising his cap, went out on the brake platform.
 
 11. 
 
 No sooner had the old man left than there arose a 
 conversation in which several persons took part. 
 
 " He is a papa of the old style," said the clerk, 
 
 " A living Domostroy ! " ^ said the lady. " What a sav- 
 age conception about woman and about marriage ! " 
 
 " Yes, we are very far from the European conception 
 of marriage," said the lawyer. 
 
 " The main tiling is, these people do not understand," 
 said the lady, " that marriage without love is not a mar- 
 riage, that love alone sanctifies love, and that real mar- 
 riage is only such as is sanctified by love." 
 
 The clerk listened attentively, trying to memorize as 
 much as possible of the clever remarks, to use them on 
 occasion. 
 
 In the middle of the lady's speech, there was heard 
 behind me the sound of what might have been an inter- 
 rupted laugh or sob ; and, upon looking around, we saw 
 my neighbour, the gray-haired lonely gentleman with the 
 sparkhng eyes, who, unnoticed by any one, had come up 
 to us, evidently interested in the conversation. He was 
 standing, with his hands on the back of the seat, and 
 was apparently very much agitated : his face was red 
 and the muscle of his cheek was jerking. 
 
 " What kind of a love is it that sanctifies marriage ? " 
 he asked, hesitatingly. 
 
 Seeing the agitated condition of the que^ioner, the lady 
 tried to answer him as gently and clearly as possible. 
 
 1 A sixteenth century work in which rules of conduct are laid 
 down. 
 
 314
 
 THE KREUTZER SOXATA 315 
 
 " True love — If this love exists between a man and 
 a woman, then marriage is possible," said the lady. 
 
 " Yes. But what do you mean by true love ? " said 
 the gentleman of the sparkling eyes, with an awkward 
 smile, and with timidity. 
 
 " Everybody knows what love is," said the lady, 
 evidently wishing to break ofif her conversation with 
 him. 
 
 " But I do not," said the gentleman. " You must de- 
 fine what you understand — " 
 
 "What? It is very simple," said the lady, but she 
 stopped to think. " Love — love is the exclusive prefer- 
 ence of one person to all others," she said. 
 
 " Preference for how long ? For a month, or two, or 
 for half an hour ? " muttered the gray-haired gentleman, 
 laughing. 
 
 " Excuse me, but you are evidently not speaking of 
 the same thing." 
 
 " Yes, I am." 
 
 " The lady says," interposed the lawyer, pointing to 
 the lady, " that marriage must, in the first place, spring 
 from attachment, — love, if you please, — and only if such 
 is on hand does marriage represent something sacred, so 
 to speak : then, that no marriage, without natural attach- 
 ments — love, if you wish — at its base, carries any 
 moral obligations with it. Do I understand you right ? " 
 he turned to the lady. 
 
 The lady with a nod of her head expressed her approval 
 of the exposition of her idea. 
 
 " Besides — " the lawyer continued his speech, but 
 the nervous gentleman, with eyes now aflame, not being 
 able to repress himself any longer, did not allow the 
 lawyer to finish it, and himself said : 
 
 " No, I have in mind that which you said about the 
 preference of one to all the rest ; but I ask : a preference 
 for how long ? "
 
 316 THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 " For how much time ? For a long time, sometimes for 
 a whole life," said the lady, shruggiug her shoulders. 
 
 " But that happens only iu novels, and uever in real 
 life. In real life this preference of one to others may last 
 a few years, which it rarely does ; more frequently for 
 months, or weeks, days, and even hours," he said, being 
 apparently conscious of puzzling all with this opinion of 
 his, and satisfied with it. 
 
 " Oh, how can you say that ? But no. No, excuse 
 me," all three of us spoke at the same time. Even the 
 clerk uttered a certain sound of disapproval. 
 
 " Yes, 1 know," the gray-haired gentleman tried to rise 
 above our voices, " you are speaking of that which you 
 assume as existing, whereas I speak of that whicli really 
 is. Every mau experiences that which you call love in 
 the presence of any beautiful woman." 
 
 " Ah, what you say is terrible ! But there certainly is 
 among people that feeling which is called love, and which 
 lasts for mouths and years, and even for a lifetime ? " 
 
 " No, there is not ! Even if we should grant that a man 
 might prefer a certain woman for all his life, the woman, 
 in all probability, would prefer another, and thus it has 
 always been, and always will be," he said, and, drawing 
 out his cigai'ette-holder, he lighted a cigarette. 
 
 " But there might be a mutual feeling," said the lawyer. 
 
 "No, that cannot be," he retorted, " just as it is impos- 
 sible that any two mark(3d peas out of a bag of peas 
 should happen to lie together. Besides, it is not only a 
 question of probability, but of certain satiety. To love 
 one and the same person all your life amounts to saying 
 that one candle will burn a lifetime," he said, taking a 
 long puff at his cigarette. 
 
 " You are all speaking of carnal love. Do you not 
 admit love based on oneness of ideals, on spiritual affin- 
 ity ?" said the lady. 
 
 " Spiritual affinity ! Oneness of ideals ! " he repeated,
 
 THE KKEUTZEK SONATA 317 
 
 emitting his peculiar sound. " In that case there is 
 no reason for sleeping together (pardon my coarseness). 
 As it is, people sleep together on account of oneness of 
 ideals," he said, bursting into a nervous laugh. 
 
 " But pardon me," said the lawyer, " facts contradict your 
 statement. We do see that marital relations exist, that all 
 humankind, or the majority of it, live a conjugal hfe, and 
 many persevere honestly in a protracted conjugal life." 
 
 The gray-haired gentleman laughed out once more. 
 
 "At first you say that marriage is based on love, and 
 when I express a doubt in the existence of a love other 
 than the sensual, you prove to me the existence of love 
 in the fact that marriages exist. Yes, but marriages are 
 mere deception in our days ! " 
 
 " You will pardon me," said the lawyer, " all I said was 
 that marriages have always existed." 
 
 " They have. But what makes them exist ? They 
 have existed with those people who in marriage see some- 
 thing mysterious, — a mystery w"hich puts them under 
 obligations in the sight of God, ■ — there they have existed. 
 With us, people marry, seeing in marriage nothing but 
 cohabitation, and from this results either deception or 
 violence. If it is a deception, it is easily borne. Hus- 
 band and wife deceive others by making them believe 
 that they are monogamous, whereas they are polygamous 
 and polyandrous. This is bad, but it will pass ; but when, 
 as so very frequently happens, husband and wife have 
 assumed the external obhgation to live together all their 
 lives, and they begin to hate each other from the second 
 month on, and wish to separate, and still continue to live 
 together, then there results that terrible hell which leads 
 people to take to drink, to shoot, kill, and poison them- 
 selves and each other." He spoke ever more rapidly, 
 without giving anybody a chance to interpose a word, 
 and getting more and more excited. It was an awkward 
 situation.
 
 318 THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 " Yes, no doubt there are critical episodes in marital 
 life," said the lawyer, wishing to put an end to the inde- 
 cently heated conversation. 
 
 " I see you have found out who I am," the gray-haired 
 gentleman said, softly, and almost quietly. 
 
 " No, I have not the pleasure." 
 
 " It is not a great pleasure. I am Pozdnyshev, the 
 man to whom that critical episode has happened, at which 
 you have hinted, that episode which has led to his killing 
 his wife," he said, casting a rapid glance upon us. 
 
 Nobody knew what to say, and all kept silent. 
 
 " Well, it makes no difference," he said, emitting his 
 strange sound. " However, excuse me ! I will not 
 trouble you." 
 
 " Why, no, not at all," said the lawyer, himself not 
 knowing what it was that was " not at all." 
 
 But Pozdnyshev paid no attention to him, rapidly 
 turned around, and went back to his seat. The lawyer 
 and the lady whispered together. I sat by Pozdnyshev's 
 side and was silent, not being able to find anything to 
 talk about. It was too dark to read, and so I closed my 
 eyes and pretended that I wished to fall asleep. Thus 
 we rode in silence to the next station. 
 
 At this station the lawyer and the lady went to another 
 car, having first spoken about it to the conductor. The 
 clerk settled himself on the bench and fell asleep. Poz- 
 dnyshev continued smoking all the time and drank the 
 tea which he had prepared for himself at the previous 
 station. 
 
 When I opened my eyes and looked at him, he suddenly 
 turned to me with determination and irritation : 
 
 " Maybe it is not agreeable to you to be sitting with 
 me, knowing who I am ? In that case, I will go out." 
 
 " Oh, not at all ! " 
 
 " Well, then won't you have a glass ? It is rather 
 strong."
 
 THE KREUTZER SONATA 319 
 
 He poured out a glass of tea for me. 
 
 " They are talking and lying — " he said. 
 
 " What are you referring to ? " I asked. 
 
 " To the same thing : to that love of theirs, and to 
 what they mean by it. Don't you want to sleep ? " 
 
 " Not at all." 
 
 " Then, if you wish, I will tell you how this same love 
 had led me to do what I did." 
 
 " If it will not be painful to you." 
 
 " No, it is painful for me to keep quiet. Drink the tea 
 — or is it too strong ? " The tea was really like beer, but 
 I swallowed a glass. Just then the conductor entered. 
 He silently followed him with angry eyes, and began 
 to speak only after he had left.
 
 III. 
 
 " Well, then I will tell you — But do you really 
 want me to ? " 
 
 I repeated that I wanted it very much. He was silent 
 for a moment, rubbed his face with his hands, and began : 
 
 " If I am to tell it to you, I must begin from the 
 beginning : I must tell you how I married and why, and 
 the kind of man I was previous to my marriage. 
 
 " Before my marriage I lived like everybody else, that 
 is, in our circle. I am a landed proprietor and a gradu- 
 ate of the university, and was a marshal of nobility. I 
 lived before my marriage like the rest, that is, m de- 
 bauchery, and, like all the people of our circle, I was 
 convinced that, living in debauchery, I was living as 
 was proper. I thought of myself that I was a nice fellow 
 and entirely moral. I was not a seducer, had no unnat- 
 ural tastes, did not make it the chief purpose of my 
 life, as many of my contemporaries are doing, and aban- 
 doned myself to debauchery in a moderate and decent 
 way, for health's sake. I avoided all such women as by 
 bearing a child or by attachment for me might tie my 
 hands. However, there may have been children and 
 attachments, but I acted as though they did not exist. 
 And this I not only regarded as moral, but I even was 
 proud of it — " 
 
 He stopped, emitted his strange sound, as he always 
 did whenever, apparently, a new thought struck him. 
 
 " Herein lies the main villainy," he exclaimed. " De- 
 bauchery is not anything physical, — no physical excess 
 is debauchery, — debauchery, real debauchery, lies in free- 
 
 320
 
 THE KREUTZER SONATA 321 
 
 ing oneself from the moral relations with a woman, with 
 whom one enters into physical communion. It was this 
 liberation on which I prided myself. I remember how I 
 was once tormented when I was not able to pay a woman 
 who, having evidently fallen in love with me, had aban- 
 doned herself to me, and how my conscience was appeased 
 only when I sent her the money, by wliich I showed that 
 I morally did not regard myself as in the least under any 
 obligations to her. Don't shake your head as though you 
 agreed with me," he suddenly called out to me. " I 
 know all about that. All of you, and you, too, if by 
 some rare chance you are not an exception, hold the same 
 views which I once held. Well, never mind, pardon me," 
 he continued, " but the main thing is, this is terrible, ter- 
 rible, terrible ! " 
 
 " What is terrible ? " I asked. 
 
 " That abyss of delusions in which we live as regards 
 women and our relations with them. Yes, I cannot speak 
 of this calmly, not because this cjnsodc, as he called it, has 
 happened to me, but because, when this episode happened 
 to me, my eyes were opened ; and I suddenly saw every- 
 thing in an entirely different light, — everything topsy- 
 turvy, everything topsyturvy ! " 
 
 He lighted a cigarette and, leaning on his knees, began 
 to speak. 
 
 I could not see his face in the darkness of the car, but 
 above the rumbling of the car I heard his impressive and 
 pleasant voice.
 
 IV. 
 
 "Yes, only by having gone through all the torment, 
 only thanks to this, did I comprehend where the root of 
 it all was, did I comprehend what ought to be, and there- 
 fore did I see the terror of all that which is. 
 
 " So you see how and when all that began which led 
 me up to my episode. It began when I was not quite 
 sixteen years old. It happened when I was still in the 
 gymnasium, while my elder brother was a tirst year stu- 
 dent at the university. I did not yet know women, but, 
 like all unfortunate children of our circle, I was no longer 
 an innocent boy : I had been debauched by boys for two 
 years : already woman, not any kind of a woman, but 
 woman as a sweet being, woman, every woman, the naked- 
 ness of woman, had been tormenting me. My withdraw- 
 ments were impure. I suffered as suffer ninety-nine 
 hundredths of our boys. I was horrified, I was tormented, 
 I prayed, and I fell. I was already debauched in imagi- 
 nation and in fact, but the last step had not yet been 
 taken. I was perishing myself, but I had not yet laid 
 hands on another human being. But my brother's com- 
 rade, a jolly student, a so-called good fellow, that is, the 
 worst kind of a good-for-nothing, who had taught us to 
 drink and play cards, persuaded me after a carousal to 
 drive to that place. We went. My brother, too, was 
 innocent still, and he fell that night. And I, a fifteen- 
 year-old boy, desecrated myself and was instrumental in 
 the desecration of a woman, without comprehending what 
 I was doing. I had never heard from my elders that 
 that which I was doing was bad. And even now they 
 
 322
 
 THE KREUTZER SONATA 323 
 
 do not hear it. It is true it is mentioned in the com- 
 mandments, but the commandments are needed only 
 to answer the priest properly at the examination ; nor 
 are they as necessary, anywhere near as necessary, as 
 the commandment about the use of ut in conditional 
 sentences. 
 
 " Thus, I had never heard it said by my elders, whose 
 opinion I valued, that this was bad. On the contrary, I 
 heard from people whom I respected that it was good. 
 I heard that my struggles and my suffering would cease 
 after it ; I heard it and I read it ; I heard my elders say 
 that it was good for health ; and I heard my companions 
 say that it was meritorious and dashing. Thus, in general, 
 I could foresee nothing but good in it. The danger of 
 disease ? Even that was foreseen. The paternal govern- 
 ment takes care of that. It watches over the regular 
 activity of the houses of prostitution, and makes de- 
 bauchery for gymnasiasts safe. And the doctors watch 
 over it, for a stated salary. So it ought to be. They 
 affirm that debauchery is good for health, and they pro- 
 vide a well-regulated, accurate debauchery. I know some 
 mothers who in this sense watch over the health of their 
 sons. And science sends them into houses of prosti- 
 tution." 
 
 " How does science send them there ? " I asked. 
 
 " Who are the doctors ? Priests of science. Who 
 debauches the youths, insisting that this is necessary for 
 their health ? They. 
 
 " If one-hundredth part of the effort exerted on the cure 
 of syphilis were utihzed on the eradication of debauchery, 
 there would long ago not have been a trace left of syph- 
 ilis. Instead, all effort is exerted not on the eradication 
 of debauchery, but on its encouragement, on securing the 
 safety of debauchery. Well, that is another matter. 
 The point is that to me, as to nine-tenths, if not more, of 
 the men of all conditions of life, even among the peasants,
 
 324 THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 there happened that terrible thing that I fell, not because 
 I became a prey to the natural seductions of a certain 
 woman's charms, — no, not a woman had seduced me, 
 but I fell because the people around me saw in the fall 
 either a most lawful function which was very useful to 
 health, or a most natural, and not only pardonable, but 
 even innocent pastime for a young man. 
 
 " I did not understand that there was any fall ; I simply 
 began to abandon myself to those part pleasures, part 
 necessities, which, so I had been impressed, were peculiar 
 to a certain age, and I abandoned myself to this debauch- 
 ery, as I had abandoned myself to drinking and smoking. 
 And yet there was something especial and pathetic in 
 this fall. I remember how even then, before I had left 
 the room, I felt sad, so sad that I felt like weeping, — 
 weeping for the loss of my innocence, for my past relation 
 to woman, now for ever lost. Yes, the simple, natural 
 relation to woman was now for ever lost. From that time 
 there no longer was nor could be anv pure relation with 
 women. I became what is called a libertine. 
 
 " To be a Ubertine is a physical condition, resembling 
 the condition of a morphine fiend, a drunkard, a smoker. 
 Just as morphine-eaters, drunkards, smokers no longer 
 are normal men, just so a man who has known several 
 women is no longer a normal man, but will for ever be 
 spoiled, — a hbertine. Just as drunkards and morphine- 
 eaters may at once be recognized by their faces and by 
 their manner, just so is a libertine. A libertine may 
 restrain himself and struggle, but the simple, pure, the 
 fraternal relations with women will never again exist for 
 him. A libertine may at once be told from the way he 
 looks at a young woman and surveys her. And thus 
 I became a libertine and remained one, and it was this 
 which brought me to ruin."
 
 " Yes, that is so. Then it went farther, and farther, 
 and there were all kinds of deviations. God ! I am 
 horrified when I think of all my villainies. This is the 
 way I think of myself, whom my companions ridiculed 
 for my so-called innocence. But when you hear of the 
 golden youths, of the officers, of the Parisians ! And 
 all these gentlemen, and I, whenever we, thirty-year-old 
 debauchees, who have upon our souls hundreds of the 
 most varied and terrible crimes in regard to women, when 
 we, thirty-year-old debauchees, cleanly washed, shaven, 
 perfumed, in clean linen, in evening dress or uniform, 
 enter a drawing-room or appear at a ball, — we are em- 
 blems of purity, charming ! 
 
 " Consider what it ought to be and what it is ! It 
 ought to be that if, in society, such a gentleman comes 
 up to my sister or daughter, I, knowing his life, ought to 
 walk over to him, to call liim aside, and quietly to say 
 to him : ' Dear sir, I know^ the kind of a hfe you lead and 
 vdth whom you pass your nights. This is not the place 
 for you. Here are pure, innocent girls. Go away ! ' 
 Thus it ought to be ; whereas, in reahty, when such a 
 gentleman makes his appearance and dances with my 
 sister or daughter, and embraces her, we rejoice, if 
 he happens to be rich and has influential connections. 
 Maybe he will honour my daughter after Eigolboge ! 
 Even if traces of the disease are left, — that does not 
 matter much, — nowadays they cure well. Eeally, I know 
 several girls of high life who have- with delight been 
 
 225
 
 326 THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 married off by their parents to men suffering from a well- 
 known disease. Oh, oh, what abomination ! The time 
 will come when such abomination and he shall be laid 
 bare ! " 
 
 He several times emitted his strange sounds, and took 
 to drinking tea. The tea was dreadfully strong, — there 
 was no water with which to weaken it. I felt that the 
 two glasses which I had drunk had made me very nervous. 
 The tea seemed to have affected him, too, for he became 
 ever more agitated. His voice became more and more 
 sonorous and expressive. He continually changed his 
 position ; he now took off his cap, and now put it on again, 
 and his face assumed strange forms in the semi,darkness 
 in which we were sitting. 
 
 " Well, thus I lived to my thirtieth year, not giving up 
 for a minute my intention of marrying and preparing for 
 a most elevated and pure family life. For this purpose 
 I looked around for a girl who would best answer to these 
 requirements," he continued. " I besmirched myself in 
 the mire of debauchery, and, at the same time, scrutinized 
 girls to see who from her purity would be most worthy 
 of me. 
 
 " I threw out many of them simply because they were 
 not sufficiently pure for my purpose ; finally I found one 
 whom I considered worthy of me. She was one of two 
 daughters of a former rich P^nza landed proprietor, who 
 had lost his fortune. 
 
 " One evening, after we had had an outing in a boat, and 
 in the night, when we returned home in the moonlight, 
 and I was sitting near her and admiring her stately figure, 
 which was well set off by a jersey, and her locks, I 
 suddenly decided that it was she. It appeared to me on 
 that evening that she understood everything, everything 
 which I felt and thought, and that I felt and thought 
 nothing but the most elevated things, whereas in reality 
 it was only that her jersey and her locks were very
 
 THE KREUTZEK SONATA 327 
 
 becoming to her, and that after a day passed near her I 
 longed for a greater approximation to her. 
 
 "It is wonderful how complete the illusion is that 
 beauty is identical with goodness. A beautiful woman 
 says insipid things, but you hear only cleverness. She 
 speaks and does unseemly things, and you see only charm. 
 And when she says no insipidities and does nothing un- 
 seemly, you at once come to the conclusion that she is 
 wonderfully clever and moral ! 
 
 " I returned home in transport and decided that she 
 was the acme of moral perfection, and that therefore she 
 was worthy of being my wife, and so I proposed to her 
 the very next day. 
 
 " What a chaos that is ! Out of a thousand men who 
 are marrying, not only in our circle, but, unfortunately, 
 also among the masses, there is hardly one who has not 
 been married, like Don Juaa, ten, or a hundred, or even a 
 thousand times before his wedding. 
 
 " It is true, I now hear of young men — and I have 
 observed it to be so — who feel and know that it is not a 
 joke, but a great deed. 
 
 " God help them ! But in my days there was not one 
 such in ten thousand. All know this, and yet they pre- 
 tend not to know it. In all the novels we have detailed 
 descriptions of the heroes, and of ponds and bushes, near 
 which they walk ; but, in describing their great love for 
 some maiden, there is nothing said about what had 
 taken place before with the interesting hero, — not a word 
 of his frequenting certain houses, of chambermaids, cooks, 
 and other people's wives. And if there are such indecent 
 novels, they are never put into the hands of those who, 
 above all others, ought to know it, into girls' hands. 
 
 "At first we pretend before these girls that the de- 
 bauchery which fills one-half of our cities, and even of 
 the villages, does not exist at all. 
 
 " Then we all get so used to this pretence that, like the
 
 328 THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 English, we begin sincerely to believe that we are all moral 
 peo]>le and live in a moral world. These maidens — poor 
 maidens — believe this quite in earnest. Even thus my 
 wife believed it. I remember how once, while engaged to 
 her, I showed her my diary, from which she could tell, 
 even though only in a shght degree, what my past had 
 been, but more especially what my last liaison had been. 
 This she might have learned from others, and I, for some 
 reason, felt the necessity of informing her of it. I remem- 
 ber her terror, despair, and confusion, when she learned 
 this and comprehended it. I saw that she wanted to give 
 me up. Why did she not ? " 
 
 He emitted his sound, gulped down another swallow of 
 tea, and kept silent.
 
 VI. 
 
 " No, after all, it is better this way, it is better ! " he 
 exclaimed. " It served me right ! But this is another 
 matter. I wanted to say that the only ones who are 
 deceived are these unfortunate maidens. 
 
 " The mothers know it, especially the mothers who have 
 been educated by their husbands know it well. Pretend- 
 ing to believe in the purity of men, they, in fact, act quite 
 differently. They know with what hne to catch men for 
 themselves and for their daughters. 
 
 " We men do not know it, and we do not know it 
 because we do not want to know it, but the women know 
 very well that the most elevated, the poetical love, as we 
 call it, depends not on moral qualities, but on physical 
 nearness, and besides on the dressing of the hair, and the 
 colour and cut of the dress. Ask an expert coquette, who 
 has undertaken to entice a certain man, what she would 
 prefer to risk : to be accused, in presence of him whom 
 she is endeavouring to charm, of lying, cruelty, and even 
 debauchery, or to appear before him in a badly made and 
 homely dress, — and you will find that she will always 
 prefer the first. She knows that we men are ranting about 
 high sentiments, but that we mean only her body, and 
 that we, therefore, will forgive her all her nastiness, but 
 that we will not forgive an ugly, inartistic, tasteless 
 costume. 
 
 " The coquette knows this consciously, and every inno- 
 cent girl knows it unconsciously, just as animals know it. 
 
 " This accounts for those nasty jerseys, bustles, these 
 bare shoulders, arms, and almost breasts. Women, espe- 
 
 329
 
 oo 
 
 30 THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 cially those who have passed the male school, know full 
 well that all the talk about elevated subjects is only talk, 
 and that man wants only the body and all that which 
 presents it in the most deceptive, but at the same time 
 in the most enticing, light, — and it is this which actually 
 is done. Cast aside this familiarity with all this un- 
 seemliness, which has become our second nature, and 
 take a look at the life of our higher classes, just as it is, 
 with all its shamelessness, and you will find that it 
 is through and through nothing but a house of prosti- 
 tution. You do not agree with me ? Permit me to prove 
 it to you," he said, interrupting me. " You say that the 
 women of our society have other interests than those in 
 the houses of prostitution, but I say no, and I will prove 
 it to you. If people differ in the aims of their hves, in 
 the inner contents of their lives, this difference must nec- 
 essarily be reflected in their externals, and their exter- 
 nals must be different. But look at those unfortunate 
 and despised creatures, and at the ladies of higher society: 
 you will find the same costumes, the same fashions, the 
 same perfumes, the same baring of arms, shoulders, and 
 breasts, and the same accentuation of the prominent 
 bustle, — the same passion for stones and expensive 
 baubles, the same entertainments, dances, music, and 
 singing. As those use all means with which to entice 
 men, so do these.
 
 VII. 
 
 " Well, it was these jerseys, and locks, and bustles that 
 caught me. 
 
 " It was easy to catch me because I had been brought 
 up under those conditions which, as cucumbers are forced 
 in a hothouse, force young men to fall in love. Our 
 stimulating, superabundant food, united with complete 
 physical inactivity, is nothing but a systematic incite- 
 ment to lust. You may marvel at it, or not, but it is a 
 fact. I myself did not notice it until very recently. But 
 now I know it. And it is precisely this which vexes me : 
 nobody knows it, but they all continue talking such non- 
 sense as that which that lady has been talking. 
 
 " Yes, one spring, peasants had been working on a rail- 
 road embankment near my farm. The usual food of a 
 peasant lad consists of bread, kvas, and onions, and with 
 this he is alive, happy, and healthy ; he performs light 
 field labour. He comes to work on the railroad, and he 
 receives his food allotment of porridge and a pound 
 of meat, but he works off this meat on sixteen hours of 
 work back of a wheelbarrow weighing more than a thou- 
 sand pounds, — and this agrees with him. But we devour 
 two pounds of meat, and venison, and fish, and all kinds 
 of highly exciting eatables and drinks, — where does it all 
 go to ? To create sensual excesses. If it goes that way, 
 and the safety-valve is open, all is well ; but close up the 
 valve, as I used to close it temporarily, and you at once 
 get incitement, which, passing through the prism of our 
 artificial life, will find its expression in an infatuation of 
 
 331
 
 332 THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 the clearest water, sometimes even in platonic love. And 
 thus I fell in love, like the rest. 
 
 " Everything was in evidence : the transports, the ten- 
 der moods, and the poetry. In reality this love of mine 
 was the result, on the one hand, of the activity of her 
 njamma and of the tailors, and, on the other, of a surplus 
 of food swallowed by me, combiued with an inactive life. 
 If, on the one hand, there had been no rowing and no 
 tailors with their finely made waists, etc., and my wife 
 had worn an unsightly capote and remained at home, and 
 if I, on the other, had been under normal conditions, a 
 man devouring no more food than was necessary to do 
 work, and my safety-valve had been open, — for the time 
 being it happened to be closed, — I should not have 
 fallen in love, and nothing would have happened.
 
 VIII. 
 
 " Well, everything seemed to be favourable : my con- 
 dition, the well-made garment, and the successful rowing. 
 It had been a failure some twenty times, but this once 
 everything went well, as happens with a trap. I am not 
 laughing. Marriages are now arranged hke traps. Is 
 there anything natural about it ? A girl is grown up, — 
 she must be married. This seems so simple, when the 
 girl is not a monster, and there are men who want to get 
 married. Thus it was done in ancient times. When the 
 girl became of the proper age, her parents arranged 
 the match for her. Thus it was done, and still is done, 
 with the whole human race : among the Chinese, the 
 Hindoos, the Mohammedans, and among our lower 
 classes ; thus it is done with the whole human race, at 
 least with ninety-nine hundredths of it. Only one hun- 
 dredth, and even less, of us debauchees have discovered that 
 this is not good, and something new has been concocted. 
 What is this new thing ? It is this : the girls sit, and 
 the men, as at a fair, walk up and down, and make their 
 selection. The girls sit and think, not daring to say it : 
 ' Darhng, take me ! — No, me ! — Xot her, but me ; see 
 what shoulders, etc., I have ! ' But we men keep walking 
 up and down, scrutinizing, and feeling quite satisfied. ' I 
 know, but I will not be caught.' They walk about, and 
 scrutinize, and are quite satisfied, seeing that it is all 
 fixed that way to please them. If one is not on the look- 
 out, — bang, and he is caught ! " 
 
 " How would you have it otherwise ? " I said. " Would 
 
 you want a woman to propose ? " 
 
 333
 
 334 THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 " I do not know what I want ; only, if there is to be 
 equahty, let there be equahty. If it has been discovered 
 that match-making is degrading, this is a thousand times 
 worse. There the rights and chances are equal, but here 
 a woman is either a slave in the market, or a bait in a 
 trap. Just try and tell a mother or the girl herself the 
 truth that all that she is concerned in is to catch a 
 husband, my God, what a storm you would raise ! But 
 this is all they are doing, and they have nothing else to 
 do. What is terrible is to see at times extremely young, 
 poor, innocent girls busy themselves with it. Then 
 again, if it were done openly, but no, deception is prac- 
 tised. — ' Ah, the origin of species, how interesting that 
 is ! Ah, Lili is interested in painting ! Shall you be at 
 the exposition ? How instructive ! And sleigh-riding, 
 and the theatre, and the symphony ? Ah, how remarkable ! 
 My Lili goes into ecstasies over music. Why do you 
 not share her convictions ? And rowing ? ' — But the 
 only thought which occupies them is : ' Take me, take 
 me, my Lili ! No, me ! Well, just try ! ' — Oh, what an 
 abomination, what a lie ! " he concluded, and, finishing 
 what there was left of the tea, he began to clear away the 
 cups and the dishes.
 
 IX. 
 
 " Do you know," he began, putting the tea and sugar in 
 a bag, "it is the domination of women from which the 
 world suffers. All this comes from it. 
 
 " How do you mean the domination of women ? " I said. 
 " The rights, the privileges, are on the side of men." 
 
 " Precisely," he interrupted me. " It is exactly what 
 I wanted to tell you. It explains that unusual phe- 
 nomenon that, on the one hand, it is quite true that 
 woman has been brought to the lowest degree of humilia- 
 tion, while, on the other, she dominates. The women 
 dominate in the same way that the Jews, with their mone- 
 tary powder, pay us back for their oppression. ' Ah, you 
 want us to be traders only, — very well, we Jews will 
 take possession of you,' say the Jews. ' Ah, you want us 
 to be nothing but objects of sensuality, — very well, we, 
 as objects of sensuality, will enslave you,' say the women. 
 Woman is deprived of rights not because she cannot vote 
 or be a judge, — there is no special privilege in being 
 occupied with these affairs, — but because in sexual in- 
 tercourse she is not man's equal, has not the right to 
 use a man or abstain from him according to her wish, 
 to select a man according to her wish, instead of being 
 selected. You say this is abominable, — very well : then 
 let men be deprived of the same rights. At the present 
 time woman is deprived of the right which man enjoys. 
 So, in order to avenge herself on him for this right, she 
 acts on man's sensuality, through this sensuality subdues 
 him so that he selects only formally, for in reahty it 
 is she who makes the selection. Having once possessed 
 
 336
 
 336 THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 herself of this means, she misuses it, and gains a terrible 
 power over men." 
 
 " Wherein does this special power lie ? " I asked. 
 
 " Where does it lie ? Everywhere, in everything. Go 
 through the shops in any large city ! Millions of roubles* 
 worth of goods are displayed here, — it is hard to estimate 
 the labour expended on them, — and see whether in uine- 
 tenths of these shops there is anything for the use of men. 
 The whole luxury of life is demanded and supported by 
 women. 
 
 " Count all the factories. An immense proportion of 
 them make useless adornments, carriages, furniture, bau- 
 bles for women. Millions of people, whole generations 
 of slaves, perish in this forced labour of the factories, 
 merely to satisfy this craving of the women. The women, 
 like queens, keep in bondage and at hard labour nine- 
 tenths of the human race. All this comes from having 
 humiliated them and deprived them of equal rights with 
 men. >So they avenge themselves by acting on our sen- 
 suality, and by catching us in their nets. Yes, that is 
 what it comes from. 
 
 " Women have made of themselves such a weapon of 
 sensual incitement that a man is not able to treat a 
 woman calmly. The moment a man walks over to a 
 woman he comes under the influence of her poison, and 
 becomes intoxicated. In former days I never felt at 
 ease when I saw a woman all dressed up in her evening 
 attire, but now I simply feel terribly, I cannot help see- 
 ing something dangerous for men and illicit, and I feel 
 like calling a policeman and asking protection against a 
 peril, and demanding that the dangerous object be taken 
 away and removed. 
 
 ~ " Yes, you laugh ! " he cried to me, " but it is not at all 
 a joke. I am sure that the time will come, and maybe 
 very soon, when people will understand it and will won- 
 der how society could exist where, in violation of the
 
 THE KREUTZEK SONATA 337 
 
 social peace, such deeds could be permitted as are the 
 wearing of those bodily ornaments which directly provoke 
 sensuality, and which society tolerates in the case of 
 women. Is not this the same as putting traps on all 
 walks and paths ? No, it is worse ! Why is gambling 
 forbidden, and why are women permitted to appear in 
 garbs which provoke sensuality ? They are a thousand 
 times more dangerous.
 
 X. 
 
 " Well, I was caught in this manner. I was what we 
 call in love. I not only imagined her to be the acme 
 of perfection, but during all the time of my engagement 
 to her I considered myself to be the acme of perfection. 
 There is no rascal so great that, upon instituting a search, 
 he could not find some rascals who in some respects stand 
 lower than he himself, and could not, therefore, find a 
 cause for being proud and satisfied with himself. Even 
 thus it was with me : I did not marry for money, — calcu- 
 lation was absent in my case, whereas the majority of my 
 acquaintances married for money or connections, — I was 
 rich, she poor. This was one thing. The other thiug of 
 which I was proud was that, while others married with 
 the intention of continuing to live in the same state of 
 polygamy as before their marriage, I had the firm in- 
 tention of remaining monogamous after marriage, and 
 there was no limit to my pride on that score. Yes, I was 
 a terrible swine, and I imagined that I was an angel. 
 
 " The time of my engagement did not last long. I 
 cannot think of this time without shame. What an 
 abomination ! Love is supposed to be spiritual and not 
 sensual. Well, if love is of a spiritual nature and con- 
 sists in spiritual communion, then this spiritual commun- 
 ion ought to find its expression in words and conversation. 
 There was nothing of the kind. It was ^ery hard for us 
 to spe^k together when we were left alone. It was the 
 labour of a Sisyphus. No sooner had I thought of some- 
 thing and said it than I had to become silent and think 
 of the next thing to say. There was nothing to talk 
 
 338
 
 THE KREUTZER SONATA 339 
 
 about. Everything that could be said about the life 
 which was in store for us, about arrangements and plans, 
 had been said, — and what next ? If we had been ani- 
 mals we would have known that there is no need of talk- 
 ing ; here, on the contrary, we had to talk, but there was 
 nothing to talk about, because we were not interested in 
 that which could be gleaned from our conversations. Then 
 there was that ugly habit of eating candy, that coarse 
 gormandizing on sweets, and all those abominable prepa- 
 rations for the wedding : the talks about the apartments, 
 the sleeping-room, the beds, the capotes, the morning- 
 gowns, the linen, the toilets — You must consider that 
 if people marry according to the injunctions of the Domo- 
 stroy, as the old man remarked, then the feather beds, the 
 dowry, the beds, — all these are only details correspond- 
 ing to the mystery. But with us, where of every ten 
 people thinking of matrimony nine certainly do not be- 
 lieve in any mystery, and do not believe even that that 
 which they do puts them under any obligations, when 
 there is hardly one out of a hundred men who has not 
 been married before, and of fifty hardly one who does not 
 prepare himself in advance to be false to his wife on any 
 convenient occasion, when the majority look upon the 
 church ceremony as only a special condition for getting 
 possession of a certain woman, — think what terrible 
 meaning all these details have under these conditions. 
 It turns out that the whole question lies only in this : it 
 turns out to be a kind of sale. An innocent girl is sold 
 to a libertine, and this sale is surrounded with certain 
 formahties.
 
 XI. 
 
 " Thus all marry, and thus I married, and the much- 
 praised honeymoon began. What a despicable name ! " 
 he hissed in anger. " I once took in all kinds of shows 
 in Paris, and, being attracted by a sign, I went in to see 
 a bearded woman and a water dog. It turned out that it 
 was nothing but a man in a d^collet^ dress and in female 
 attire, and the dog was covered with a sealskin and swam 
 around in a tub of water. There was nothing of interest 
 there ; but as I went out the showman politely saw me 
 out, and, turning to the crowd at the door, he pointed to 
 me and said : ' You ask this gentleman whether it is 
 worth seeing. Come in, come in, one franc a per- 
 son ! ' I felt ashamed to say that I had been taken 
 in, and the showman evidently counted on that. Thus, 
 no doubt, it is with those who have experienced all the 
 abomination of the honeymoon and do not wish to dis- 
 enchant others. Neither did I disenchant any one, but 
 now I see no reason for concealing the truth. I even 
 regard it as my duty to tell the truth about it. It is 
 awkward, shameful, abominable, wretched, and, above 
 everything else, dull, inexpressibly dull ! It was some- 
 thing like when I first learned to smoke, when I felt like 
 vomiting and the spittle was abundant, and I swallowed 
 it, and pretended to be happy. The enjoyment from 
 smoking, even as from this, if it is to be at all, will be 
 later : it is necessary for the husband to cultivate this 
 vice in his wife, in order to derive pleasure from it." 
 
 " You call it a vice ? " I said. " You are speaking of 
 the most natural human quality." 
 
 340
 
 THE KREUTZER SONATA 341 
 
 " Natural ? " he said. " Natural ? No, I will tell you, 
 on the contrary, that I have come to the conclusion that 
 it is not natural. Yes, entirely unnatural. Ask a child, 
 ask an uncorrupted girl ! 
 
 " You say natural ! 
 
 " It is natural to eat. It is a pleasure and a joy to eat, 
 and comes easy and causes no shame from the very start ; 
 but in this case it is abominable, shameful, and painful. 
 No, it is unnatural ! And I have convinced myself that 
 uncorrupted girls always hate it." 
 
 " But how," said I, " how would the human race be 
 continued ? " 
 
 " Yes, what is to be done in order that the human race 
 may not perish ! " he said, with malicious irony, as though 
 expecting this familiar and unscrupulous retort. " Preach 
 continence from childbirth in order that Enghsh lords 
 may always be able to gormandize, that is all right. 
 Preach continence from childbirth in order to derive as 
 much pleasure as possible, that is all right. But only 
 mention continence from childbirth in the name of moral- 
 ity, — Lord, what a cry is raised ! The human race might 
 come to an end because they want to stop being swine ! 
 However, excuse me, this light annoys me, — may I shade 
 it ? " he said, pointing to the lamp. I told him that it 
 made no difference to me, and then he rose in his seat 
 hurriedly, just as he did everything, and drew the cloth 
 shade over the lamp. 
 
 " Still," I said, " if you considered this to be a law, the 
 human race would soon stop." 
 
 He did not answer at once. 
 
 " You ask me how the human race will be continued ?" 
 he said, again taking a place opposite me, spreading his 
 legs wide, and resting his elbows low upon them. " Why 
 should it be continued ? " he said. 
 
 " Vfhy ? Else we should not be here." 
 
 " Why should we ?
 
 342 THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 " Why ? In order to live." 
 
 " Why should we live ? If there is no aim, if life is 
 given us for life's sake, there is no reason for hving. 
 And if it is so, then Schopenhauer and Hartmann, and all 
 the Buddhists are quite right. Well, if there is an aim 
 in Hfe, it is evident that life must cease when that aim is 
 reached. That is what it comes to," he said, with agita- 
 tion, apparently very proud of his idea. " That is what 
 it comes to. You must notice that if the aim of humanity 
 is goodness, — love, if you wish, — if the aim of human- 
 ity is that which is mentioned in the prophecies, when all 
 people will unite together in love, and the spears will be 
 forged into sickles, and so forth, then what is in the way 
 of the accomphshment of this aim ? — The passions. Of 
 aU the passions, the sexual, carnal love is the strongest, 
 the most evil and stubborn ; therefore, if all the passions 
 are to be destroyed, this latter, the strongest of them all, 
 carnal love, will also be destroyed, and the prophecy wiU 
 be fulfilled, people will be united, the aim of humanity 
 will be reached, and there will be no reason for it to 
 exist. As long as the human race exists, the ideal is 
 before it, and, of course, not the ideal of rabbits and 
 swine, which is to breed as fast as possible, and not of 
 monkeys and Parisians, to use in the most refined manner 
 the enjoyments of sexual passion, but the ideal of good- 
 ness, which is reached through continence and purity. 
 People have always striven for this. And see what comes 
 of it! 
 
 "It turns out that carnal love is a safety-valve. If 
 the present, living generation of the human race has not 
 reached its aim, it has not reached it because it has pas- 
 sions, and the strongest of them is the sexual passion. 
 As long as there is sexual passion there is a new gen- 
 eration, consequently there is a possibility for the next 
 generation to reach the aim. If this one does not reach 
 it, the next may, and so it goes on until it will be at-
 
 THE KREUTZER SONATA 343 
 
 tained, aud the prophecy will be fulfilled, and people will 
 be united. 
 
 " See what would have happened otherwise ! If we 
 are to admit that God has created men in order to attain 
 a certain aim, he would have made them mortal, but 
 without sexual passion, or immortal. If they were mortal 
 but without sexual passion, what would happen ? They 
 would hve and die without reaching that aim, and so 
 God would have to create new men. But if they were 
 immortal, then let us suppose (although it would be 
 harder for them than for new generations to correct mis- 
 takes and approach perfection), — then let us suppose 
 that they would reach their aim after many thousand 
 years. What would they then be for ? A\Tiere are they 
 to be put then ? And so it is better as it is. But it may 
 be that this form of expression does not please you, and 
 you are an evolutionist. Even then it will come to the 
 same. The highest race of animals, the human, to be 
 able to maintain itself in its struggle with other animals, 
 must unite compactly, like a swarm of bees, and not 
 breed endlessly ; it must, Kke the bees, bring up sex- 
 less individuals, that is, it again must strive for conti- 
 nence, and not for the incitement of lust, tow^ard which 
 our whole structure of hfe is directed." He grew silent. 
 " The human race will cease ? But is there any one who 
 will doubt this, whatever his way of looking upon the 
 world may be ? This is as certain as death. According 
 to all the teachings of the church there will come an 
 end of the world, and the same is inevitable by all the 
 teachings of science.
 
 XII. 
 
 " In our world the very opposite takes place : if a 
 man thought of continence while unmarried, he considers 
 such continence unnecessary the moment he has married. 
 These solitary journeys after the wedding, which the 
 young people take with their parents' consent, what are 
 they but a license to commit debauchery ? But a moral 
 law, being violated, demands its own punishment, 
 
 " No matter how much I tried to arrange the honey- 
 moon for myself, nothing came of it. All the time I only 
 felt an abomination, shame, and duhiess. Very soon 
 a painful and oppressive feehng was added to this. It 
 began very soon. 1 beheve on the third or fourth day 
 I found my wife in a dull mood ; I began to ask her what 
 the matter was, and embraced her, which, in my opinion, 
 was all she could wish, but she pushed my arm aside and 
 burst out weeping. What about ? She could not say. 
 She simply felt sad and oppressed. In all probability her 
 tired nerves told her the truth of the abomination of our 
 relations, but she could not say so. I began to inquire : 
 she said something about being lonely without her mother. 
 It appeared to me that this was not true. I began to 
 speak persuasively to her, without mentioning her mother. 
 I did not understand that she simply was oppressed and 
 that her mother was only an excuse. But she soon felt 
 offended because I did not mention her mother, as though 
 i did not believe her. She told me that she was sure I 
 did not love her. I accused her of caprice, and suddenly 
 her face was completely changed : instead of sadness there 
 was now an expression of irritation, and with the most 
 
 844
 
 THE KREUTZER SONATA 345 
 
 venomous words she began to upbraid me for my egotism 
 and cruelty. 
 
 " I looked at her. Her countenance expressed complete 
 coldness and hostility, almost hatred of me. I remember 
 how frightened I was when I saw this. ' What is this ? ' 
 I thought. ' Love is the union of souls, and this has 
 come in place of it ! This cannot be, that is not she ! ' 
 I tried to appease her, but I ran up against such an 
 insuperable wall of coldness and venomous hostility that 
 before I had time to look around, the irritation took posses- 
 sion of me, too, and we told each other a mass of unpleas- 
 ant things. The impression of this first quarrel was 
 terrible. I called it a quarrel, but it was not a quarrel ; 
 it was a manifestation of the abyss which was in reahty 
 between us. The infatuation was exhausted by the grati- 
 fication of sensuality, and we were left in our real rela- 
 tions to each other, that is, two mutually strange egotists, 
 who wished to derive as much pleasure from each other 
 as was possible. I called that a quarrel which had taken 
 place between us ; it was not a quarrel, — it was only the 
 result of an interrupted sensuality which laid bare our 
 real relations to each other. I did not understand that 
 this cold and hostile attitude was our normal relation ; I 
 did not understand it because the hostile relation was 
 in the beginning soon veiled from us by a new access of 
 fleeting sensuality, that is, by infatuation. 
 
 " I thought that we had quarreled and made up, and that 
 it would never happen again. But even during this same 
 honeymoon there again was reached a period of satiety, 
 again we ceased to be useful to each other, and another 
 quarrel took place. The second quarrel impressed me 
 even more than the first. ' It appears that the first 
 quarrel was not an accident, but that it must be so and 
 always will be so,' I thought. 
 
 " The second quarrel struck me the more forcibly be- 
 cause it had its rise in an absolutely impossible cause,
 
 346 THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 something about money, which I never grudged, and cer- 
 tainly not to my wife. All I remember is that she gave 
 such a twist to a remark of mine that it turned out to be 
 an expression of my desire to rule over her by means 
 of money, to which, according to her words, I had affirmed 
 my own exclusive right, — at all events, it was something 
 impossible, stupid, mean, and unnatural, of no consequence 
 either to her or to me. I grew irritated, began to upbraid 
 her for her want of dehcacy, she did the same, and off it 
 started again. In her words, in the expression of her 
 countenance and her eyes, I saw the same cruel, cold 
 animosity, which had struck me so before. I remember 
 I had quarreled with my brother, my friend, my father, 
 but there had never been between us that venom9us 
 mahce which arose in this case. 
 
 " Some time passed, and this mutual hatred was again 
 veiled under the infatuation, that is, under sensuality, and 
 I consoled myself with the thought that these two quarrels 
 were mistakes that could be mended. But soon there 
 came a third and a fourth quarrel, and I understood that 
 it was not an accident, but that it must be so, that it 
 would be so, and I was horrified at that which awaited 
 me. I was, besides, tormented by the terrible thought 
 that it was I alone who was living with my wife so 
 badly and contrary to all expectation, whereas this does 
 not happen in other cases of matrimony. I did not know 
 then that it was a common fate, and that every one 
 thought, like myself, that it was his exclusive misfortune, 
 that he concealed this exclusive and disgraceful misfor- 
 tune, not only from everybody else but even from him- 
 self, without acknowledging it to himself. 
 
 " It had begun in the very first days and it continued 
 all the time, and it grew ever stronger and more pwnted. 
 In the depth of my heart I felt from the start that I was 
 lost, that there had happened that which I had not ex- 
 pected, that marriage was not only no happiness, but even
 
 THE kheutzer sonata 347 
 
 something very oppressive ; however, like all the rest, I 
 did uot wish to acknowledge the fact to myself (I would 
 not have acknowledged it even now were it not for the 
 end), and I concealed it not only from others, but even 
 from myself. Now I wonder how it was that I did not 
 see my real situation. It might have been seen from the 
 very fact that the quarrels began from such causes that 
 later, when they were over, it was difficult to recall what 
 had caused them. Reason had no time to simulate suffi- 
 cient causes for the constant animosity which subsisted 
 between us. Still more striking was the insufficiency of 
 excuses for making up again. At times there were words, 
 explanations, even tears, but often — Oh, it is horrible 
 to think of it — after the bitterest words uttered toward 
 each other, suddenly there were silent glances, smiles, 
 kisses, embraces — Fie, what abomination ! How could 
 I have missed seeing then all the vileness of it ? "
 
 XIII. 
 
 Two passengers entered and seated themselves on a 
 distant bench. He kept silent while they were seating 
 themselves, but as soon as they quieted down he pro- 
 ceeded, apparently not losing the thread of his thoughts 
 for a minute even. 
 
 " The vilest thing about it is," he began, " that in 
 theory love is something ideal, elevated, whereas in prac- 
 tice it is abominable, swinish, a thing of which it is 
 abominable and a shame to think and speak. Nature has 
 purposely made it abominable and shameful. And if it 
 is an abomination and a shame, it ought to be under- 
 stood as such, whereas people, on the contrary, pretend 
 that this abomination and shame is beautiful and ele- 
 vated. What were the first signs of my love ? They 
 were these : I abandoned myself to animal excesses, not 
 only feeling no shame, but somehow priding myself on 
 the possibility of these physical excesses, paying not the 
 least attention to her spiritual, nay, not even to her phys- 
 ical, life. I was bewildered to discover whence our 
 animosity to each other came, but it was quite simple : 
 this animosity was nothing but a protest of human nature 
 against the animal which oppressed it. 
 
 " I marvelled at our mutual enmity. How could it 
 have been otherwise ? This hatred was nothing but the 
 hatred which is common to participators in a crime, both 
 for the incitement to the crime, and for the part taken in 
 it. What else was it but a crime, when she, poor woman, 
 became pregnant in the first month, and our swinish 
 union still continued? You think that I am deviating 
 
 848
 
 THE KREUTZER SONATA 349 
 
 from my story ? Not in the least ! I am telling you 
 how I killed my wife. In the court they asked me how 
 and with what I killed my wife. The fools thought 
 that I killed her with a knife on the 5th of October. I 
 did not kill her then, but much earher. Just as they 
 now continue to kill them, all of them, all — " 
 
 " With what ? " 
 
 " This is the remarkable thing : nobody wants to know 
 that which is so clear and evident ; that which doctors 
 ought to know and preach, but about which they keep 
 silent. The thing is dreadfully simple. Men and women 
 are created like animals, and after sexual love begins 
 pregnancy, then lactation, — that is, conditions under 
 which carnal love is injurious both to the woman and to 
 her child. There are an equal number of men and 
 women. What follows from this ? It seems to be clear, 
 and it does not take much wisdom to draw from it the 
 same conclusion that animals draw, namely, continence. 
 But no. Science has gone so far as to discover certain 
 leucocytes that race about in the blood, and all kinds of 
 useless foolishness, but it has not been able to grasp this 
 matter. At least, one does not hear science speaking 
 of it. 
 
 " Thus there are but two ways out for woman : one is 
 to make a monster of herself and destroy once and for all, 
 or every time when the necessity arises, the possibility of 
 being a woman, that is, a mother, in order that man may 
 quietly and constantly enjoy himself ; the other way out, 
 — it is not even a way out, but merely a simple, coarse, 
 direct violation of the laws of Nature, which is committed 
 in all so-called decent families, and which is, that woman, 
 in opposition to her nature, must at the same time be 
 pregnant, and nurse a child, and be a mistress, : — that is, 
 that she must be that to which not one animal would 
 descend. Strength does not hold out. Therefore, we 
 have hysterics and nerves, and, among the lower masseSj
 
 350 THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 epilepsy. You will notice that pure girls have no epi- 
 lepsy, but only women, that is, women living with their 
 husbands. Thus it is in our country. The same is true 
 of Europe in general. All the hospitals of hystericals 
 are full of women who violate the laws of Nature. The 
 epileptics and Charcot's patients are the complete wrecks, 
 whereas the world is full of half-maimed women. Just 
 think what a great work is going on in woman when she 
 has conceived or when she nurses the newly-born child ! 
 There is growing up that which continues us and takes 
 our place ! And this sacred work is violated, — by what ? 
 — it is terrible to think of it ! And they prate about the 
 liberty and the rights of woman. It is as though canni- 
 bals were fattening captives for their feast, and, at the 
 same time, assuring us that they are considerate about 
 their rights and their freedom." 
 
 All this was entirely new to me and startled me. 
 
 " Well, if it is so," I said, " it turns out that one may 
 love his wife about twice in a year, and a man — " 
 
 " A man must ! " he interrupted me. " Again the dear 
 priests of science have so assured us. Impress a man 
 with the idea that he needs wliiskey, tobacco, opium, 
 and all this becomes necessary to him. It appears that 
 God did not comprehend what was necessary, and since 
 He did not consult with the wizards, He made blunders. 
 You will see that this is not reasonable. They have 
 decided that man must of necessity gi'atify his lust, but 
 childbirth and lactation, which interfere with the gratifi- 
 cation of this necessity, are in the way. What is to be 
 done ? Turn to the wizards, and they will fix it up. And 
 they have done so ! Oh, when will these wizards with 
 their deceptions be dethroned ? It is high time ! What 
 have we come to ? People lose their minds and commit 
 suicide, — all from this cause. How could it be other- 
 wise ? Animals seem to understand that their progeny 
 continues their race, and thev adhere to certain laws in
 
 THE KREUTZER SONATA 351 
 
 this respect. Only man does not know it, nor wants to 
 know it. He is concerned only about getting the greatest 
 possible enjoyment. And who is doing that ? The king 
 of Nature, — man ! You will notice that animals come 
 together only when they can ensure a progeny, whereas 
 the accursed king of Nature is always at it, provided 
 he can derive pleasure from it. More than that: he 
 extols this simian occupation into a pearl of creation, into 
 love. And in the name of this love, — that is, of abom- 
 ination, he destroys — what ? — one-half of the human 
 race. Of all the women, who ought to be the helpmates 
 in humanity's progress toward truth and goodness, he, in 
 the name of his pleasure, makes not helpmates, but 
 enemies. See, who is it that everyw^here impedes the 
 onward march of humanity ? Women. Why are they 
 such ? For the reason which I have mentioned. Yes, 
 sir, yes, sir," he repeated several times and began to 
 move about, to take out his cigarettes, and to smoke, 
 apparently wishing to calm himself.
 
 XIV. 
 
 " I LIVED like just such a swine," he contiaued, in his 
 former tone of voice. " The worst of it was that, hvinsr 
 this bad hfe, I imagined that, because I was not attracted 
 to other women, because I was hving an honest domestic 
 life, I was a moral man, and that I was not guilty of 
 anything, but that our quarrels were due to her, her 
 character. 
 
 " Of course, it was not she alone who was at fault. 
 She was such as all, or as the majority are. She had 
 been educated as the position of woman in our society 
 demands, and as are brought up all the women, without 
 exception, of our privileged classes, and as they of neces- 
 sity must be brought up. They are prating of a new 
 education for women. Empty words : the education of 
 woman is just what it ought to be considering the existing 
 unfeigned, true, general view held in regard to woman. 
 
 " The education of woman will always correspond to 
 man's view of her. We all know what men think of 
 them : ' Wein, Weih, und Gesangl and poets say so in 
 verse. Take all poetry, all painting and sculpture, begin- 
 ning with amatory poems and naked Venuses and Phry- 
 nes, and you will see that woman is an instrument of 
 enjoyment ; so she is on the Truba and on the Grach^vka,i 
 and at the most refined ball. Take note of the devil's 
 cunning : all right, let it be enjoyment and pleasure, let 
 it, then, be known that it is enjoyment, and that woman 
 is a dainty morsel. No, at first the knights assure us 
 that they will worship woman (that they will, but they 
 
 ^ Streets iu Moscow. ' 
 352
 
 THE KREUTZEK SONATA 353 
 
 will not cease looking upon her as an instrument of enjoy- 
 ment). Now they assure us that they respect woman. 
 Some give their seats to them, and pick up their hand- 
 kerchiefs ; others acknowledge their right to occupy cer- 
 tain positions, to take part in the government, and so 
 on. This they do, but the view remains the same : she 
 is an instrument of enjoyment ; her body is a means for 
 enjoyment. And she knows it. It is just the same as 
 with slavery. 
 
 "Slavery is nothing but the enjoyment of the forced 
 labour of others. Consequently, in order that there 
 should be no slavery, it would be necessary for men not 
 to wish to make use of the forced labour of others, that 
 they should regard this as sinful and disgTaceful, whereas, 
 in reality, they change the external form of slavery and 
 imagine and assure themselves that there is no longer any 
 slavery, aud they do not see and do not wish to see that 
 slavery still exists, because people still continue to love 
 and consider good and just the enjoyment of the labours 
 of others. As long as they regard this as good, there 
 will always be found men who are stronger and more 
 cunning than the rest and who will be able to accom- 
 plish it. 
 
 " Precisely the same is the case with the emancipation 
 of woman. The enslavement of woman consists in men's 
 desire to make use of her as an instrument of enjoyment, 
 and in their considering this to be right. So they go and 
 free woman, and give her all kinds of equal rights with 
 man, but continue to look upon her as an instrument of 
 enjoyment, aud to educate her accordingly, in childhood, 
 and in public opinion. And she remains the same humil- 
 iated and debauched slave, and man is the same debauched 
 slave-owner. 
 
 " They free woman in tlie colleges and in courts, but 
 still look upon her as an instrument of enjoyment. Teach 
 her, as she is taught with us, to look upon herself in
 
 354 THE KREUTZEK SONATA 
 
 this manner, and she will always remain a lower being. 
 Either, with the aid of scoundrel doctors, she will prevent 
 conception, that is, she will be a complete prostitute, 
 who has descended, not to the lowest animal, but to the 
 level of a thing, or she will be what she is in the major- 
 ity of cases, diseased in mind, hysterical, unhappy, with- 
 out any possibility for spiritual growth. 
 
 " The gymnasia and the colleges cannot change this. 
 This can be changed only by a changed view held by men 
 in regard to women, and by women in regard to them- 
 selves. This will come about only when women will 
 regard as their highest state the condition of virginity, 
 and not, as now, look upon this highest condition of man 
 as a shame and disgrace. As long as this does not exist, 
 the ideal of .every girl, whatever her education may be, 
 will be to attract to herself as many men, as many males 
 as possible, in order to have a chance to select. 
 
 " But the fact that one knows a lot of mathematics and 
 that another can play on the harp, will not change it. A 
 woman is happy and obtains everything she may wish 
 for, if she fascinates a man. And thus a woman's chief 
 problem becomes the ability to fascinate. Thus it has 
 been, and thus it will be. Thus it is in the hfe of a girl 
 of our society, and thus it remains after marriage. In 
 the maiden state she needs it for selection, in her matri- 
 monial state — in order to rule over her husband. 
 
 " There is but one thing which cuts it short, or at least 
 for a time suppresses it, and that is cliildren, provided the 
 woman is not a monster and herself nurses them. But 
 here the doctors come in. 
 
 " My wife, who wanted herself to suckle and did suckle 
 the last four children, was not in good health when the 
 first baby was born. These doctors, who cynically un- 
 dressed and felt her all over, for which I had to thank 
 them and pay them money, — these charming doctors 
 found that she must not herself nurse, and she was, dur-
 
 THE KREUTZER SONATA 355 
 
 ing this first time, deprived of the only means which 
 would have saved her from coquetry. The baby was 
 brought up by a wet-nurse, that is, we made use of the 
 poverty, want, and ignorance of a woman, enticed her 
 away from her own child to ours, and for this put on 
 her a nurse's headgear with galloons. But this is another 
 matter. The trouble was that during her period of freedom 
 from pregnancy and lactation her former dormant femi- 
 nine coquetry returned to her. And in me there appeared 
 with unusual force the corresponding torment of jealousy, 
 which never ceased torturiiw me during the whole time 
 of my married life, just as all husbands are tortured who 
 live with their wives as I did, that is immorally.
 
 XV. 
 
 " During all the time of my married life I never stopped 
 experiencing pangs of jealousy. But there were certain 
 periods when I suffered more than usual from it. One 
 such period was when, after the first babe, the doctors 
 forbade her to nurse it. I was especially jealous during 
 that time, in the first place, because my wife was expe- 
 riencing that unrest, peculiar to mothers, which produces 
 a causeless violation of the regular order of life ; and, in 
 the second, because, seeing how easily she rejected the 
 moral obligation of mothers, I justly, though uncon- 
 sciously, concluded that it would be just as easy for her 
 to violate her marital life, the more so since she was quite 
 well and, in spite of the prohibition of the charming 
 doctors, later nursed her own children, and brought up 
 healthy children." 
 
 " I see you do not Hke doctors," I said, noticing an 
 especially malignant expression of his voice every time 
 he mentioned them. 
 
 " It is not a question of likes and dislikes. They have 
 ruined my life, as they have ruined the hves of thousands, 
 of hundreds of thousands, without my being able to con- 
 nect the consequences with the cause. I understand that 
 they want to make money, just like the lawyers and 
 others, and I should gladly have given up to them half 
 of my income, and everybody else, understanding what 
 they are doing, would gladly give up to them half of their 
 possessions, if they only would not interfere with your 
 domestic life, and never came up close to you. I have 
 not been collecting information, but I know dozens of 
 
 356
 
 THE KKEUTZER SONATA 357 
 
 cases — there are plenty of them — where they have 
 killed either the child in the mother's womb, averrintr 
 that the mother could not bring forth the child, although 
 later the mother has borne children without difficulty, or 
 have killed the mothers, under the pretext of some opera- 
 tion. Nobody counts these murders, just as they did not 
 count the murders of the Inquisition, because they were 
 supposed to be for the good of humanity. It is impos- 
 sible to count all the crimes which are committed by 
 them. But all these crimes are nothing in comparison 
 with that moral materialistic decadence which they in- 
 troduce into the world, especially through the women. 
 
 '•' I shall leave out of account the fact that, if one were 
 to follow their instructions, people would have to tend, 
 on account of ever present infections in everything and 
 everywhere, not to union but to disunion ; according to 
 their injunctions, people ought to sit in solitude, without 
 letting an atomizer with carbolic acid out of their mouths 
 (however, they have discovered that even this is of no 
 avail). But this is nothing. The chief poison lies in the 
 corruption of men, especially of women. 
 
 " Nowadays one must not say : ' You are not living 
 well, you must live better.' One can't say that to himself, 
 nor to any one else. And if you are living badly, the 
 cause of it is the abnormality of the nerve functions, or 
 something of the kind. And you have to go to them, 
 and they will prescribe thirty-five kopeks' worth of 
 medicine from the apothecary's, and you have to take 
 it! 
 
 " You will grow worse, then take more medicine, and 
 go again to the doctor. It is very clever ! 
 
 " But that is another matter. I only wish to say that 
 she had not the slightest difficulty in nursing her chil- 
 dren, and that this nregnancv and nursing alone saved me 
 from the torments of jealousy. If it had not been for 
 this, it would all have happened before. The children
 
 358 THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 saved me and her. In eight years she bore five children, 
 and she nursed them all but the first herself." 
 
 " Where are your children now ? " I asked. 
 
 " The children ? " he repeated the question, with an ex- 
 pression of terror. 
 
 " Excuse me, maybe this is too painful for you ? " 
 
 " jSTo, not at all. My wife's sister and her brother have 
 taken them. They did not give them to me. I have given 
 them my estate, but they did not give them up to me. I 
 am something like a lunatic according to them. I am 
 now leaving them. I saw them, but they will not let me 
 have them, because I should educate them to be different 
 from their parents, whereas it is necessary for them to be 
 hke them. Well, what is to be done ? Of course they 
 will not let me have them, and they will not trust me. 
 Besides, I do not know whether I should have strength 
 enough to brinsj them up. I think not. I am a ruin, a 
 cripple. There is just one thing in me — I know. Yes, 
 this much is certain : I know that which others will not 
 know so soon. 
 
 " Yes, the children are alive and growing up to be just 
 such savages as all around them are. I have seen them, 
 I have seen them three times. I can do nothing for 
 them, nothing. I am now travelling south, to my home : 
 I have a cottage and garden there. 
 
 " Yes, it will be a long time before people will find out 
 that which I know. It is easy enough to find out how 
 much iron and what metals there are in the sun and 
 stars ; but it is hard, dreadfully hard, to comprehend that 
 which casts any aspersions on our swinishness ! 
 
 " I am thankful to you for being wilhng to listen to 
 me.
 
 XVI. 
 
 "You mentioned my children. What a lot of lying 
 they do about children ! Children are God's blessing, 
 children are a joy. This is nothing but a lie. That used 
 to be so, but now there is no semblance of it. Children 
 are a bother, and nothing else. The majority of mothers 
 feel it outright, and incidentally allow themselves to say 
 so. Ask the majority of mothers of our circle, well-to-do 
 people, and they will tell you that out of fear that their 
 children might get ill and die, they do not wish to have 
 any children, and do not wish to nurse them after they 
 are born, in order not to become attached to them and not 
 to suffer. The pleasure which the child affords them by 
 its charm, — by those little hands and feet, and by the 
 whole body, — the pleasure afforded by the child is less 
 than the suffering which they experience, — let alone from 
 disease or loss of the child, — from the mere fear of 
 possible sickness or death. Weighing both the advantages 
 and disadvantages, it appears that it is disadvantageous 
 and, consequently, undesirable to have children. They 
 say this frankly and boldly, imagining that these senti- 
 ments arise from their love for children, a good and 
 praiseworthy feeling, of which they are proud. They do 
 not notice that by this reflection they directly refute love, 
 and only confirm their egotism. They derive less pleasure 
 from the charm of a child than suffering caused by anxiety, 
 and so that child, which they might love, is not wanted. 
 They do not sacrifice themselves for the beloved creature, 
 but for their own sakes they sacrifice the creature who 
 might be loved. 
 
 359
 
 360 THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 " It is evident that this is not love, but egotism. But 
 not a hand is raised to condemn them, the mothers of 
 well-to-do families, for this egotism, when you consider 
 what it is they suffer for the sake of their children's 
 health, thanks again to the role these doctors play in our 
 upper classes. It makes me shudder even now when I 
 recall the life and the condition of my wife during those 
 jBrst years, when there were three or four children, and she 
 was all absorbed in them. We led no hfe at all. It was 
 an eternal danger, an escaping from it, a new impending 
 danger, new desperate efforts, and a new salvation, — 
 eternally the same condition as on a sinking ship. At 
 times I thought that it was done on purpose, that she 
 only pretended to be so anxious about the children, in 
 order to vanquish me. It solved so enticingly and simply 
 all the questions in her favour. It seemed to me at times 
 that everything she said and did in such cases was done 
 on purpose. But no, she really was all the time in terri- 
 ble agony and pain about the children, their health and 
 sicknesses. It was a trial for her and for me, too. Nor 
 could she help suffering. Her attachment for her chil- 
 dren, the animal necessity of feeding, fostering, defending 
 them, was such as it is in the majority of women, but 
 there was not that which animals have, — an absence 
 of imagination and reason. 
 
 " A hen is not afraid of what might happen with her 
 chick, does not know all the diseases which might befall 
 it, does not know all the means with which people imag- 
 ine they can save from disease and death. The young 
 ones are no torment for the hen. She does for her chicks 
 what is natural and pleasurable for her to do, — her young 
 ones are a joy to her. When a chick becomes ill, her cares 
 are quite definite : she warms and feeds it. Doing this, 
 she knows that she is doing all that is necessary. If the 
 chick dies, she does not ask herself why it has died, 
 whither it has gone ; she cackles for awhile, then stops
 
 THE KREUTZER SONATA 361 
 
 and continues to live as of old. But for our unfortunate 
 women this is not the case, and it was not for my wife. 
 Let alone the diseases, how to cure them, she heard on 
 all sides and read endlessly varied and eternally changed 
 rules about how to rear and educate the children : to feed 
 them with this and that, and in such a way, — no, not 
 with this and that, and in such a way, but like this ; to 
 dress, give them drink, bathe, put them to bed, give them 
 outings, air, — in regard to all these things we, but more 
 especially she, learned new rules every week. It looked 
 as though it was but yesterday that women had begun to 
 bear children. And if a child was not fed so or so, not 
 properly bathed and not in time, and it gi-ew ill, — then 
 the conclusion was that we were at fault, that we had not 
 done right by it. 
 
 " There was enough trouble as long as they kept well ; 
 but let them get ill, and then, of course, it was a real 
 hell. It is supposed that a disease can be cured and that 
 there is a science about it, and people, the doctors, who 
 know how to cure. Not all, but the very best know how. 
 So the child is ill, and you must strike him, that best 
 doctor, who can save, and the child will be saved ; or if 
 you do not get him, or you do not live in the place where 
 that doctor lives, the child will perish. This is not 
 her exclusive belief, but the belief of all the women of her 
 circle, and she hears it on all sides : Ekaterina Sem^novna 
 has lost two, because she did not call Ivan Zakharych in 
 time. Ivan Zakharych has saved Marya Ivanovua's elder 
 daughter ; at the Petrovs', they, by the doctor's advice, 
 scattered to various hotels, and they survived ; — they did 
 not scatter, and the children died ; such and such a one 
 had a weak child, and they went to the south, by the 
 doctor's advice, and saved the child. How can she help 
 worrying and suffering all her life when the lives of her 
 children, to whom she is animally attached, depend upon 
 her finding out in time what Ivan Zakharych may say
 
 362 THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 about it ? But what Ivan Zakharych will say, nobody 
 knows, least of all be himself, because he knows hill well 
 that he knows nothing and is unable to be of any use, 
 and continues making haphazard guesses, in order that 
 people should not lose faith in his knowledge. If she 
 were all animal, she would not worry so much ; if she were 
 all man, she would have faith in God, and she would say 
 and think as believers say : ' God hath given, God hath 
 taken, you cannot go away from God.' 
 
 "The whole life with the children had been for my 
 wife, consequently also for me, not a pleasure, but a tor- 
 ment. How could this have been avoided ? She was in 
 eternal worry. We would calm down from some scene of 
 jealousy or simply from a quarrel, and we would try to live 
 in peace, to read and think, or we would take up some 
 work, when the sudden news would be brought to us that 
 Vasya was vomiting, or Masha was having a bleeding 
 spell, or Andryusha had an eruption, — well, there was 
 an end to peace. Now the question was : ' Where must 
 one gallop ? for what doctors ? how shall the children be 
 isolated ? ' And there would begin clysters, temperatures, 
 mixtures, and doctors. No sooner would one thing be 
 finished, than another began. There was no regular, 
 settled domestic life. There was only, as I have told 
 you, an eternal anxiety on account of imaginary or real 
 dangers. It is so now in the majority of families. In my 
 family this was very pronounced. My wife was fond of 
 her children and credulous. 
 
 " Thus the presence of children did not improve our 
 life; it only poisoned it. Besides, the children were a 
 new cause for dissensions. The children themselves were 
 the means and objects of dissensions from the moment they 
 existed, and the older they grew, the more frequently 
 was this so. The children were not only the objects of 
 our dissensions, but also the weapons of our battles, — we 
 used our children, as it were, to fight each other with.
 
 THE KREUTZER SONATA 363 
 
 Each of us had a favourite child, the weapon of the fight. 
 I fought mainly by means of Vasya, the elder, and she by 
 means of Liza. Besides, when the children grew up and 
 their characters defined themselves, we attracted them to 
 our sides. The poor things suffered dreadfully from it, 
 but we, in our constant state of war, had no time to con- 
 sider them. A little girl was my partisan, whereas the 
 elder boy, who resembled her, her favourite, was frequently 
 the object of my hatred-
 
 XVII. 
 
 " "Well, this is the way we lived. Our relations grew 
 ever more liostile. Finally we reached such a stage that 
 it was not the dissensions that caused the hostility, but 
 the hostility which provoked the dissensions. No matter 
 what she said, I disagreed with her from the start, and 
 the same was the case with her. 
 
 " In the fourth year both sides came to the natural 
 conclusion that we could not understand each other or 
 agree. We did not even try to hear each other's opinions. 
 In regard to the simplest things, especially in regard to 
 the children, we invariably stuck to our ideas. As I think 
 of them now, the opinions which I defended were not of 
 such prime importance to me as not to admit of devia- 
 tions ; but she held the contrary view, and yielding would 
 have meant yielding to her. That I could not do. Neither 
 could she. She, no doubt, considered herself absolutely 
 right in regard to me, while I was, to my thinking, a saint 
 in her presence. When we were left alone, we were 
 doomed to silence or to kinds of conversation which, I am 
 sure, animals even could carry on : ' What time is it ? It 
 is time to go to bed. What shall we have for dinner ? 
 Where shall I go ? What do the papers say ? Send for 
 the doctor. Masha has a sore throat.' It was enough 
 for us to deviate a hair's breadth from this circle of con- 
 versations, which was contracted to impossible limits, in 
 order to give irritation a chance to flame up. 
 
 " There were conflicts and expressions of hatred for the 
 coffee, the table-cloth, the vehicle, the progress of the game 
 of cards, — for things that could be of no importance to 
 
 364
 
 THE KKEUTZER SONATA 365 
 
 either of us. In aie, at least, a terrible hatred for her 
 was frequently fermenting. I frequently looked at her, 
 while she poured out the tea, swung her foot, or carried 
 the spoon to her mouth and noisily sipped a liquid, 
 and I haied her for it as for the meanest act. I did 
 not notice then that the periods of irritation arose quite 
 regularly and evenly in me, corresponding to the periods 
 of what we called love. A period of love, then a period of 
 irritation ; an energetic period of love, a long period 
 of irritation ; a more feeble manifestation of love, a 
 short period of irritation. We did not understand then 
 that love and anger were the same animal sensations, only 
 from opposite euds. 
 
 " It would have been terrible to live thus if we had 
 understood our situation ; but we did not understand, nor 
 see it. A man's salvation, and punishment at the same 
 time, when he hves irregularly, lies in the fact that he 
 can befog himself, in order not to see the wretchedness 
 of his situation. This we did. She tried to forget herself 
 in tense, always hurried occupations with household 
 affairs, with her own and her children's toilets, and with 
 her children's studies and health. I had my own affairs : 
 drinking, service, the chase, cards. We were both all the 
 time occupied. Both of us felt that the more we were 
 occupied, the more infuriated we could be at each other. 
 ' It is easy enough for you to make grimaces,' thought I, 
 ' but you have worn me out with your all-night scenes, 
 and here I have to attend a meeting.' ' You are all right,' 
 she not only thought, but even said, ' but I have sat 
 up all night with the baby.' All these new theories of 
 hypnotism, mental diseases, and hysterics, — all that is 
 not a simple, but a dangerous and abominable insipidity. 
 Charcot would, no doubt, have said about my wife that 
 she w^as hysterical, and of me he w^ould have said that 
 I was abnormal, and would have, no doubt, begun to cure 
 me. But there was nothing there to cure.
 
 366 THE KKEUTZEK SONATA 
 
 " Thus we lived in an eternal fog, without seeing the 
 situation we were in. If that which had happened had 
 not taken place and if I had hved in the same manner 
 until old age, I should, at my death, have thought that 
 I had lived a good life, — not an especially good, but not 
 necessarily a bad, life, — such as all live; 1 should not 
 have come to comprehend that abyss of wretchedness and 
 that contemptible lie in which I wallowed. 
 
 « We should have been two mutually hating prisoners, 
 fettered with one chain, poisoning each other's life, and 
 endeavouring not to see this. I did not know then that 
 ninety-nine out of a hundred married couples live in the 
 same hell, and that it cannot be otherwise. At that time 
 I knew neither of others, nor of myself. 
 
 " It is remarkable what coincidences there are in well- 
 regulated and even in badly regulated lives ! Just when 
 the life of the parents becomes unbearable to both of 
 them, it becomes necessary to subject the children to the 
 conditions of the city for the sake of their education. 
 And thus rises the necessity of settling in the city. " 
 
 He grew silent and once or twice uttered his strange 
 sounds, which now perfectly resembled repressed sobs. 
 We were getting near to a station. 
 
 " What time is it ? " he asked. 
 
 I looked at my watch : it was two o'clock. 
 
 " Are you not tired ? " he asked. 
 
 " No. But you are ! " 
 
 " I have a choking feeling. Excuse me, I will walk a 
 little and take a drink of water." 
 
 He went, staggering, through the car. I remained sitting 
 alone, running through everything he had told me, and I 
 was so lost in thought that I did not notice how he had 
 come in by the other door.
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " Yes, I digress all the time," he began. " Much have 
 I thought over. At many things I now look differently, 
 and 1 feel like telhng about this. Well, we began to live 
 in the city. A man may live a hundred years in the city 
 without perceiving that he has long been dead and decayed. 
 There is no time to balance one's own accounts, — one is 
 too busy : with affairs, society obligations, health, art, the 
 children's health, their education. Now you must receive 
 this and that person, now you must visit this and that 
 one ; and now again you must look at such and such a 
 one, or listen to what they have to say. In the city there 
 are, at any given moment, one, two, or three celebrities 
 whom you cannot afford to miss. Now you have to cure 
 yourself, or this or that child ; and now you have to look 
 for teachers, tutors, governesses, but in reality it is dread- 
 fully empty. Well, thus we hved and felt less the pain 
 of our companionship. Besides, at first we had admirable 
 occupations : getting fixed in the new city and in our 
 new apartments, and our ruigra^tions from the city to the 
 country, and from the country back again to the city. 
 
 "We passed one winter in this way, but thef next 
 winter there happened the following apparently insignifi- 
 cant incident, which was not taken notice of by any one, 
 but which produced that wdiich later took place. 
 
 " She was not in good health, and the doctors told her 
 that she must have no children, and taught her how to 
 keep from having them. This disgusted me. I fought 
 against it, but she insisted upon it with frivolous stubborn- 
 ness, and I had to submit ; the last justification of a
 
 368 THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 swinish life, the children, was taken away, and life became 
 more abominable still. 
 
 " A peasant, a labourer, needs children. It is hard for 
 him to bring them up, but he needs them, and therefore 
 his conjugal relations are justitied. But we people who 
 have children, need no more children : they are an addi- 
 tional care, an expense, co-heirs, they are a burden. And 
 thus there is no justification whatsoever fox our swinish 
 life. Either we artiticially get rid of children or we look 
 upon them as a misfortune, as the result of an accident, 
 and this is still more abominable. 
 
 " There are no justiticatious. But we have fallen 
 morally so deep that we do not even see the need of any 
 justitication. 
 
 " The majority of the contemporary educated world 
 abandon themselves to this debauchery without the least 
 compunction. 
 
 " There is no reason for feeling any compunction, 
 because in our existence there is no other conscience than, 
 if one may call it so, the conscience of public opinion and 
 criminal law. In this case neither the one nor the other 
 are violated : there is no cause to be conscience-stricken 
 before society, because they all do it : Marya Pavlovna, 
 and Ivan Zakharych. And what sense would there be 
 in breeding paupers and depriving yourself of the possi- 
 bility of leading a social life ? Nor is there any cause 
 for being conscience-stricken before the criminal law, or to 
 be afraid of it. Those monstrous girls and soldiers' wives 
 throw their children into ponds and wells, — they, of 
 course, must be put in jail, — but we do it all at the 
 proper time and in a decent manner. 
 
 " Thus we lived two more years. The measures of the 
 scoundrel doctors apparently began to bear fruit : she 
 became physically stronger and handsomer, like the last 
 beauty of summer. She felt it and paid attention to it. 
 There developed in her a certain provoking beauty which
 
 THE KKEUTZEK SONATA 369 
 
 made people feel uneasy. She was in all the strength 
 of a thirty-year-old, non-bearing, well-fed, and irritated 
 woman. A glance at her caused uneasiness. When she 
 passed by men, she attracted their glances to her. She 
 was like a long-rested, well-fed harnessed horse when its 
 bridle is taken off. There was no bridle, just as is the 
 case with ninety-nine hundredths of our women. I was 
 conscious of it, and I felt terribly."
 
 XIX. 
 
 He suddenly got up and sat down near the window. 
 
 " Pardon me," he said, and, staring through the win- 
 dow, sat thus for about three minutes in silence. Then 
 he drew a deep breath and again seated himself opposite 
 me. His face was quite changed, his eyes looked wretched, 
 and what might be taken for a strange smile wrinkled his 
 lips. " I am a little tired, but I will continue. There is 
 much time yet, — day has not broken yet. Yes, sir," he 
 began, after lighting a cigarette, " she grew plump as soon 
 as she stopped having children, and her disease, — her 
 eternal suffering on account of the children, began to 
 pass away ; it did not pass away exactly ; rather, she 
 seemed to awaken as if from an intoxication, she came to 
 her senses, and saw that there was a whole God's world 
 with its joys, which she had forgotten, but in which she 
 did not know how to live, — a God's world, which she did 
 not at all understand. ' I must not miss the chance ! 
 Time will pass, and it will never return ! ' Thus, I 
 imagine, she reasoned, or rather felt, nor could she help 
 reasoning and feeling hke this : she had been educated to 
 consider nothing more worthy of attention in the world 
 than love. She had married, had tasted a little of that 
 love, but nowhere near that which she had promised 
 herself, which she had expected, and there had been so 
 many disenchantments, so much suffering, and that unex- 
 pected torment, — so many children ! This torment had 
 worn her out. And now, thanks to obliging doctors, she 
 had discovered th^t it was possible to get along without 
 
 children, 
 
 370
 
 THE KREUTZER SONATA 371 
 
 " She was happy and conscious of it, and again bloomed 
 forth for that one thing she knew, for love. But love for 
 her husband, who had defiled himself by jealousy and 
 malice of every kind, was no longer for her. She began 
 to dream of another, a pure, new love,' — at least I 
 thought so about her. And she began to look around, 
 as though expecting something. I saw it and could not 
 help worrying. It came to be a usual occurrence for her 
 to speak to me, even as she had done before, through a 
 third person, that is, to speak to strangers while really 
 addressing me, and, without thinking that but an hour 
 before she had said the very opposite, to say boldly and 
 half in earnest that maternal love was a deception, that 
 it was not worth while to sacrifice life for the children's 
 sake, that there was youth, and that life ought to be 
 enjoyed. She busied herself less with the children, and 
 not with such abandonment as before, but she w^as ever 
 more concerned about herself and her exterior, even 
 though she concealed this, and about her pleasures, and 
 even about perfecting herself. She again took with 
 enthusiasm to the piano, which had been entirely given 
 up. This was tlie beginning of it all." 
 
 He again turned to the window with strained eyes, but, 
 evidently making an effort over himself, he immediately 
 continued : 
 
 " Yes, that man made his appearance — " He hesi- 
 tated and once or twice emitted his strange nasal sounds. 
 
 I saw that it was painful for him to name that man, to 
 recall him, to speak of him. But he made an effort, and, 
 as if overcoming the impediment which w^as in his way, 
 continued with determination : 
 
 " He was a worthless man, to my thinking, so far as I 
 could judge him, not on account of the significance w^hich 
 he received in my life, but because he really was such. 
 The fact that he was of no account only serves as a proof 
 of how little amenable to reason she was. If not he, it
 
 372 THE KREUTZEli SONATA 
 
 would have been another, — but it had to happen — " 
 He again grew silent. " Yes, he was a musician, a violin 
 player, — not a professional musician, but a semi-pro- 
 fessional, a semi-society man. 
 
 " His father is a landed proprietor, a neighbour of my 
 father's. His father had lost his fortune, and his chil- 
 dren — there were three boys — had got up in the world ; 
 only this youngest one had been taken to his godmother 
 in Paris. There he was sent to the Conservatory, because 
 he had talent for music, and he graduated from it as a 
 violin player, taking part in concerts. This man was — " 
 Apparently he was about to say something uncomplimen- 
 tary of him, but he restrained himself and rapidly said, 
 " Well, I do not know the kind of life he led ; all I know 
 is that he made his appearance that year in Eussia and 
 that he appeared at my house — 
 
 " Almond-shaped, moist eyes ; red, smiling lips ; po- 
 maded moustache ; the latest fashionable hair-dress ; a 
 common, handsome face, what women call not at all 
 bad ; of a weak, though not misshapen figure, with un- 
 usually well-developed hips, as with women, and such as, 
 they say, Hottentots have. They, too, are musical. For- 
 ward to the point of familiarity, so far as possible, but 
 sensitive and ever ready to stop at the least repulse, with 
 the preservation of external dignity, and with that pecul- 
 iarly Parisian shade of his button shoes and brightly 
 coloured ties and all that which strangers acquire in Paris 
 and which, on account of its novelty, always affects 
 women. In his manners an artificial, external cheerful- 
 ness, — that manner, you know, of saying everything by 
 hints and snatches, as though you knew and remembered 
 it all, and were able to supplement it yourself. 
 
 " He, with his music, was the cause of everything. At 
 the trial the case was presented as being the result of 
 jealousy. Not at all, that is, it was not at all the reason 
 of it, though it had something to do with it. At the
 
 THE KREUTZEK SONATA 373 
 
 trial it was decided that I was a deceived husband and 
 that I had killed her, while defending my honour (that is 
 what they call it). And so they acquitted me. At the 
 trial I endeavoured to explain things, but they understood 
 me as wishing to rehabilitate my wife's honour. 
 
 " Her relations vnth the musician, whatever they may 
 have been, have no meaning for me, nor for her either. 
 But what has a meaning is that which I have told you 
 about, that is, my swinishness. Everything happened 
 because there was between us that terrible abyss of which 
 I have told you, that terrible tension of mutual hatred, 
 when the first cause was sufficient to produce a crisis. 
 Our quarrels became toward the end something terrible, 
 and were very startling, alternating with tense animal 
 passion. 
 
 " If he had not appeared, another man would have. If 
 there had not been the excuse of jealousy, there would 
 have been something else. I insist that all men who live 
 as I did must either take to debauch, or separate, or kill 
 themselves, or tlieir wives, just as I did. If this has not 
 happened with them, it must be taken as an extremely 
 rare exception. Even I have been, before ending as I 
 did, several times on the brink of suicide, and she, too, 
 had several times almost poisoned herself.
 
 XX. 
 
 " Yes, it was even so before it happened. 
 
 " We lived in a kind of truce, when there seemed to be 
 no reason for breaking it. Suddenly the conversation 
 touches upon a certain dog, of which I say that it received 
 a medal at the show. She says that it was not a medal, 
 but honourable mention. A discussion ensues. We 
 begin to jump from- one subject to another and to hurl 
 accusations at each other : ' Of course, it is always that 
 way.' — ' You said — ' — ' No, I did not say.' — ' So I 
 am lying ? ' You feel that before you know it that 
 terrible quarrel will be on, when you will kill yourself or 
 her. You know that it will begin directly, and you are 
 afraid of it as of fire, and you would hke to restrain your- 
 self, but fury takes possession of your whole being. And 
 she, being in the same, but even worse condition, purposely 
 misinterprets every word of mine, and every word of hers 
 is saturated with poison ; she stings me in whatever she 
 knows is the most painful spot. The farther it goes 
 the worse it gets. I cry out, ' Shut up ! ' or something 
 of the kind. 
 
 " She jumps out of the room and runs into the nursery. 
 I try to keep her back, in order to finish my sentence to 
 her, and I seize her by the arm. She pretends that I 
 have hurt her, and cries : ' Children, your father is strik- 
 ing me ! ' I cry out, ' Don't lie ! ' — 'It is not the first 
 time ! ' she cries, or something of the kind. The children 
 rush to her. She calms them down. I say, ' Don't pre- 
 tend ! ' She says : * For you everything is pretence. You 
 will kill a person, and then you will say that the person 
 
 374
 
 THE KREUTZER SONATA 375 
 
 pretends. Now I understand you. That is what you 
 want to do ! ' — ' Oh, I wish you were dead ! ' I cry. I 
 remember how these terrible words frightened me. I had 
 not thought I could say such terrible, coarse words, and I 
 wonder how they could have escaped from me. I cry 
 these terrible words, and I run into my cabinet, and 
 sit down and smoke. I hear her coming out into the 
 antechamber and getting ready to depart. I ask her where 
 she is going, but she does not answer. ' The devd take 
 her,' I say to myself, returning to my cabinet, and I 
 again lie down and smoke. A thousand different plans 
 as to how to take my revenge on her and get rid of her, 
 how to mend it all and make it appear as though nothing 
 had happened, pass through my mind. I meditate over 
 this, and I smoke, and smoke, and smoke. I think of 
 running away from her, of hiding, of going to America. 
 I go so far as to imagine how I shall be rid of her and 
 how nice it will be when I shall unite with another 
 beautiful and entirely fresh woman. I shall get rid of 
 her by her death, or by being divorced from her, and I 
 am planning how to do it. I see that I am getting 
 mixed up and that I am not thinking of what I ought to 
 think about, and in order not to see that I am not think- 
 ing of what I ought to think about, I smoke. 
 
 " Life at home goes on. The governess comes and 
 asks : ' Where is madam ? When will she return ? ' 
 The lackey asks : ' Shall tea be served ? ' I come to the 
 dining-room, and the children, especially the eldest, Liza, 
 who can comprehend, look interrogatively and disap- 
 provingly at me. We drink tea in silence. She is not 
 yet back. A whole evening passes, she is not back, and 
 two feelings alternately arise in my soul : anger with 
 her for tormenting me and the children by her absence, 
 which will end by her return, and fear that she will not 
 return and will do something to herself. I should like to 
 go to find her. But where shall I look for her ? At her
 
 376 THE KREtJTZER SONATA 
 
 sister's ? It would be stupid to go there to ask. Well, 
 if she wants to tormeut me, let her, too, be tormented. 
 That is what she is waiting for. The next time it will 
 be only worse. What if she is not at her sister's, but is 
 doing or has already done something to herself ? Eleven 
 o'clock, twelve. I do not go to the sleeping-room, — it 
 is stupid to lie there alone and wait, — I will lie down 
 here. I want to busy myself with something, to write a 
 letter, to read ; but 1 am not able to do anything. I sit 
 alone in my cabinet, and w^orry, and am angry, and listen. 
 Three o'clock, four o'clock, — she is not back yet. Toward 
 morning I fall asleep. I awake, — she is not back. 
 
 " Everything in the house goes as of old, but all are 
 perplexed, and all look interrogatively and reproachfully 
 at me, assuming that it is all my fault. Within me is the 
 same struggle, — fury because she torments me so, and 
 anxiety on her account. 
 
 " At about eleven o'clock in the morning her sister 
 comes as her messenger to me, and there begins the 
 customary : ' She is in a terrible state. What can it be ? 
 Nothing has happened ? ' I speak of the impossibility of 
 her disposition, and say that I have not done anything. 
 
 " ' It cannot remain as it is,' says her sister. 
 
 " ' It is all her doing, not mine,' I say. ' I will not 
 make the first step. If we are to separate, well and 
 good ! ' 
 
 " My sister-in-law goes away without having accom- 
 plished anything. I said boldly that I would not make 
 the first step ; but the moment she is gone and I go out 
 and see the poor, frightened children, I am ready to 
 make the first step. I should like to make it, but I do not 
 know how. Again I walk around, I smoke, I drink 
 brandy and wine at breakfast, and I reach the point which 
 I unconsciously wish : I do not .see the stupidity and 
 meanness of my situation. 
 
 " About three o'clock she returns. She says nothing
 
 THE KKEUTZEK SONATA 377 
 
 to me as she meets me. I imagine that she is pacified, 
 and I begin to tell her how her reproaches provoked me. 
 She says with the same stern and terribly drawn face that 
 she has come not to make explauatiuns, but to take the 
 children away, that we cannot live together. I tell her 
 that it was not my fault, that she made me lose my 
 patience. She looks sternly and solemnly at me, and 
 then says: ' Don't speak another word, or you will regret 
 it ! ' I say to her that I can't now stand any comedy. 
 She shouts something which I cannot make out and runs 
 to her room. The key rings out after her : she has locked 
 herself in. I push the door, • — there is no answer, and 
 I go away in fury. Half an hour later Liza comes to 
 me in tears. — 'What, what is the matter?' — 'We do 
 not hear mamma. ' — We go there. I jerk the door with 
 all my might. The bolt is not well fastened, and both 
 halves of the door come open. I w'alk up to the bed. 
 She is lying uncomfortably on her bed, in her skirts and 
 high shoes. On the table is an empty opium bottle. We 
 bring her back to her senses. Tears, and, at last, we 
 make up. We do not make up : in the soul of each is 
 the same malice toward the other, with the addition of 
 irritation for the pain inflicted by this quarrel, which one 
 puts to the account of the other. But it has to be ended 
 in some way, and life proceeds as of old. 
 
 " It was quarrels of this kind, and even worse quarrels 
 that we had all the time, — once a week, or once a month, 
 and, at times, even every day. And it was all the time 
 the same. Once I went so far as to provide myself with 
 a passport for abroad, — the quarrel had lasted two days. 
 But after that there was again a semblance of an expla- 
 nation, a patched-up peace, — and I remained.
 
 XXI. 
 
 ** So these were our relations when that man made his 
 appearance. He arrived at Moscow, — ■ his name is Tru- 
 khach^vski, — and showed up at my house. It was in the 
 morning. I received him. We had once been on ' thou ' 
 terms. He manoeuvred between ' thou ' and ' you,' trying 
 to stick to ' thou,' but I at once set the pace at ' you,' and 
 he immediately submitted. I did not like him from the 
 start. But, strange to say, a certain strange and fatal 
 power urged me not to repel and remove him, but, on 
 the contrary, to draw him closer to me. There would 
 have been nothing simpler than talking coldly to him and 
 seeing him out without introducing him to my wife. No, 
 I, as it were on purpose, mentioned his playing, and said 
 that I had been told that he had given up the violin. 
 He told me that, on the contrary, he now played more 
 than ever. He recalled what it was I used to play for- 
 merly. I told him that I had given up playing, but that 
 my wife played well. A remarkable thing happened ! 
 My relations with him on that first day, during the first 
 hour of our meeting, were just such as they could be only 
 after all that has taken place. There was a certain re- 
 straint in my relations with him : I noticed every word, 
 every expression, uttered by him or by me, and I ascribed 
 an importance to them. 
 
 "I introduced him to my wife. They immediately 
 
 began to talk about music, and he offered his services to 
 
 her, to play with her. My wife, as always during this 
 
 last period, was extremely elegant in appearance, and 
 
 enticingly and disquietingly beautiful. She apparently 
 
 378
 
 THE KREUTZER SONATA 379 
 
 took a liking to him from the start. Besides, she was 
 happy to have a chance of playing with a violin, which 
 she liked so much that she used to hire a violinist from 
 the theatre for the purpose, and her face beamed with 
 joy. But, upon looking at me, she at once understood 
 my feeling and so she changed her expression, and there 
 began that game of mutual deception. I smiled a pleas- 
 ant smile, making it appear that this gave me pleasure. 
 He, glancing at my wife, as all immoral men look at 
 a pretty woman, made it appear that he was interested 
 only in the subject of the conversation, although it did 
 not interest him in the least. She tried to seem indiffer- 
 ent, but my familiar false smile of a jealous man and 
 his lustful glance apparently excited her. 
 
 " I noticed that from that first meeting on her eyes 
 were peculiarly sparkling, and, obviously on account of 
 my jealousy, there was established between them some- 
 thing hke an electrical current, which provoked in them 
 a similarity of facial expressions and smiles. She blushed 
 and he blushed. She smiled and he smiled. They spoke of 
 music, of Paris, of all kinds of trifles. He arose to leave, 
 and stood, smiling, with his hat on his contracting thigh, 
 looking now at her, and now at me, as though waiting to 
 see what we would do. I remember that particular 
 moment because I might have failed to invite him, and 
 nothing further would have happened. But I looked at 
 him and at her. 'Don't imagine that I am jealous,' T 
 mentally said to her, ' or that I am afraid of you,' I men- 
 tally said to him, and I invited him to bring his violin 
 some evening, in order to play with my wife. She looked 
 at me in surprise, flared up, and, as though frightened at 
 something, began to refuse, saying that she did not play 
 well enough. This refusal irritated me even more, and 
 I insisted more urgently. 
 
 " I remember the strange feeling with which I looked 
 at the back of his head and at his white neck, which
 
 f> 
 
 80 THE KKEUTZER SONATA 
 
 stood out under his black hair, combed in both directions, 
 as he was leaving us with a certain birdlike, hopping 
 motion. I could not help confessing to myself that the 
 presence of this man tormented me. ' It depends on me,' 
 thought I, ' to fix it in such a way that I shall never see 
 him again. But doing so would only be a confession that 
 I am afraid of him. No, I am not afraid of him, — that 
 would be humiliating,' I said to myself. And so I in- 
 sisted in the antechamber, knowing well that my wife 
 was hearing me, that he should come that same evening 
 with his violin. He promised me he would, and went 
 away. 
 
 " In the evening he came with his violin, and they 
 played together. But the playing did not go smoothly, 
 — they did not have the proper nuisic, or if they did 
 have it, my wife could not play it without preparation. 
 I was very fond of music and was in sympathy with their 
 playing, fixing a stand for him and turning the music. 
 They managed to play something, some songs without 
 words, and a sonata by Mozart. He played superbly ; 
 he possessed in the highest degree that which is called 
 tone and, besides, a refined, noble taste, which was quite 
 out of keeping with his character. 
 
 " He was, naturally, a much better musician than my 
 wife ; he helped her and, at the same time, politely praised 
 her play. He bore himself very well. My wife seemed 
 to be interested in nothing but the music, and was very 
 simple and natural. But I, although pretending to be 
 interested in the music, did not cease all the evening to 
 be consumed by jealousy. 
 
 " I saw from the very first minute when their eyes 
 met that the animal that was sitting in both of them, 
 notwithstanding all the conditions of position and society, 
 was asking, ' May I ? ' and answering, ' Oh, yes, certainly.' 
 1 saw that he had not at all expected to find in my wife, 
 in a Moscow lady, such an attractive woman, and that
 
 THE KREUTZER SONATA 381 
 
 he was glad of it. He did not have the least doubt that 
 she was ivilUmj. The whole question revolved only on 
 keeping the intolerable husband out of the way. If I 
 myself had been pure, I should not have understood it ; 
 but I used to think the same way about women, before I 
 was married, and so I. read in his soul as in a book. 
 
 " What tormented me more especially was that I had 
 convinced myself that she had no other feeling for me 
 than that of constant irritation, rarely interrupted by 
 the usual sensuality, and that this man, by his external 
 elegance and novelty, but especially by his unquestionably 
 great musical talent, by the proximity due to their play 
 in common, by the influence produced on impressionable 
 natures by music, particularly by the violin, — that this 
 man must of necessity not only be to her liking, but that 
 he, without the least wavering, must vanquish, crush, and 
 twist her, wind her into a rope, make of her anything he 
 pleased. I could not help seeing all this, and I suffered 
 terribly. Yet, in spite of it, or maybe on that very ac- 
 count, some power against my will made me be not only 
 very polite, but even gracious to him. I do not know 
 whether I did so for my wife's sake, or for his, in order to 
 show that I was not afraid of him, or for my own sake, in 
 order to deceive myself, — however it may be, I could not 
 be simple with him from my first relations with him. In 
 order not to surrender myself to my desire of killing him 
 on the spot, I had to be kind to him. I gave him costly 
 wines to drink at supper, went into ecstasies over his 
 playing, spoke with him with an unusually kindly smile, 
 and invited him to dinner for the coming Sunday, when 
 he could again play with my wife. I told him I would 
 call together a few of my acquaintances, lovers of music, 
 to listen to his playing. And thus came the end." 
 
 Pozdnyshev in great agitation changed his position and 
 emitted his peculiar sound. 
 
 "The presence of this man affected me in a strange
 
 382 THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 manner," he began once more, evidently making an effort 
 to be calm. 
 
 " Two or three days later I returned home from some 
 exhibition. I entered the antechamber, and a heavy sen- 
 sation overcame me : I felt as though a stone had been 
 rolled upon my heart, and I was unable to account for 
 this sensation. There was something which reminded me 
 of him, as I passed through the antechamber. Only when 
 I had reached the cabinet did I find an explanation of it, 
 and I returned to the antechamber to verify it. Yes, I 
 was not mistaken : it was his overcoat. (Everything 
 which came in contact with him I noticed very atten- 
 tively, without being conscious of doing so.) I asked 
 whether he was there, and I found he was. I went to 
 the parlour, not through the drawing-room, but through 
 the children's study. My daughter, Liza, was sitting over 
 a book, and the nurse was with the baby at the table, 
 spinning a lid or something. The door to the parlour was 
 closed, and I there heard an even arpeggio and his voice 
 and hers. I listened, but could not make out what it 
 was. 
 
 " * Evidently the sounds of the piano are on purpose to 
 drown their words and kisses,' I thought, — ' perhaps.' 
 O Lord, what a storm rose within me ! Terror takes pos- 
 session of me as I think of what animal was then living 
 within me ! My heart was compressed and stopped, and 
 then began to beat as with a hammer. The chief feeling 
 as during every rage, was that of compassion for myself, 
 ' Before the children, before the nurse ! ' I thought. I 
 must have been terrible, because Liza looked at me with 
 strange eyes. * What had I better do ? ' I asked myself. 
 ' Had I better go in ? I can't, — for God knows what I 
 will do there. Nor can I go away. The nurse is looking 
 at me as though she understood my situation. I must 
 go in,' I said to myself, and rapidly openr-d the door. He 
 was sitting at the piano and was making these arpeggios 
 
 to'
 
 THE KREUTZER SONATA 383 
 
 with his large, white, arched fingers. She was standing 
 at the corner of the grand over some open music. She 
 was the first to see or hear me, and she glanced at me. I 
 do not know whether she was frightened, or pretended 
 not to be frightened, or really was not frightened, but she 
 did not shudder, nor budge, — she only blushed, and that, 
 too, after some time. 
 
 " ' How glad I am you have come ! We have not yet 
 decided what to play on Sunday,' she said to me in a 
 tone of voice which she would not have employed if we 
 had been alone. This fact and her saying ' we ' of herself 
 and of him exasperated me. I silently exchanged greet- 
 ings with him. 
 
 " He pressed my hand and immediately began to ex- 
 plain to me, with a smile which I interpreted as ridicule, 
 that he had brought me some music for the Sunday, and 
 that they could not agree what to play : whether it was to 
 be more difficult and classical music, more especially a 
 sonata by Beethoven with the violin, or some light 
 things. Everything was so natural and simple that it 
 was impossible to find any fault with anything ; at the 
 same time I was convinced that it was all an untruth, 
 and that they had come to some kind of an agreement 
 how to deceive me. 
 
 " One of the most agonizing situations for a jealous 
 man (in our social life all men are jealous) is caused by 
 certain social conditions under which the greatest and 
 most perilous proximity between man and woman is per- 
 mitted. One would become a laughing-stock of people, if 
 one were to be set against the close proximity at balls, or 
 the doctors' proximity to their female patients, or the 
 proximity during occupations with art, painting, or more 
 especially with music. A certain proximity is necessary 
 there, and there is nothing prejudicial in this proximity : 
 only a foolish, jealous man can see anything undesirable 
 in it. And yet, everybody knows that the greater part
 
 384 THE KEEUTZER SONATA 
 
 of all cases of adultery in our society are committed by 
 means of such occupations, especially by means of music. 
 
 " I evidently confused them by the confusion which 
 was apparent in me : I was for a long time not able to 
 say anything. I was like an upturned bottle, from which 
 the water does not flow, because it is too full, I wanted 
 to call him names, and drive him out, but, instead, I felt 
 that I must again be gracious and pleasant to him. And 
 so I was. I acted as though I approved of everything, 
 submitting to that strange feeling which caused me to 
 treat him with greater kindness in the measure as his 
 presence tormented me. I told him that I depended on 
 his taste, and that I advised her to do likewise. He re- 
 mained long enough to wear off the unpleasant impression 
 produced by my sudden entrance into the room with a 
 frightened face and by my silence, and went away pre- 
 tending to have decided what to play on the next day. I 
 was fully convinced that, in comparison with that which 
 interested them, the question what to play was quite a 
 matter of indifference to them. 
 
 " I took him to the antechamber with especial politeness. 
 (Why not see off a man who has come in order to break 
 the peace and ruin the happiness of a whole family ! ) I 
 pressed his white, soft hand with unusual kindness.
 
 XXII. 
 
 " I DID not speak with her all that day, — I could not. 
 Her proximity to me provoked in me such a hatred of 
 her, that I was afraid of myself. At dinner, she asked me, 
 in the presence of the children, when I was going to leave. 
 I had to go next week to the county to attend a meeting.- 
 I told her when. She asked me whether I needed any- 
 thing for my way. I did not answer, and silently sat at 
 the table, and silently went to my cabinet. During that 
 last period she never came into my room, especially not 
 then. I was lying down in my cabinet and fretting. 
 Suddenly I heard a familiar tread. And suddenly a 
 terrible, monstrous thought passed through my mind that 
 she, like the wife of Uriah, wanted to conceal her accom- 
 plished sin, and that it was for this purpose that she was 
 coming to my room at such an untimely hour. 'Is it 
 possible she is coming here ? ' I thought, listening to her 
 approaching steps. ' If she is coming here, then I am 
 right.' And in my soul there rose an inexpressible hatred 
 of her. jSTearer, nearer the steps came. ' Will she really 
 pass by and go into the parlour ? ' No, the door creaked, 
 and there stood her tall, beautiful figure, and in her face 
 and eyes there was timidity and supplication, which she 
 tried to conceal, but which I saw, and the meaning of 
 which I understood. I almost choked, — I so long held 
 my breath, — and, continuing to look at her, I grasped 
 the cigarette-holder and beo-an to smoke. 
 
 " ' How does this look ? I come to sit with you awhile, 
 and you smoke,' and she seated herself near me on the 
 
 385
 
 386 THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 divan, leaning toward me. I moved away so as not to 
 come in contact with her. 
 
 " ' I see you are dissatisfied with my playing on Sunday/ 
 she said. 
 
 " ' I am not in the least/ I said. 
 
 " ' But I see it.' 
 
 " ' Let me congratulate you if you do. All I see is that 
 you are acting like a coquette. You find pleasure in all 
 kinds of baseness, but to me this is terrible ! ' 
 
 " ' If you are going to swear like a cabman, then I will 
 go away.' 
 
 " ' Go, but know that if you do not respect the honour 
 of the family, I will not respect you (the devil take you), 
 but will guard the honour of the family.' 
 
 " ' What is the matter, what ? ' 
 
 " ' Get out, for the Lord's sake, get out ! ' 
 
 " I do not know whether she pretended that she did not 
 understand or whether she really did not understand, — 
 in any case she was offended, grew angry, and did not go 
 away, but stopped in the middle of the room. 
 
 " ' You are absolutely impossible,' she said. ' With 
 any one of your character not even an angel could get 
 along,' and, as always, wishing to sting me in the most 
 painful manner, she reminded me of my action toward my 
 sister (she referred to an incident when I lost my patience 
 with my sister and told her a lot of rude things ; she 
 knew that it tormented me and so she stung me with it). 
 ' After this nothing from you will surprise me,' she said. 
 
 " ' Yes, she will offend, humiliate, disgrace me, and then 
 she will make me guilty of it,' I said to myself, and I 
 was suddenly seized by such terrible rage against her as 
 I had never experienced before. 
 
 "I wanted now for the first time to give a physical 
 expression to this rage. I jumped up and moved toward 
 her ; but just as I jumped up 1 remember that I became 
 conscious of my rage and asked myself, ' Is it right to
 
 THE KREUTZER SONATA 387 
 
 abandon myself to this feeling ? ' and immediately replied 
 to myself that it was right, that this would frighten her, 
 and so, instead of opposing myself to this rage, I began to 
 fan it in myself and to take pleasure in its spreading more 
 and more in me. 
 
 " ' Get away, or I will kill you ! ' I shouted, walking 
 up to her and grasping her arm. I consciously increased 
 the intonations of rage in my voice, as I was saying this. 
 I must have been terrible, because she was so intimidated 
 that she did not have sufficient strength to leave, and only 
 said : ' Vasya, what is the matter with you, what is the 
 matter ? ' — ' Get out ! ' I bellowed louder still. ' You 
 will drive me to insanity. I will not answer for myself ! ' 
 
 " Having given the r«ins to my fury, I was intoxicated 
 by it and wanted to do something unusual, which would 
 show the highest degree of my fury. I just burned to 
 strike and kill her, but I knew that this could not be, and 
 so, to give full vent to my rage, I grabbed a paper-weight 
 from the table and, crying once more, ' Get out ! ' I hurled 
 it against the floor beyond her. I aimed purposely beyond 
 her. Then she started to leave the room, but stopped at 
 the door. And here, while she was able to see it (I did 
 it that she should see it), I picked up a number of things 
 from the table, candlesticks, the inkstand, and began to 
 throw them on the floor, continuing to cry out : ' Get 
 out ! Go away ! I will not answer for myself ! ' She 
 went away, and I immediately stopped. 
 
 " An hour later the nurse came and informed me that 
 my wife was in hysterics. I went to her : she was sobbing 
 and laughing ; she was unable to say a word, and con- 
 tinually shuddered with her whole body. There was no 
 pretence there : she was really HI. 
 
 " Toward morning she quieted down, and we made up 
 under the influence of that feeling which we called love. 
 
 " In the morning, when, after the pacification, I con- 
 fessed to her that I was jealous of Trukhachevski, she was
 
 388 THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 not in the least embarrassed, but laughed out in the most 
 natural manner, — so strange, so she said, did the possi- 
 bility of being infatuated with such a man seem to her. 
 
 " ' Can a decent woman have any other feeling for such 
 a man than the pleasure derived by music ? If you want 
 me to, I am ready never to see him again. Not even 
 on Sunday, even though guests have been invited. Write 
 to him that I am not well, and all is ended. It is disgust- 
 ing to think that anybody, but especially he, should 
 imagine that he is a dangerous man. I am too proud to 
 allow any one to tliink so.' 
 
 " She was not telling an untruth. She believed all she 
 was saying : she hoped with these words to ehcit in herself 
 contempt for him and in this way to defend herself against 
 him, but she did not succeed. Everything was against 
 her, more particularly that accursed music. So all was 
 ended, and on Sunday the guests arrived and they again 
 played together.
 
 XXIIT. 
 
 " I THINK it is superfluous to say that I was very vain- 
 glorious : if we are not to be vainglorious in our habitual 
 life, then there is no cause for living at all. Well, on 
 that Sunday I entered with zest into the preparations for 
 the dinner and soiree with the music. 1 myself bought 
 things for the dinner and called the guests. 
 
 " At about six o'clock the guests arrived, and he appeared 
 in evening dress with diamond studs, showing poor taste. 
 He bore himself with ease, replied to everything hurriedly 
 and with a slight smile of agreement and comprehension, 
 — you know, with that especial expression which says 
 that everything you may do or say is just what he ex- 
 pected. Everything which was improper in him I now 
 took notice of with particular pleasure, because all this 
 served to calm me and show me that he stood for my wife 
 on a low level to which, as she said, she could not de- 
 scend. I did not allow myself to be jealous. In the first 
 place, my torment had been too great and I had to rest 
 from it ; in the second, I wished to believe the assertions 
 of my wife, and I did beheve them. And yet, although 
 I was not jealous, I was unnatural toward him and toward 
 her, and during the dinner and the first part of the even- 
 ing entertainment, before the music began, I continued to 
 watch their motions and glances. 
 
 "The dinner was like all dinners, — dull and stiff. 
 The music began quite early. Oh, how I remember 
 all the details of that evening ! I remember how he 
 brought the violin, opened the case, lifted the cover 
 which had been embroidered for him by a lady took
 
 390 THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 out the violin, and began to tune it. I remember how 
 my wife sat down, feigning indifference, under which 
 1 saw her conceal her timidity, — timidity mainly as to 
 her own ability, — how she sat down w'ith a look of indif- 
 ference at the piano, and there began the usual la on the 
 piano, the pizzicato of the violin, and the placing of 
 the music. I remember how, then, they looked at each 
 other, casting a glance at the seated guests, how they said 
 something one to the other, and how then it began. He 
 took the first chords. His face grew serious, stern, and 
 sympathetic, and, listening to his tones, he picked the 
 strings with cautious fingers. The piano replied to him. 
 And it began — " 
 
 Pozdnyshev stopped and several times in succession 
 emitted his sounds. He wanted to speak, but he snuffled 
 and again stopped. 
 
 " They were playing, the Kreutzer Sonata by Beet- 
 hoven," he continued. " Do you know the first presto ? 
 You do ? " he exclaimed. " Ugh ! Ugh ! That sonata 
 is a terrible thing, particularly that part of it. Music, in 
 general, is a terrible thing. I cannot understand what it 
 is. What is music ? What does it do ? And why does 
 it do that which it does ? They say that music acts upon 
 the soul by elevating it, — nonsense, a lie! It acts, acts 
 terribly, — I am speaking for myself, — but not at all by 
 elevating. It neither elevates nor humbles the soul, — it 
 irritates it. How shall I tell it to you ? Music makes 
 me forget myself and my real condition ; it transfers 
 me to another, not my own condition : it seems to me 
 that under the influence of music I feel that which I really 
 do not feel, that I understand that which I do not under- 
 stand, that I can do that which I cannot do. I explain 
 this by supposing that music acts like yawning, like 
 laughter : I do not w^ant to sleep, but I yawn seeing 
 people yawn ; I have no cause for laughing, but I laugh 
 hearing others laugh.
 
 THE KREUTZER SONATA 391 
 
 " This music immediately, directly transfers me to the 
 mental condition in which he was who wrote that music. 
 I am merged in his soul, and am with him carried from 
 one condition to another ; but I do not know why this 
 happens with me. He who wrote it, say the Kreutzer 
 Sonata, — Beethoven, — he knew why he was in such 
 a mood ; this mood led him to do certain acts, and so this 
 mood had some meaning for him, whereas for me it has 
 none. Therefore music only irritates, — it does not end. 
 Well, they play a military march, and the soldiers march 
 under its strain, and the music comes to an end ; they 
 play dance music, and I finish dancing, and the music 
 comes to an end ; well, they sing a mass, I receive the 
 Holy Sacrament, and the music comes to an end. But 
 here there is only an irritation, but that which is to be 
 done under this irritation is absent. It is for this reason 
 that music is so terrible and often acts so dreadfully. In 
 China music is a state matter. That is the way it ought 
 to be. How can any one who wishes be allowed to hyp- 
 notize another, or many persons, and then do with them 
 what he pleases ? And especially how can they allow 
 any kind of an immoral man to be the hypnotizer ? 
 
 " Into whose hands has this terrible power fallen ? Let 
 us take for example the Kreutzer Sonata. How can one 
 play the first presto in a drawing-room amidst ladies in 
 decollete garments ? To play this presto, to applaud it, 
 and then to eat ice-cream and talk about the last bit of 
 gossip ? These things should be played only under cer- 
 tain important, significant circumstances, and then when 
 certain acts, corresponding to tliis music, are to be per- 
 formed, and that is to be done which the music demands 
 of you. But the provocation of energy and feeling which 
 do not correspond to the time or place, and which find no 
 expression, cannot help acting perniciously. Upon me, at 
 least, it had a most terrible effect : it seemed to me as 
 though entirely new feeUngs, new possibilities, of which
 
 392 THE KEEUTZER SONATA 
 
 I had never knowu before, were revealed to me. ' Yes, 
 that is so, it is quite different from what 1 used to think 
 and feel about it ; it is like this,' a voice seemed to say 
 within me. What this new thing was which I had dis- 
 covered I was not able to explain to myself, but the con- 
 sciousness of this new condition was a pleasurable one. 
 All the people present — among them my wife and he — 
 presented themselves in a new light to me. 
 
 " After the allegro they played the beautiful, but 
 common, and not new andante with trite variations, 
 and a very weak finale. After that they played, at 
 the guests' request, an elegy by Ernst, and some other 
 trifles. All that was very nice, but it did not produce 
 on me one-hundredth part of the impression which the 
 first had produced. All this took place on the back- 
 ground of the impression which had been evoked by the 
 first piece. 
 
 " I felt light and happy on that evening. I had never 
 before seen my wife as she was on that evening. Those 
 sparkling eyes, that severity and expressiveness while she 
 was playing, and that complete dissolution, if I may so 
 call it, and that feeble, pitiable, and blissful smile after 
 they were through ! I saw it all, but ascribed no other 
 meaning to it than that she was experiencing the same 
 as I, and that to her, as to me, there were revealed, or, as 
 it were, brought back, new, unfelt sensations. The even- 
 ing came to a successful end and all departed. 
 
 " Knowing that I was to leave in two days to attend 
 to the meeting, Trukhach^vski at leaving said that he 
 hoped at his next visit to repeat the pleasure of the 
 present evening. From this I could conclude that he did 
 not consider it possible to be in my house during my 
 absence, and this pleased me. 
 
 " It turned out that since I should not be back before 
 his departure, we should not meet again. 
 
 " I for the first time pressed his hand with real joy and
 
 THE KREUTZER SONATA 393 
 
 thanked him for the pleasure he had given me. He, too, 
 bade farewell to my wife. Their farewell seemed to me 
 most natural and proper. Everything was beautiful. My 
 wife and I were both very much satisfied with the 
 evening.
 
 XXIV. 
 
 " Two days later I left for the meeting in the county, 
 bidding my wife farewell in the best and quietest of 
 moods. 
 
 " In the county there was always a great deal to do, 
 and there was a special life, a special world by itself. 
 There, in the office, I passed ten hours a day for two days 
 in succession. On the second day they brought me a 
 letter from my wife. I read it at once. 
 
 " She wi'ote about the children, about uncle, about the 
 nurse, about purchases, and, among other things, she 
 mentioned, as a most natural occurrence, that Trukha- 
 chevski had called bringing the promised music, and 
 that he had promised to play again with her, but that she 
 had refused. 
 
 " I did not remember his having promised to bring any 
 music : it seemed to me that he had then bidden her 
 farewell for good, and so this startled me. I was, how- 
 ever, so busy that I had no time to think about it, and 
 only in the evening, when I returned to my room, did I 
 re-read the letter. 
 
 " Not only had Trukhach^vski been at my house during 
 my absence, but the whole tenor of the letter seemed to 
 be strained. The furious beast of jealousy roared in its 
 kennel and wanted to leap out, but I was afraid of that 
 beast and I quickly locked it up. ' What an abominable 
 feeling this jealousy is!' said I to myself. 'What can 
 there be more natural than what she writes ? ' 
 
 " So I lay down in my bed and began to think of the 
 affairs which I had to attend to on the following day.
 
 THE KKEUTZER SONATA 395 
 
 During these meetings I could not easily fall asleep, in a 
 strange bed, but this time I fell asleep at once. And, as 
 sometimes happens, you know, you feel a kind of electric 
 shock and you wake up. So I awoke. I awoke with the 
 thought of her, of my carnal love for her, and of Tmkha- 
 ch^vski, and that everything was at an end between Mm 
 and her. Terror and rage compressed my heart. But I 
 began to reason with myself. ' What nonsense,' said I to 
 myself, ' there is no cause for it, — there is nothing and 
 has been nothing. And how can I so lower her and my- 
 self, by supposing such horrors ? He — something in the 
 nature of a hired fiddler, known as a worthless man, and 
 a worthy w^oman, a respected mother of a family, my wife ! 
 What absurdity ! ' was what presented itself to me on one 
 side. ' Why can't it be ? ' was what presented itself on 
 the other. 'Why could there not be that simplest and 
 most intelligible thing in the name of which I married 
 her, the same thing in the name of which I lived with 
 her, which alone I needed in her, and which, therefore, 
 others could need, and that musician, too? He is un- 
 married, healthy (I remembered how he crunched the 
 gristle in the cutlet and with what eager red hps he 
 clasped the wine-glass), well-fed, smooth, and not only 
 unprincipled, but obviously following the rule to make 
 use of every pleasure which presents itself. And between 
 them there is the bond of music, of the most refined 
 sensual lust. What can keep him back ? She ? Who is 
 she ? She is the same mystery she has always been. I 
 do not know her. I know her only as an animal. And 
 nothing can nor must keep back an animal,' 
 
 " Only then for the first time did I recall their faces 
 on that evening, when, after the Kreutzer Sonata, they 
 played some impassioned piece, — I do not remember by 
 whom, — impassioned to the point of obscenity. ' How 
 could I have left ? ' I said to myself, recalling their faces. 
 ' Was it not clear that everything had taken place between
 
 396 THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 them on that evening ? And was it not evident that even 
 on that evening there was no barrier between them, and 
 that both of them, but especially she, experienced a certain 
 measure of shame after what had happened to them ? I 
 remember how she smiled feebly, pitiably, and blissfully, 
 wiping off the perspiration from her heated face, as I went 
 u]) to the piano. They even then avoided looking at each 
 oilier, and only at supper, as lie poured out a glass of 
 water for her, did they glance at each other and smile an 
 imperceptible smile.' 
 
 *' I now in terror recalled that glance of theirs with the 
 barely perceptible smile, which I had accidentally noticed. 
 ' Yes, all is ended,' one voice said to me, and immediately 
 the other voice said something quite different : ' You are 
 working under a delusion, — this cannot be.' It made me 
 shudder to lie in the dark. I struck a match, and I felt 
 terribly in that small room with the yellow wall-paper. I 
 lighted a cigarette, and, as is always the case when I move 
 in one and the same circle of insoluble contradictions, I 
 smoked ; I smoked one cigarette after another, in order to 
 be befogged and not to notice the contradictions. 
 
 " I did not fall asleep all night long, and having decided 
 at five o'clock that I could not remain any longer in this 
 state of tension and that I must go home, I arose, woke 
 the janitor, who was attending to me, and sent him for 
 the horses. I sent a letter to the meeting saying that I 
 was called back to Moscow on urgent business, and asking 
 a member to take my chair. At eight o'clock I sat down 
 in the tarautas and started."
 
 XXV. 
 
 The conductor came in, and, noticing that the candle 
 was burning low, put it out, without substituting another 
 for it. Day began to break. Pdzdnyshev was silent, 
 drawing deep sighs as long as the conductor was in the 
 car. He continued his story only when the conductor 
 had left, and in the half-dark car could be heard only 
 the rattle of the windows of the moving car and the even 
 snoring of the clerk. In the twilight of the dawn I could 
 not see Pozdnyshev's face at all. I could hear only his 
 ever more agitated and suffering voice. 
 
 " I had to travel thirty -live miles in a carriage and 
 eight hours by train. It was nice travelling in the 
 carriage. It was a frosty autumn day with a bright sun, 
 — you know, that period of the year when the ruts are 
 clearly defined on the muddy road. The roads are smooth, 
 the light is bright, the air bracing. It was a pleasure to 
 ride in the tarantas. WTien it was day and I had started, 
 I felt easier. As I looked at the horses, at the fields, and 
 at the passers-by, I forgot whither I was travelling. At 
 times it seemed to me that I was merely journeying, and 
 that there was nothing of that which had provoked me. 
 It was a relief to me to be able to forget myself thus. 
 Whenever I recalled where I was travelling to, I said to 
 myself : ' There will be time then, but now do not think ! ' 
 
 " In the middle of the road there happened an accident 
 which detained me and still more diverted my attention : 
 the tarantas broke and had to be repaired. This break- 
 down was of great importance in that it made me arrive 
 at Moscow, not at five o'clock, as I had expected, but at 
 
 397
 
 398 THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 twelve, and at home at one, as I missed the express and 
 had to take the passenger train. The search for a cart, 
 the mending, the settling of bills, the tea at the inn, the 
 talks with the janitor, — all that still more diverted my 
 attention. At evening twilight all was doue, and I started 
 once more. In the night it was pleasanter to travel than 
 in daytime. The new moon was up ; there was a slight 
 frost ; then the beautiful road, the horses, the merry 
 driver, — and I travelled and enjoyed myself, hardly 
 thinking of what awaited me, or maybe I enjoyed it all 
 so much because I knew what was awaiting me and I 
 was bidding farewell to all the joys of life. This calm 
 mood, this ability to suppress my feelings, came to an 
 end with the carriage drive. 
 
 " The moment I entered the car, something quite differ- 
 ent began for me. This eight-hour journey in the car 
 was something terrible, — I shall not forget it all my 
 life. I do not know whether it was that, seating myself 
 in the car, I vividly presented to myself my arrival, or 
 because the railroad acts in such an exciting manner upon 
 people, but the moment I sat down in the car I could 
 not control my imagination, and it did not cease painting 
 for me with the greatest clearness, one after another, 
 pictures that fanned my jealousy, and what was all the 
 time going on there, while she was false to me. I burned 
 with indignation, rage, and a certain special feeling of 
 gloating over my humihation, as I contemplated these 
 pictures, and I could not tear myself away from them, 
 could not help looking at them, could not wipe them 
 out, could not help evoking them. More than that. The 
 more I contemplated these imaginary pictures, the more 
 I believed in their reality. The brightness with which 
 these pictures arose before me seemed to serve as a proof 
 that that which I imagined was real. A devil, as it were 
 against my will, concocted and whispered to me the most 
 terrible combinations. I recalled a late conversation with
 
 THE KREUTZER SONATA 399 
 
 a "brother of Trukhach^vski, and I with a kind of trans- 
 port lacerated ray heart with this conversation, referring 
 it to Trukhach^vski and my wife. 
 
 " That had happened long ago, but I recalled it. Tru- 
 khach^vski's brother, I remembered once, in reply to a 
 question whether he frequented certain houses, said that a 
 decent man would not go where he might catch a disease, 
 and it was dirty and nasty to do it, as long as one could 
 find a decent woman. And so he, his brother, had found 
 my wife. ' It is true, she is no longer in her first youth ; 
 she has lost one side tooth, and there is a certain puffi- 
 ness,' I thought for him, ' but what is to be done ? I 
 must make use of what I find. — Yes, he is condescend- 
 ing to her in making her his mistress,' I said to myself. 
 * Besides, there is no danger with her — No, it is impos- 
 sible ! ' I said to myself, in terror. * There is nothing 
 of the kind, nothing ! There is not even basis for sup- 
 posing anything of the kind. Did she not tell me that 
 even the thought of my being jealous of him was humil- 
 iating to her ? Ah, but she is lying, she is doing nothing 
 but lying ! ' I called out, and it began once more — 
 There were but two passengers in our car : an old woman 
 and her husband, both very talkative, but they left at a 
 station, and I remained all alone. I was like a beast in 
 a cage : now I jumped up and walked over to the win- 
 dows ; now I staggered and began to walk as though to 
 get ahead of the car ; but the car with all its benches and 
 windows kept shaking just like this one — " 
 
 Pozdnyshev jumped up, took a few steps, and again sat 
 down. 
 
 " Oh, I am afraid, I am afraid of the railway cars, — 
 terror takes possession of me ! Yes, they are terrible ! " he 
 continued. " I said to myself that I would think of some- 
 thing else, say of the landlord of the inn where I drank 
 the tea. And so before my mental eye arose the janitor 
 with a long beard and his grandson, a child as old as my
 
 400 THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 V^sya. ' My Yasya ! He will see the musician kiss his 
 mother. What will take place in his poor soul ? What 
 does she care ! She loves — ' And again the same storm 
 arose in me. ' No, no. I will think of the inspection of 
 the hospital. Yes, how the patient yesterday complained 
 of the doctor. The doctor has a moustache just like 
 Trukhach^vski's. With what a brazen face he — both of 
 them — deceived me, when he said that he was leaving.' 
 And again it began. Everything of which I thought was 
 connected with him. I suffered terribly. My chief suf- 
 fering was in the ignorance, the doubts, the doubleness, 
 the want of knowledge of. whether I was to love or hate 
 her. The suffering was a strange feeling : a hatred of 
 the consciousness of my humiliation and liis victory, and 
 a terrible hatred for her. 
 
 " ' I cannot make an end of myself and leave her ; she 
 must suffer at least some, in order that she may under- 
 stand what I have gone through,' I said to myself. I 
 went out at every station to divert myself. In one station 
 I saw people drinking near the counter, and I immedi- 
 ately drank some brandy. Near me was standing a Jew, 
 and he also was drinking. He began to talk, and I, not 
 to be left alone in the car, went with him into a dirty, 
 smoke-tilled car of the tlurd class, the floor of which was 
 covered with shells of pumpkin seeds. I sat down at his 
 side, and he kept chatting and telling some kinds of anec- 
 dotes. I listened to him, but was unable to understand 
 what he was saying because I was all the time thinking 
 about myself. He noticed it and began to demand my 
 attention ; so I got up and went back to my car. 
 
 " ' I must consider,' I said to myself, ' whether that 
 which I am thinking is true, and whether there is any 
 cause for me to be tormented so.' I sat down, wishing 
 quietly to reflect over it, but immediately, instead of 
 the quiet reflection, it started again : instead of meditation 
 there were pictures and presentations. ' How often have
 
 THE KREUTZER SONATA 401 
 
 I been tormented thus,' I said to myself (I recalled for- 
 mer similar fits of jealousy) 'and then it all ended in 
 nothing. It may be thus even now, and I am sure I 
 shall find her quietly asleep ; she will wake up, will be 
 glad to see me, and from her words and looks I shall feel 
 that nothing has happened, and that all this is nonsense. 
 Oh, how good it would be ! ' — ' No, this has happened too 
 often, and will not be so now,' a certain voice told me, 
 and again it started. That is where the punishment was ! 
 Not to a syphilitic hospital would I take a young man in 
 order to cure him of his desire for woman, but into my 
 soul, to look at those devils that were tearing it to pieces ! 
 AVhat was terrible was that I arrogated to myself the un- 
 questioned, full right over her body, as though it were my 
 own body, and at the same time felt that I could not rule 
 over this body, that it was not mine, and that she could 
 dispose of it as she wished, and wished to dispose of it 
 differently from what I wanted her to. And I could do 
 nothing to her or to him. He, like Vanka, the steward 
 of the fable, will sing before the gibbet a song of having 
 kissed the sugared lips, and so forth, and his will be the 
 victory. Still less can I do anything with her. If she 
 did not do it, but wished to do it, — and I know that 
 she does want to, — it is even worse. It would be better 
 if she did do it, and I should know, — there would be 
 no uncertainty. I could not tell what it was I wanted. 
 I wanted her not to wish for that which she could not 
 help wishing for. This was complete insanity !
 
 XXVI. 
 
 "At next to the last station, after the conductor had 
 come to collect tickets, I picked up my things and went 
 out on the brake platform, and the consciousness of the 
 near solution only increased my agitation. I felt cold, 
 and my jaws began to tremble so that my teeth chattered. 
 I mechanically left the depot with the crowd, took a cab, 
 seated myself in it, and drove off. I rode, looking at the 
 few pedestrians and the janitors and the shadows cast by 
 the lamps and by my vehicle, now in front, and now back 
 of me, not thinking of anything. Having ridden about 
 half a verst, my feet grew cold, and I recalled that I had 
 taken off my woollen stockings in the car and had put 
 them into the carpet-bag. ' Where is the carpet-bag, — 
 here ? Yes, it is. And the wicker trunk ? ' I recalled 
 that I had entirely forgotten about the luggage, but find- 
 ing that I had a receipt, I decided that it was not worth 
 while to go back for it, and so I continued on my way. 
 
 " No matter how much I try to recall now, I am 
 absolutely unable to remember what my condition at 
 that time was : I know nothing of what I thought or 
 wished. I only remember having been conscious that 
 something terrible and very important for my life was in 
 store for me. I do not know whether this important 
 thing happened to me because I thought of it, or because 
 I had a presentiment of it. It may also be that after 
 what happened all the previous moments received in my 
 recollection a sombre shade. I drove up to the entrance. 
 It was one o'clock. Several cabmen were standing near 
 the entrance, expecting passengers from the lighted win- 
 
 402
 
 THE KREUTZEE SONATA 403 
 
 dows (the windows that were lighted were those of the 
 parlour aud drawiug-room of my apartment). Without 
 rendering myself any account of why there was a light in 
 our windows so late at night, I, in the same mood of 
 expectation of something terrible, ascended the staircase 
 and rang the bell. Egdr, a good, careful, and most stupid 
 lackey, opened the door. The first thing my eyes fell 
 upon was an overcoat hanging with other clothes on the 
 rack of the antechamber. I ought to have been surprised, 
 but I was not, because I expected it. ' That's it,' I said to 
 myself. When I asked Egdr who was there and he 
 named Trukhachevski, I asked whether there was any- 
 body else. He said, ' Nobody, sir.' I remember how he 
 told me this with an intonation as if to give me pleasure 
 and dispel my doubts as to the presence of anybody else. 
 ' Yes, yes,' I seemed to be saying to myself. ' And the 
 children ? ' — ' Thank God, they are well. They have been 
 asleep for quite awhile, sir.' 
 
 " I could not draw breath nor stop my jaws from 
 shaking. ' So, I see, it is not as I had thought : formerly 
 I used to expect a misfortune, but everything was as of 
 old. Now everything is not as of old ; here is everything 
 I have been imagining, — everything I thought I only 
 imagined has now actually happened. Here it is all — ' 
 
 " I came very near sobbing out, but the devil immedi- 
 ately whispered to me : ' You weep and become senti- 
 mental, and they will quietly part from each other, there 
 will be no proofs, and you will all your hfe be in doubt 
 and torment.' Directly my sentimentality disappeared, 
 and there arose a strange feeling of joy because now my 
 torment will come to an end, because I could punish her 
 and get rid of her, because I could give free play to my 
 rage. I did give free play to my rage, — I became a 
 beast, an evil, cunning beast. ' Don't, don't,' I said to 
 Eg6r, who wanted to go to the drawing-room. * Do this : 
 take a cab at once and go to the station ; here is the
 
 404 THE KKEUTZER SONATA 
 
 receipt, — get the luggage. Go ! ' He went along the 
 corridor for his overcoat. Fearing lest he might scare 
 them up, I went with him as far as his room and waited 
 until he was dressed. 
 
 " In the drawing-room, heyond another room, was heard 
 conversation and the sound of knives and plates. They 
 were eating and had not heard the bell. ' If only it may 
 turn out I am wrong ! ' I thought. Egor put on his 
 Astrakhan fur overcoat and went out. I let him out 
 and locked the door after him ; I felt uneasy when I felt 
 that I was left alone, and that I must act at once. I did 
 not yet know how. I only knew that now everything 
 was ended, that there could be no doubts in regard to her 
 guilt, and that I would immediately punish her and break 
 all my relations with her. 
 
 " Before this time I wavered and said to myself, 
 * Maybe this is not true, maybe I am mistaken,' but 
 now there was nothing of that. Everything was irrev- 
 ocably decided upon. Secretly from me, all alone with 
 him in the -night ! This is a complete oblivion of every- 
 thing ! Or worse still : there is purposely such boldness 
 and impudence in the crime in order that this bold- 
 ness may serve as a token of innocence. Everything is 
 clear, — no doubt is possible. I was afraid of this one 
 thing that they would run away and concoct some new 
 deception, thus depriving me of the palpable evidence and 
 possibility of proof ; therefore, in order to catch them at 
 once, I went on tiptoe to the parlour, where they were 
 sitting, not through the drawing-room, but through the 
 corridor and the cliildren's rooms. 
 
 " In the first room the boys were sleeping. In the 
 second, the nurse moved and was about to awaken. 
 Imagining what she would think if she found out every- 
 thing, such a pity for myself overcame me at the thought 
 that I was unable to repress tears and, in order not to 
 wake the children, I ran on tiptoe into the corridor and
 
 THE K.REUTZER SONATA 405 
 
 into my cabinet, where I flung myself down on the divan 
 and burst out into sobs. 
 
 " ' I am an honest man, I am the son of my parents, I 
 have all my life dreamt of the happiness of domestic life ; 
 I am a man who has never betrayed her — Here are 
 five children, and she embraces a musician because he 
 has red lips ! 
 
 " ' Xo, she is not a human being ! She is a bitch, an 
 abominable bitch ! In the next room to her children, whom 
 she has been pretending to love all her life. And to 
 write to me what she did ! So impudently to hang about 
 his neck ! How do I know but that it has been so all the 
 time ? Maybe the lackeys begot all the children whom I 
 regard as ray own ! 
 
 " ' I should have arrived on the morrow, and she, in her 
 coiffure, with her waist and her indolent, graceful motions 
 (I saw all her attractive, hateful face), would have met 
 me, and the beast of jealousy would have for ever 
 remained in my heart and would have lacerated it. 
 What will the nurse think ? — Egor — And poor Liza ! 
 She understands a little now. And that impudence ! 
 That lie ! And that animal sensuality, which I know so 
 well ! ' I said to myself. 
 
 " I wanted to get up, but I could not. My heart was 
 beating so much that I could not stand on my feet. ' Yes, 
 I shall die of apoplexy. She will kill me. That is what 
 she wants. She wants to kill me ! No, that would be 
 too advantageous for her, and I will not afford her that 
 pleasure. Here I am sitting, and they are eating and 
 laughing there, and — Yes, although she is no longer in 
 her first youth, he has not disdained her : she is not bad- 
 looking, but, chiefly, she is safe for his precious health. 
 Why did I not choke her then ? ' I said to myself, recall- 
 ing the moment when, the week before, I drove her out 
 of the cabinet and then hurled things at her. I vividly 
 recalled the condition in which I then was ; I not only 
 
 \
 
 406 THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 recalled it, but experienced the same necessity of beat- 
 ing and destroying which I experienced then. I 
 remember how I wanted to act and how all other 
 considerations than those which were necessary for action 
 had taken flight from my mind. I entered into that 
 condition of the beast or of a man under the influence of 
 physical excitement in time of danger, when a man acts 
 precisely, leisurely, but, at the same time, without losing 
 a minute and with one definite purpose in view. 
 
 "The first thing I did was to take off my boots and, 
 remaining in my socks, to walk over to the wall above the 
 divan, where guns and daggers were hanging, and to take 
 down a sharp Damascus dagger which had never been 
 used and which was very sharp. I took it out of the 
 scabbard. The scabbard, I remember, I threw behind 
 the divan, and I remember saying to myself, ' I must find 
 it later, or else it will be lost.' Then I took off my over- 
 coat, which I had kept on all the time, and, stepping 
 softly in my socks, I went there.
 
 xxvn. 
 
 "Having softly approached the door, I suddenly 
 opened it. I remember the expression of their faces. I 
 remember that expression, because it afforded me a pain- 
 ful pleasure, — it was the expression of terror. That was 
 what I wanted. I shall never forget that expression of 
 desperate terror wdiich during the first second had ap- 
 peared on their faces, as they caught sight of me. He, 
 I think, was sitting at the table, but, upon seeing or hear- 
 ing me, he jumped to his feet and stood up with his back 
 against a safe. On his face w^as nothing but an unmis- 
 takable expression of terror. On her face there was also 
 an expression of terror, but at the same time there was 
 also something else. If ' there had been nothing but 
 terror, probably that which took place would not have 
 happened ; but in the expression of her face there was — 
 at least it so appeared to me during this first moment 
 — aimoyance, dissatisfaction at having been disturbed in 
 her infatuation and happiness with him. It looked as 
 thouRh all she needed was that she should not be inter- 
 fered with in her happiness. Both these expressions 
 hovered but an instant on their faces. The expression of 
 terror on his face soon gave way to a questioning expres- 
 sion : ' May I lie or not ? If I may, I must begin. If not, 
 there will happen something else. What will it be ? ' He 
 cast an interrogative glance at her. Upon her face the 
 expression of vexation and aggravation gave way, as I 
 thought when she looked at him, to anxiety in his behalf. 
 
 " I stopped for an instant at the door, holding the dag- 
 ger behind my back. 
 
 407
 
 408 THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 " Just then he smiled and said, in a ridiculously indif- 
 ferent voice, ' We have been playing together.' 
 
 " ' I did not expect you ! ' she at once began, submitting 
 to his tone. But neither the one nor the other finished 
 what they wanted to say : the same fury, of which I had 
 been possessed the week before, overcame me now. I 
 again experienced that necessity of destruction, violence, 
 and transport of rage, and abandoned myself to it. They 
 did not finish their sentences. There began that other 
 thing, of which he was afraid, that which at once put to 
 nought that which they had said. I rushed against her, 
 still concealing the dagger, that he might not interfere 
 with my thrusting it into her side, underneath the breast. 
 I had chosen that spot from the very start. Just as 1 
 flew against her he saw it, and, what I had not expected 
 of him, seized my arm and exclaimed : ' Think what you 
 are doing ! The people ! ' 
 
 " I tore my arm away from him and silently rushed 
 against him. His eyes met mine ; he suddenly grew as 
 pale as a sheet, up to his very lips ; his eyes flashed in a 
 peculiar manner, and, what again I had not expected, he 
 flung himself uuder the piano and out through the 
 door. I rushed after him, but a weight hung upon my 
 left arm. It was she. I tried to jerk myself away, 
 but she clung more firmly to me and did not let me out 
 of her grasp. This sudden impediment, the weight, and 
 her touch, which was loathsome to me, fanned my rage 
 even more, I felt that I was infuriated and that I must 
 be terrible, and I was glad of it. I swung my left arm 
 with all my might, and my elbow struck her face. She 
 cried out and let my arm drop. I wanted to run after 
 him, but recalled that it would be ridiculous to run 
 after my wife's lover in my socks, and I did not want 
 to be ridiculous, 1 wanted to be terrible. In spite of the 
 terrible fury which I was in, I was all the time conscious 
 of the impression I was producing upon others, and I was
 
 THE KREUTZEK SONATA 409 
 
 partly guided by this very impression, I turned to her. 
 She fell down on a sofa and, putting her hand to her black- 
 ened eyes, looked at me. In her face there was an expres- 
 sion of terror and hatred for me, the enemy, such as is 
 expressed in a rat when the trap is opened, in which it 
 has been caught. At least, I did not see anything else 
 in her but this expression of terror and hatred for me. 
 It was the same terror and hatred for me which the love 
 for the other man must have provoked. I still might 
 have abstained from doing what I did if she had kept 
 quiet. But she suddenly began to speak and to seize the 
 hand in which I held the dagger, 
 
 " ' Come to your senses ! What are you doing ? What 
 is the matter with you ? There is nothing, nothing, 
 I swear ! ' 
 
 " I should' have hesitated, but these last words, from 
 which I concluded the opposite, that is, that there was 
 everything, demanded an answer; And the answer had 
 to correspond to the mood to which I had brought myself 
 and which was going crescendo, and continued to become 
 more intense. Fury, too, has its laws. 
 
 " ' Don't lie, you wretch ! ' I cried, and caught her arm 
 with my left hand, but she tore herself away. Then 
 I, without dropping the dagger, caught her by the throat 
 with my left hand, threw her down on her back, and 
 began to choke her. How rough her neck was ! She 
 clasped my hands with both of hers, pulling them away 
 from her throat. I seemed to have waited just for that : 
 with all my might I thrust the dagger into her left side, 
 below the ribs. 
 
 "When people say that in a fit of fury they do not 
 remember what they are doing, they are telling an un- 
 truth. I remembered everything, nor did I stop remem- 
 bering for a single second. The more I raised witliin me 
 the steam of my fury, the more clearly did the hght of 
 consciousness burn within me, so that I could not help
 
 410 THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 seeing all T was doing. I knew every second what I was 
 doing. I cannot say that I knew in advance what I was 
 going to do, but at any second when I was doing some- 
 thing, — I almost think even a little before it, — I knew 
 what I was doing, as though having a chance of regretting 
 my action, and of saying that I might have stopped it. 
 I knew that I struck her below the ribs, and that the 
 dagger would enter. At the very moment when I was 
 doing it I knew that I was doing something terrible, 
 something which I had never done before, and which 
 would have terrible consequences. But this conscious- 
 ness flashed like lightning, and the deed followed imme- 
 diately after the consciousness. The deed was perceived 
 by me with unusual clearness. I heard, and I remembei-, 
 the momentary resistance of the corset and of something 
 else, and then the sinking of the dagger in something soft. 
 She caught the dagger with her hands and only cut them, 
 without keeping it back. 
 
 " I for a long time thought of this moment later, in 
 prison, after the moral transformation had taken place 
 in me ; I recalled what I might have done, and I re- 
 flected. I remember how for an instant, only for an 
 instant, the deed was preceded by the terrible conscious- 
 ness that I was killing and already had killed a woman, 
 a helpless woman, my wife ! I remember the horror of 
 that consciousness, and so I conclude and even dimly 
 remember that, having pierced her with a dagger, I imme- 
 diately pulled it out, wishing to mend that which I had 
 done, and to stop it. I stood a moment motionless, wait- 
 ing to see what would happen and whether it could not 
 be mended. 
 
 " She jumped to her feet and cried, ' Nurse, he has 
 killed me ! ' 
 
 " The nurse, who had heard the noise, was standing at 
 the door. I was still standing, waiting, and not believing 
 myself. Just then the blood burst from under her corset.
 
 THE KREUTZER SONATA 411 
 
 Only then did I understand that it could not be mended, 
 and I immediately concluded that it was not necessary 
 to mend it, that it was precisely what I wanted and what 
 I had to do. I waited until she fell down, and the nurse 
 with a cry of ' Help ! ' ran up to her, and then only threw 
 down the dagger and went out of the room. 
 
 " ' I must not be agitated ; I must know what I am 
 doing,' I said to myself, without looking at her or at the 
 nurse. The nurse was crying and calling the maid. I 
 went through the corridor and, having sent in the maid, 
 went back to my cabinet. ' What must I do now ? ' 
 I asked myself, and immediately saw what. Upon enter- 
 ing the cabinet, I went directly up to the wall, took down 
 a revolver from it, and examined it : it was loaded, — 
 and I put it down on the table. Then I took the scab- 
 bard out from behind the divan and sat down on the 
 divau. 
 
 "I sat thus for a long time. I thought of nothing, 
 recalled nothing. I heard them bustHug outside. I 
 heard somebody arrive, and then again somebody. Then 
 I heard and saw Egor come in and bring my wicker trunk 
 into the cabinet. As though anybody wanted it ! 
 
 " ' Have you heard what has happened ? ' I asked him. 
 • Tell the janitor to inform the police.' He said nothing 
 and went out. I got up, locked the door, took out the 
 cigarettes and matches, and began to smoke. 
 
 " I had not finished one cigarette when sleep over- 
 powered me. I must have slept about two hours. I 
 remember I dreamt that we were on good terms, that we 
 had had a quarrel and had made up again, that there 
 was something in the way, but we were friends. I was 
 awakened by a rap at the door. ' This is the pohce,' I 
 thought, as I awoke. ' I think I killed her. And maybe 
 it is she, and there has been nothing.' There was another 
 rap at the door. I did not answer and I decided the 
 question, ' Has it happened, or not ? Yes, it has.' I re-
 
 412 THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 membered the resistance of the corset and the sinking of 
 the dagger, and a chill ran down my back. ' Yes, it has. 
 And now I must do away with myself,' I said to myself. 
 I said this, and I knew that I would not kill myself. 
 Still, I arose and took the revolver into my hands. But, 
 strange to say, although I had often been near commit- 
 ting suicide, although even on that day this had seemed 
 to me an easy thing to do, as I was riding on the railway, 
 easy because I thought I would startle her with it, — 
 now I was not only unable to do so, but even to think 
 of it. ' Why do I want to do it ? ' I asked myself, and 
 there was no answer. They again knocked at the door. 
 ' Yes, first I must find out who is knocking. I shall have 
 time to do this.' I put down the revolver and covered it 
 with a newspaper. I went up to the door and opened 
 the latch. It was my wife's sister, a kind, stupid widow. 
 ' Vasya, what is this ? ' she said, and the ever ready tears 
 burst forth. 
 
 " ' What do you want ? ' I asked, roughly. I saw that 
 there was no reason whatever for me to be rough with 
 her, but I could not think of any other tone of voice. 
 ' Vasya, she is dying ! Ivan Zakharych said so.' 
 
 " Ivan Zakharych was her doctor, her adviser. ' Is he 
 here ? ' I asked, and all my rage against her again rose 
 in me. ' Well what of it ? ' — ' Vasya, go to her. Ah, 
 how terrible it is ! ' she said. ' Shall I go to her ? ' I 
 asked myself, and I immediately answered myself that 
 I must, that, no doubt, it is always that way, — that 
 when a man kills his wife he must go to see her. ' If that 
 is the way it is done, I must go,' I said to myself. ' Well, 
 if it is necessary for me to shoot myself, I shall have 
 time to do so,' I thought in regard to my intention of kill- 
 ing myself, and followed her. ' Now there will be phrases 
 and grimaces, but I will not submit to them.' ' Wait,' I 
 said to her sister, ' it is foolish to go without my boots. 
 Let me at least put on my slippers.'
 
 XXVIIL 
 
 « A STRANGE thing happened ! When I left my room 
 and walked through the familiar rooms, I again was 
 stirred by the hope that nothing had happened, but the 
 smell of the physician's nasty things, of the iodoform and 
 carbolic acid, startled me. Yes, it has happened. Walk- 
 ing along the corridor, past the children's room, I saw 
 Liza. She looked at me with frightened eyes. I thought 
 that all five of the children were there, looking at me. I 
 went up to the door, and the chambermaid opened it for 
 me from within and went out. The first thing that my 
 eyes fell upon was her light gray dress upon the chair, all 
 black with gore. On our double bed — on my bed (it 
 was easier to get at it) — she lay with uplifted knees. 
 She lay in a very inclined position, on pillows, with her 
 bodice unbuttoned. There was somethiug placed over the 
 wound. The room was filled with the heavy odour of 
 iodoform. Nothing impressed me so much as her swollen 
 face, with part of the nose and the lower part of the eyes 
 blue and discoloured. This was the result of the blow 
 with my elbow, when she tried to keep me back. There 
 was no beauty whatever, and I saw only something abomi- 
 nable in her. 1 stopped at the threshold. ' Go up, go up 
 to her,' her sister said to me. ' No doubt she wants to 
 confess,' I thought, trying to be magnauimous. I walked 
 over to her. She with difficulty raised her eyes, one of 
 which was badly bruised, and she muttered with difficulty 
 and hesitatingly : 
 
 " * You have accomplished it, you have killed me — ' 
 
 413
 
 414 THE KREUTZEK SONATA 
 
 and in her face, through the physical suffering and the 
 nearness of death, there was expressed the old, familiar, 
 cold, animal hatred. ' The children — however — I will 
 not give — to you — She ' (her sister) ' will take them — ' 
 
 " But that which to me was the most important thing, 
 her guilt, she did not consider worth while mentioning, so 
 it seemed. 
 
 " ' Yes, enjoy your deed,' she said, looking at the 
 door, and she began to sob. At the door stood her 
 sister with the children. ' Yes, this is what you have 
 done.' 
 
 " I looked at the children, at her bruised, discoloured 
 face, and for the first time I forgot myself, my rights, my 
 pride, — for the first time I saw the human being in her. 
 And so insignificant seemed everything to me which had 
 offended me, all my jealousy, and so significant what I 
 had done, that I wanted to fall with my face to her hand 
 and say, ' Forgive me ! ' but I did not dare to. 
 
 " She was silent and covered her eyes, evidently not 
 having the strength to speak any more. Then her 
 maimed face quivered and became wrinkled. She feebly 
 pushed me away. 
 
 " ' Why has all this been, why ? ' 
 
 " ' Forgive me ! ' I said. 
 
 " ' Forgive you ? It is all nonsense ! If only I could 
 live ! ' she cried, and, raising herself a little, her feverishly 
 shining eyes were directed toward me. ' Yes, you have 
 got what you wanted ! — I hate you ! — Oh, oh ! ' she 
 called out, evidently already in delirium, as though fright- 
 ened at something. 
 
 " ' Shoot ! I am not afraid ! — Kill everybody ! — 
 He got away ! — Away ! — ' 
 
 " Her delirium lasted the rest of the time. She did 
 not recognize anybody. She died that very day, at noon. 
 Before that time, at eight o'clock, I was taken to the 
 police station, and then to prison. While staying theiQ
 
 THE KREUTZER SONATA 415 
 
 eleven months and waiting for the trial, 1 thought about 
 myself and my past, and 1 understood it. I began to 
 understand it on the third day. On the third day they 
 took me back there — " 
 
 He wanted to say something, but stopped, being unable 
 to keep back his sobs. Having collected himself, he 
 continued : 
 
 " I began to understand only when she was in her 
 grave — " 
 
 He sobbed, but immediately continued in a hurry : 
 
 " Only when I saw her dead face I understood all I 
 had done. I understood that it was I who had killed 
 her ; that through me she, who had been alive, moving, 
 warm, had become immovable, waxlike, cold ; and that 
 this could never, nowhere, in no way, be mended. He 
 who has not passed through it cannot comprehend it. 
 Ugh ! Ugh ! Ugh ! " he cried several times and grew 
 silent. 
 
 We sat for a long time in silence. He sobbed and 
 trembled, sitting silently in front of me. His face grew 
 thin and drawn and his mouth was stretched out to its 
 full width. 
 
 " Yes," he suddenly exclaimed, " if I had known then 
 what I know now, things would have been different. I 
 would not have married her for anything — I would not 
 have married at all." 
 
 Again we sat for a long time in silence. 
 
 " AVell, forgive me — " He turned away from me, lay 
 down on the bench, and covered himself with his plaid. 
 At the station where I had to get off, — it was eight 
 o'clock in the morning, — I went up to him, to bid him 
 good-bye. I did not know whether he was asleep or only 
 pretended to be, but he did not stir. I touched him with 
 my hand. He uncovered himself, and it was evident that 
 he was not sleeping. 
 
 "Good-bye," 1 said, offering him my hand. He gave
 
 416 THE KREUTZEK SONATA 
 
 me his and barely smiled such a pitiable smile that I felt 
 like weeping. 
 
 " Yes, forgive me," he repeated the word with which he 
 had concluded his story.
 
 EPILOGUE TO THE KREUT- 
 ZER SONATA 
 
 1890
 
 EPILOGUE TO THE KREUT- 
 ZER SONATA 
 
 I HAVE received many letters from strangers asking me 
 to explain in simple and clear words what I think of the 
 subject of the story which I wrote under the title of 
 the '•' Kreutzer Sonata." I shall try to do so, that is, in 
 a few words to express, so far as possible, the essence of 
 what I had intended to convey by my story, and of the 
 conclusions at which one may arrive from it. 
 
 I wanted to say, in the first place, that in our society 
 there has formed itself a firm conviction, common to all 
 classes and supported by the false science, that sexual 
 intercourse is necessary for health, and that, since marriage 
 is not always possible, sexual intercourse outside of matri- 
 mony, which does not put men under any other obligations 
 than that of monetary payment, is quite natural and 
 worthy of emulation. This conviction has become so 
 general and deep-rooted that parents, by the advice of 
 doctors, arrange debauchery for their children ; govern- 
 ments, whose only meaning consists in the care for the 
 moral well-being of its citizens, establish debauchery, 
 that is, regulate a whole class of women, who are to perish 
 bodily and morally, in order to satisfy the imaginary 
 needs of men, while unmarried men abandon themselves 
 to this debauchery with the calmest conscience. 
 
 And so I wanted to say that this is not good, because 
 it is not right that for the sake of the health of one class 
 of people it should be necessary to ruin the bodies and 
 souls of another class, just as it is not right that for the 
 
 419
 
 420 EPILOGUE TO THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 sake of the health of one class of people it should be 
 necessary to drink the blood of others. 
 
 The natural conclusion from this, it seems to me, is 
 that it is not good to submit to this delusion and decep- 
 tion. And, in order not to submit, it is necessary, in the 
 first place, not to believe in this immoral doctrine, no 
 matter by what imaginary science it may be supported, 
 and, in the second, to understand that such sexual inter- 
 course, where people free themselves from its possible 
 consequences, from children, or shift the v/hole burden of 
 these consequences to the woman, or prevent the possi- 
 bility of childbirth, — that such sexual intercourse is a 
 transgression of the simplest requirement of morality, that 
 it is base, and that, therefore, unmarried men, who do not 
 wish to live basely, must not do it. 
 
 But, in order to be able to abstain, they must, in 
 addition, lead a natural life, not drink, not stuff them- 
 selves, not eat meat, and not avoid labour (I do not mean 
 gymnastics, nor play, but fatiguing labour); they must 
 not permit themselves to think of the possibihty of inter- 
 course with strange women, just as all men exclude the 
 possibility of intercourse between themselves and their 
 mothers, sisters, relatives, and the wives of their friends. 
 
 Any man may find a hundred proofs about him that 
 continence is possible and less dangerous and injurious to 
 him than non-continence. 
 
 So much in the first place. 
 
 Secondly, that in our society, on account of the current 
 view in regard to carnal love as not only a necessary con- 
 dition of health and as a pleasure, but also as a poetical, 
 exalted good of life, marital infidelity has become in all 
 strata of society (especially among the peasants, thanks 
 to militarism) a most common phenomenon. 
 
 I assume that this is not good. The conclusion which 
 springs from it is that one ought not to do it. 
 
 But, in order not to do it, it is necessary for the view
 
 EPILOGUE TO THE KREUTZER SONATA 421 
 
 in regard to carnal love to change. Men and women 
 ought to be educated in then- homes and by public opinion 
 to look, before and after marriage, on infatuation and the 
 carnal love connected with it, not as upon a poetical and 
 exalted condition, such as it is now considered to be, but as 
 upon an animal condition, degrading to man ; it is neces- 
 sary that the violation of a promise of fidelity, given at 
 marriage, should be punished by public opinion certainly 
 in no lesser degree than are punished the violations of 
 monetary obligations and mercantile frauds, and that it 
 should not be extolled, as it is now, in novels, poetry, 
 songs, operas, etc. 
 
 So much in the second place. 
 
 TJiirdly, that in our society, again on account of the 
 false meaning which is ascribed to carnal love, the pro- 
 creation of children has lost its purpose, and, instead of 
 being the aim and justification of marital relations, has 
 become a liindrauce in the pleasant continuation of 
 amatory relations ; that, therefore, outside of wedlock and 
 in wedlock, there has begun to spread, at the advice of 
 the servants of the medical science, the use of means 
 depriving women of the possibility of childbirth, or there 
 has arisen a custom, a habit (that which had not been 
 before and even now is not found in patriarchal peas- 
 ant families) of continuing the conjugal relations during 
 pregnancy and nursing. I assume that this is not 
 good. 
 
 It is not good to use means preventive of childbirth, 
 in the first place, because people are thus relieved of 
 cares and labours in regard to children, who serve as a 
 redemption of carnal love, and, in the second, because it 
 comes very near to the act which is most repulsive to 
 a human conscience, to murder. Nor is non-continence 
 during pregnancy and nursing good, because it is 
 destructive of the physical,. and still more of the mental, 
 powers of woman. The conclusion which springs from
 
 422 EPILOGUE TO THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 this is that it is not good to do it. But, in order not to 
 do it, it must be understood that continence, which forms 
 a necessary condition of human dignity in the single state, 
 is still more binding in marriage. 
 
 So much in the third place. 
 
 Fourthly, that in our society, where children appear as 
 a hindrance to enjoyment, or as an unfortunate accident, 
 or as a pecuhar kind of enjoyment, when there are borne 
 a predetermined number of them, these children are 
 brought up, not in conformity with the problems of 
 human existence, with which they will be confronted as 
 sensible and loving beings, but only in conformity with 
 those pleasures which they may afford their parents. In 
 consequence of this, the children of human beings are 
 brought up like the young of animals, so that the chief 
 problem of the parents does not consist in preparing them 
 for an activity which would be worthy of man, but (in 
 which view the parents are supported by the false science 
 called medicine) in feeding them as well as possible, in 
 increasing their stature, in making them clean, white, 
 beautiful (if this is not done in the lower classes, the 
 fault is that of circumstances, for the view there held is 
 the same). In these pampered children, as in all overfed 
 animals, there is early developed an unnatural and in- 
 superable sensuality, which is the cause of terrible suffering 
 for these children in their youtli. The attire, the read- 
 ing, the shows, the music, the dances, the sweet food, 
 the whole circumstance of hfe, from the pictures on the 
 boxes to the novels, stories, and poems, — everything still 
 more fans this sensuality, and in consequence of this, the 
 most terrible sexual vices and diseases become the usual 
 conditions of the bringing up of children of both sexes, 
 and frequently remain so through manhood. 
 
 I assume that this is not good. The conclusion which 
 may be drawn from it is that we must stop bringing up 
 the children of men like the young of animals, and that
 
 EPILOGUE TO THE KREUTZER SONATA 423 
 
 other aims must be kept in view in the bringing up of 
 children besides a beautiful, well-kept body. 
 
 So much in the fourth place. 
 
 Fifthly, that in our society infatuation between a young 
 man and a young woman, which has, after all, carnal love 
 at its base, has been exalted into the highest poetical aim 
 of human tendencies, to which all the art and poetry of 
 our society bear witness. The best part of young people's 
 lives are passed, by men, in discovering and taking posses- 
 sion of the best objects of love in the form of love-affairs 
 or of marriage, and by women and girls, in alluring and 
 drawing men into love-affairs or mamage. 
 
 Thus the best powers of people are wasted not only on 
 unproductive, but even on dangerous, work. From this 
 originates the greater part of the senseless luxury of our 
 life ; from this comes the indolence of men and the shame- 
 lessness of women, who do not disdain the fashions which 
 are borrowed from notoriously debauched women, and 
 which lay bare and accentuate the parts of the body that 
 provoke sensuality. 
 
 I assume that this is not good. 
 
 It is not good because the attainment of the aim of 
 being united in wedlock or of being outside of wedlock 
 with the object of love, however nmch extolled by poetry 
 it may be, is unworthy of man, just as the aim of obtain- 
 ing sweet and superabundant food, which presents itself 
 to many as the highest good, is unworthy of man. 
 
 The conclusion to which we may arrive from this is 
 that we must cease thinking that carnal love is something 
 peculiarly exalted ; we must come to understand that the 
 aim which is worthy of man is to serve humanity, his 
 country, science, or art (let alone serving God), whatever 
 it may be, as long as it is worthy of man, and that this 
 aim is not attained through a union with the object of 
 love in wedlock or outside of wedlock, but that, on the 
 contrary, infatuation and union with the object of love
 
 424 EPILOGUE TO THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 (however much the opposite may be attempted to be 
 proved in poetry aud prose) never makes the attaiument 
 of the aim which is w^orthy of man any easier, but always 
 impedes it. 
 
 So much in the fifth place. 
 
 These are the essentials which I wished to express, and 
 which, I think, I have expressed in my story. It seemed 
 to me that there might be a difference of opinion as to 
 how the evil to which these propositions point may be 
 mended, but that it was impossible not to admit their 
 truth. It seemed to me that it was not possible to deny 
 the truth of these propositions, in the first place, be- 
 cause they are entirely in agreement with the progress 
 of humanity, which has always marched from looseness of 
 morals to an ever increasing chastity, and with the moral 
 consciousness of society, with our conscience, which always 
 condemns looseness of morals and values chastity ; and,' 
 in the second place, because these propositions are the 
 inevitable deductions from the teaching of the Gospel, 
 which we profess, or, at least, even though it be only 
 unconsciously, assume as the basis for our ideas of 
 morality. 
 
 But it has turned out quite differently. 
 
 Nobody, it is true, directly disputes the proposition that 
 debauchery should not be practised, either before or after 
 marriage, that it is wrong artificially to destroy childbirth, 
 that children are not to be made playthings, and that 
 amatory union ought not to be placed higher than any- 
 thing else, — in short, nobody denies that chastity is 
 better than looseness of morals. But they say : " If the 
 single state is better than wedlock, then people ought 
 evidently to do that which is better. But, if people do 
 that, then the human race will come to an end, and 
 therefore the destruction of the human race cannot be its 
 ideal." Yet, not to mention the fact that the destruction 
 of the human race is not a new conception for the people
 
 EPILOGUE TO THE KREUTZER SONATA 425 
 
 of this world, being a dogma of faith with the religious 
 people and for the scientific men an inevitable deduction 
 from the observations in regard to the sun's congealment, 
 — there is in this expression a great, wide-spread, and old 
 misunderstanding. They say : " If people will reach the 
 ideal of complete chastity, they will be destroyed, and 
 therefore the ideal is wrong." But those who say so 
 purposely or unwittingly mix up two different things, — 
 a precept and an ideal. 
 
 Chastity is not a rule or a precept, but an ideal, or, 
 more correctly, one of its conditions. An ideal is only 
 then an ideal when its reaHzation is possible in the idea 
 only, in thought, when it presents itself as attainable only 
 at infinity, and when, therefore, the approach to it is 
 infinite. If an ideal were not only attainable, but we 
 could imagine its reahzation, it would cease to be an 
 ideal. Such is Christ's ideal, the estabhshment of the 
 kingdom of God upon earth, — an ideal which had been 
 foretold even by the prophets when they said that the 
 time would come when the people would be instructed 
 by God, when the swords would be forged into plough- 
 shares and the spears into sickles, when the lion would 
 lie with the lamb, when all the creatures would be united 
 in love. The whole meaning of human life consists in a 
 motion toward this ideal, and therefore the striving after 
 the Christian ideal, in all its entirety, and after chastity, 
 as one of the conditions of this ideal, not only does not 
 exclude the possibility of life, but, on the contrary, the 
 absence of this Christian ideal would destroy all move- 
 ment forward and, consequently, all possibility of life. 
 
 The reflection that the human race would come to an 
 end if people should with all their power tend toward 
 chastity resembles that other reflection which might be 
 made (and it is made), that the human race will perish if 
 people, instead of struggling for existence, should with all 
 their power tend to the reahzation of love for their neigh-
 
 426 EPILOGUE TO THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 bour, for their enemies, for all liviug beings. Such reflec- 
 tions spring from the inability to distinguish between two 
 rules of moral guidance. 
 
 Just as there are two ways for indicating the road to a 
 traveller, even thus there are two ways for moral guid- 
 ance in the case of a man who is seeking the truth. One 
 way consists in indicating to the man the objects which 
 he will come across, and then he is guided by these 
 objects. 
 
 The other way consists in giving the man the direction 
 by the compass, which he is carrying with him, and 
 on which he observes the one immutable direction, and, 
 consequently, every deflection from it. 
 
 The first way of moral guidance is the way of external 
 definitions, of rules : man is given definite tokens of acts 
 which he must perform and which not. 
 
 " Observe the Sabbath, be circumcised, do not steal, 
 drink no intoxicating drink, kill no living being, give 
 the tithe to the poor, make your ablutions, and pray five 
 times a day," and so fortli, — such are the injunctions 
 of external religious teachings, — of the Brahmanical, 
 Buddhistic, Mohammedan, Hebrew, and the ecclesiastic, 
 falsely called Christian. 
 
 The other way is to indicate to man unattainable per- 
 fection, the striving after which man is cognizant of : man 
 has pointed out to him the ideal, in relation to which he 
 is at any time able to see the degree of his divergence 
 from it. 
 
 " Love God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, 
 and with all thy mind, and thy neighbour as thyself. — 
 Be ye perfect, even as your Father which is in Heaven 
 is perfect." 
 
 Such is the teaching of Christ. 
 
 The verification of the execution of external religious 
 tenets is the coincidence of the acts with the injunctions 
 of these tenets, and this coincidence is possible.
 
 EPILOGUE TO THE KREUTZER SONATA 427 
 
 The verification of the execution of Christ's teaching 
 is the consciousness of the degree of its non-correspond- 
 euce with the ideal perfection. (The degree of approx- 
 imation is not visible ; what is visible is the deflection 
 from perfection.) 
 
 A man who professes an external law is a man who is 
 standing in the light of a lamp which is attached to a 
 post. He is standing in the light of this lamp, he sees 
 the light, and he has no other place to go to. A man who 
 professes the teaching of Christ is like a man carrying a 
 lamp before him on a more or less long pole : the hght is 
 always before him ; it always incites him to follow it, and 
 continually opens up in front of him a new illuminated 
 space which draws him on. 
 
 The Pharisee thanks God for executing everything. 
 
 The rich youth also executes everything from his child- 
 hood, and he cannot understand what may be wanting to 
 him. Nor can they think otherwise : there is not in front 
 of them that toward which they may continue to strive. 
 The tithe has been delivered, the Sabbath has been 
 kept, the parents are respected, there is no adultery, no 
 theft, no murder. What else shall it be ? But in him 
 who professes the Christian teaching the attainment of 
 any new round of perfection incites the necessity of step- 
 ping on the next round, from which a still higher round 
 is perceived, and so on without end. He who professes 
 Christ's Law is always in the position of the publican. 
 He always feels himself imperfect, not seeing the road 
 behind him, which he has passed, but only the road in 
 front of him, which he has not yet travelled upon and 
 which he must pass over. 
 
 In this consists the difference between the teaching of 
 Christ and all other religious teachings, — a difference 
 consisting not in the difference of demands, but in the 
 difference of the way of guiding men. Christ gave no 
 definitions of life. He never established any institutions,
 
 42S EPILOCiUE TO THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 he never established marriage. But people who do not 
 understand the peculiarities of Christ's teaching, who are 
 accustomed to external tenets, and who wish to feel them- 
 selves in the right, as does the Pharisee, contrary to the 
 whole spirit of Christ's teaching, — hr.ve out of the letter 
 made au external teaching of rules, and have substituted 
 this teaching for Christ's true teaching of the ideal. 
 
 The church teachings, which call themselves Christian, 
 have in all manifestations of life substituted for Christ's 
 teaching and ideal the external injunctions and rules 
 which are contrary to the spirit of the teaching. This 
 has l)8en done in reference to government, courts, armies, 
 churches, divine service ; this has also been done in 
 reference to marriage. Disregarding the fact that Christ 
 nowhere established marriage, — on the contrary, when- 
 ever he mentioned an external rule it was to oppose 
 it (" Forsake thy wife and follow me "), — the church 
 teachings, which call themselves Christian, have estab- 
 lished marriage as a Christian institution, that is, they 
 have established external observances which make sexual 
 love sinless and entirely lawful for a Christian. 
 
 Since in the true Christian teaching there are no foun- 
 dations for the institution of marriage, the result has been 
 that people of our world have departed from one shore 
 without landing on the other, that is, they do not believe, 
 in reality, in the church definitions of marriage, feeling 
 that this institution has no foundation in the Christian 
 teaching, and at the same time not seeing before them 
 Christ's ideal, which is concealed by the church doctrine, 
 — the striving after complete chastity, they are left with- 
 out any guidance in relation to marriage. From this comes 
 the seemingly strange phenomenon that with the Jews, 
 Mohammedans, Lamaists, and others, who profess relig- 
 ious teachings of a much lower order than the Christian, 
 but who possess precise external injunctions in regard to 
 marriage, the family principle and conjugal fidelity are
 
 EPILOGUE TO THE KREUTZER SONATA 429 
 
 incomparably more firmly rooted than with the so-called 
 Christians. 
 
 They have definite concubinage, and polygamy, and 
 polyandry, limited by certain restrictions. But with us 
 there is complete looseness, — there is concubinage, and 
 polygamy, and polyandry, not subject to any limitations, 
 and concealed under the aspect of supposed monogamy. 
 
 Only because over a small part of the persons united 
 the clergy performs a certain ceremony, called church 
 marriage, people of our world naively or hypocritically 
 imagine that they are living in matrimony. 
 
 There cannot be and never has been such a thing as 
 Christian marriage, just as there has not been and cannot 
 be a Christian divine service (Matt. vi. 5—12 ; John iv. 21), 
 nor any Christian teachers and fathers (Matt, xxiii. 8-10), 
 nor Christian property, nor army, nor courts, nor state. 
 
 Thus the early Christians always understood it. 
 
 The Christian's ideal is love of God and his neighbour, 
 self-renunciation in order to serve God and his neighbour ; 
 carnal love, marriage, means serving oneself, and there- 
 fore is, in any case, a hindrance in the service of God and 
 men, and, consequently, from the Christian point of view, 
 a fall, a sin. 
 
 Entering into matrimony cannot cooperate with the 
 service of God and men even in that case when those 
 who enter into marriage have in view the continuation 
 of the human race. Eather than enter into marriage in 
 order to procreate children, it would be much simpler for 
 such people to sustain and save the lives of those millions 
 of children who are perishing around us through want of 
 material, not to say of spiritual, food. 
 
 Only then could a Christian enter into marriage with- 
 out the consciousness of a fall, a sin, if he saw and knew 
 all the existinej lives of children to be secure. 
 
 "We may reject the teaching of Christ, that teaching 
 which permeates all our life and upon which all our
 
 430 EPILOGUE TO THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 morality is based, but, if we accept this teaching, we can- 
 not fail to acknowledge that it points out the ideal of 
 complete chastity. 
 
 The Gospel says clearly and without any possibility 
 of misinterpretation, in the first place, that a married 
 man must not be divorced from his wife, in order to 
 take another, and that he must live with the one with 
 whom he has come together (Matt. v. 31-32; xix. 8); 
 in the second place, that for man in general, both mar- 
 ried and unmarried man, it is sinful to look upon woman 
 as an object of enjoyment (Matt. v. 28-29), and, in 
 the third place, that for an unmarried man it is better 
 not to marry at all, that is, to be absolutely chaste (Matt, 
 xix. 10-12). 
 
 Many, very many people will regard these thoughts as 
 strange and even contradictory. They really are contra- 
 dictory, but not among themselves. These thoughts are 
 contradictory to our whole life, and involuntarily the 
 doubt arises who is right : these thoughts, or the lives of 
 milhons of people and my own ? I experienced the same 
 feeling in the highest degree, as I arrived at the convic- 
 tions which I am expounding here : I had not in the 
 least expected that the progress of my thoughts would 
 bring me to what it has. I was terrified at my deduc- 
 tions and wished not to believe them, but it was impos- 
 sible not to believe. However much these deductions 
 contradict the whole structure of our life, however much 
 they contradict that which I thought and expressed 
 before, i was compelled to acknowledge them. 
 
 "All these are general reflections, which may be just. 
 But they refer to the teaching of Christ and are obliga- 
 tory for those who profess it ; but life is life, and it is 
 impossible, by pointing out Christ's unattainable ideal, 
 to leave people in one of the most burning and common 
 questions, which produces most misery, with nothing but 
 this ideal and without any guidance whatsoever.
 
 EPILOGUE TO THE KREUTZER SONATA 431 
 
 " A young, impassioned man will at first be carried 
 away by tbe ideal ; then he will not be able to endure it 
 and will break loose, and, not knowmg, nor acknowledg- 
 ing any rules, he will fall into complete debauchery ! " 
 
 Thus they reason usually. 
 
 " Christ's ideal is unattainable, therefore it cannot serve 
 us as a guide of life ; we may speak and dream of it, but 
 it is not applicable to life, and therefore we must abandon 
 it. We need, not an ideal, but a rule, a guidance, which 
 shall be according to our strength, according to the mean 
 average of the moral powers of our society : an honour- 
 able church marriage, or even one which is not entirely 
 honourable, where one of the parties entering into matri- 
 mony, as the man with us, has already come together 
 with many individuals of the other sex, or at least mar- 
 riage with the possibility of divorce, or civil marriage, or 
 (proceeding in the same path) a Japanese marriage, for a 
 definite time, — why may we not also reach the houses 
 of prostitution ? " 
 
 They say that this is better than street debauchery. 
 The trouble is that, having allowed ourselves to degrade 
 the ideal in accordauce with our weakness, we are unable 
 to find tlie limit at which to stop. 
 
 But tliis reflection is false from the start : first of all 
 it is a false supposition that the ideal of infinite perfec- 
 tion cannot be a guidance for life, and that, looking at it, 
 it is necessary to dismiss it with a motion of the hand, 
 saying that it is useless to me because I can never attain 
 it, or to degrade the ideal to the level on which my 
 weakness wants to stand. 
 
 To reflect in this manner is the same as though a navi- 
 gator should say : " Since I cannot go in the direction 
 indicated by the compass, I shall throw away the com- 
 pass or cease looking at it, that is, I will abandon the 
 ideal or will fasten the needle of the compass to the place 
 which at a given moment wHl correspond to the direction
 
 432 EPILOGUE TO THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 of my A'essel, that is, I will degrade the ideal in accord- 
 ance with my weakness." 
 
 The ideal of perfection which Christ has given us is not 
 a dream or a subject for rhetorical sermons, but a most 
 necessary, most accessible guide of moral life for man, 
 just as the compass is a necessary and accessible imple- 
 ment guiding the navigator ; all that is necessary is to 
 believe in the one as in the other. In whatever situation 
 a man may be, the teaching about the ideal, given by 
 Christ, is sufficient in order to obtain the safest indication 
 of those acts which one may and which one may not per- 
 form. But it is necessary completely to believe in this 
 teaching, this one teaching, and to stop believing in any 
 other, just as it is necessary for the navigator to believe 
 in the compass, and to stop looking at and being guided 
 by what he sees on both sides. One must know how to 
 be guided by the Christian teaching, how to be guided by 
 the compass, and for this it is most important to under- 
 stand one's position, and to be able not to be afraid pre- 
 cisely to indicate one's own deflection from the one, ideal 
 direction. No matter on what round man may stand, 
 there is always a possibility of his approaching this ideal, 
 and no position of his can be such that he should be able 
 to say that he has attained it and no longer can strive 
 after a greater approximation. 
 
 Such is the striving of man after the Cliristian- ideal in 
 general and after chastity in particular. If the most varied 
 positions of people, from innocent childhood until mar- 
 riage, when continence is not practised, were to be con- 
 sidered in respect to the sexual question, then at every 
 stage between these two positions the teaching of Christ, 
 with its ideal which it puts forward, will always serve as 
 a clear and definite guide to what man ought and ought 
 not to do at every one of these stages. 
 
 What are a pure young man and girl to do ? To keep 
 themselves pure against temptations, and, in order that
 
 EPILOGUE TO THE KREUTZER SONATA 433 
 
 they may be able to give all their strength to the service 
 of God and men, to strive after a greater and greater 
 chastity of thoughts and desires. 
 
 What are a young man and girl to do, who have fallen 
 a prey to temptations, whose thoughts are absorbed in 
 indefinite love or in love for a certain individual, and 
 who thus have lost a certain portion of their ability to 
 serve God and men ? Again the same : not to allow 
 themselves to fall, knowing that such weakness will not 
 free them from temptation, but will only strengthen it, 
 and to continue to strive after greater and greater chas- 
 tity in order to be able the more fully to serve God and 
 men. 
 
 What are people to do if they have not come out victo- 
 rious from the struggle and have fallen ? To look upon 
 their fall not as a lawful enjoyment, as people now do, 
 when it is justified by the ceremony of marriage, not as 
 an accidental enjoyment which may be repeated with 
 others, not as a misfortune if the fall has been committed 
 with an inferior person and without the ceremony, 
 but to look upon this first fall as the only one, and 
 upon themselves as having entered upon an indissoluble 
 marriage. 
 
 This entering into marriage, with the consequences 
 springing from it, the birth of children, determines for 
 those who have entered into matrimony a new, more hm- 
 ited form of serving God and men. Before marriage man 
 could serve God and men directly, in most varied forms, 
 but his entering into matrimony limits his field of action 
 and demands of him the bringing up and education of the 
 progeny arising from marriage, the future servants of God 
 and men. 
 
 What are a man and a woman to do, who are living in 
 wedlock and performing that limited service of God and 
 men, by means of bringing up and educating their chil- 
 dren, as befits their position ?
 
 434 EPILOGUE TO THE KREUTZER SONATA 
 
 Again the same : to strive together after liberation 
 from temptation, after self-purification, and cessation of 
 sin, bj' exchauging the relations which impede the general 
 and particular service of God and men, by exchanging 
 carnal love for the pure relations of brother and sister. 
 
 Therefore it is not true that we are not able to be 
 guided by Christ's ideal because it is so high, so perfect, 
 and so unattainable. We cannot be guided by it only 
 because we are lying to ourselves and deceiving our- 
 selves. 
 
 When we say that we must have more realizable rules 
 than Christ's ideal, or else we, without reaching Christ's 
 ideal, shall fall into debauchery, we do not mean by this 
 that Christ's ideal is too high for us, but that we do not 
 believe in it and that we do not wish to determine our 
 acts by this ideal. 
 
 When we say that having once fallen we become sub- 
 ject to debauchery, we only say by this that we have 
 decided in advance that a fall with an inferior individual 
 is not a sin, but a pastime, an infatuation, which need not 
 be mended by what we call marriage. But if we under- 
 stood that the fall is a sin which must and can be re- 
 deemed only by the indissolubility of marriage and all 
 the activity which springs from the education of children 
 born in wedlock, then the fall could in no way be the 
 cause of becoming debauched. 
 
 This would, in reality, be the same as though a farmer 
 should not consider as a sowing that sowing which gave 
 him no crop, but, sowing in a second and third place, 
 should regard as real sowing that which was successful. 
 It is obvious that that man would ruin much land and 
 seed, and would never learn to sow properly. Make chas- 
 tity your ideal, consider every fall, of any person, with 
 any person, as the only marriage, indissoluble through life, 
 and it wdll become clear that the guidance given by Christ 
 is not only sufficient but also the only possible.
 
 EPILOGUE TO THE KREUTZER SONATA 435 
 
 " Man is weak, — he must receive a task which is 
 according to his strength," say people. This amounts 
 to saying : " My hands are weak and I cannot draw a 
 straight line, that is, one which is the shortest distance 
 between two jjoints, and therefore, in order to make it 
 easier for myself, though wishing to draw a straight line, 
 I will take a curved or a broken line as my guide." The 
 weaker my hand is, the more perfect must my guide be. 
 
 It is not right, having come to know the Christian 
 teaching of the ideal, to act as though we did not know 
 it, and to substitute external definitions for it. The Chris- 
 tian teaching of the ideal is open to humanity because it 
 can guide it at its present age. Humanity has passed 
 out from external religious injunctions, and nobody ■ 
 believes in them. 
 
 The Christian doctrine of the ideal is the only one 
 which can guide humanity. We must not, we should 
 not substitute external rules for the ideal of Christ, but 
 this ideal must be kept firmly before us in all its purity, 
 and, above everything else, we must believe in it. 
 
 To him who was navigating near the shore it was 
 possible to say : " Watch that elevation, promontory, 
 tower," and so forth. 
 
 But a time came when the navigators passed away 
 from the shore, and their guides could be and must be 
 only the unattainable luminaries and the compass which 
 points out the direction. Both are given to us.
 
 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN 
 THE SEXES 
 
 i88 i8qo
 
 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN 
 THE SEXES 
 
 Among the letters which I received from various places 
 in reference to the " Kreutzer Sonata " and the " Epilogue," 
 vphich show that the necessity of changing our view on 
 the relation of the sexes has been recognized by others 
 as well, — by a large majority of thinking people, whose 
 voices are not heard and not noticed only because they 
 are drowned by the cry of the people of the crowd, who 
 stubbornly and rancorously defend the usual order of 
 things, which abets their passions, — among these letters 
 I received, on October 7, 1890, the following letter, 
 with the enclosure of a pamphlet entitled Diana, of 
 which it makes mention. Here is the letter: 
 
 « New York, October 7, 1890. 
 
 " We have the pleasure of sending you a small pam- 
 phlet entitled : Diana, a psycho-physiological essay on 
 sexual relations for married men and tvomen, which, we 
 hope, you will receive. 
 
 " Ever since your production, * The Kreutzer Sonata,' 
 made its appearance in America, many have been saying : 
 Diana fulfils, explains, and makes possible Tolstoy's 
 theories. And so we have decided to send you this 
 pamphlet, so that you may be able to judge for yourself. 
 
 " Prating that the wish of your heart be fulfilled, we 
 remain. Yours sincerely. Burns Co. 
 
 " We shall be happy if you inform us of the receipt of 
 the pamphlet." 
 
 439
 
 440 ON THE RELATION- BETWEEN" THE SEXES 
 
 Before that I had received from France a letter from 
 Angfele Frau9oise and her pamphlet. 
 
 In this letter Mrs. Aiig^le informed me of the existence 
 of two societies which have for their aim the encourage- 
 ment of the purity of the sexual relations, — one in Eng- 
 land, and another in France, — Societe d'amoicr pur. In the 
 article by Mrs. Angfele the same thoughts were expressed 
 as in the Diana, but less clearly and less definitely, and 
 with a shade of mysticism. 
 
 The thoughts expressed in the pamphlet Diana, though 
 having at their base not the Christian, but rather a pagan, 
 Platonic world conception, are so new and so interesting, 
 and so obviously show the irrationality of the established 
 dissipation, both in the celibate and in the married life of 
 our society, that I want to share these thoughts with my 
 readers. 
 
 The fundamental idea of the pamphlet, the motto 
 of which is, " And they twain shall be one flesh," is the 
 following : 
 
 The difference in the organization of man and woman 
 exists not only in a physiological relation, but also in 
 other moral qualities, which in man are called mascu- 
 linity, in woman femininity. The attraction between the 
 sexes is not based on the striving after physical inter- 
 course alone, but also on mutual attraction, which these 
 opposite properties of the sexes exert upon one another, 
 femininity upon man and masculinity upon woman. One 
 sex strives to be complemented by the other, and so the 
 attraction between the sexes produces an equal tendency 
 toward the spiritual as toward the physical union. The 
 strivings after physical and after spiritual intercourse are 
 manifestations of one and the same source of attrac- 
 tion, which are in such interdependence that the gratifi- 
 cation of one striving invariably weakens the other. In 
 proportion as the striving after spiritual intercourse is 
 satisfied, the striving after the physical union is weakened
 
 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 441 
 
 or entirely destroyed, and vice versa: the gratification 
 of the physical attraction M^eakens and destroys the 
 spiritual. And so the attraction between the sexes is npt 
 merely physical, productive of the propagation of children, 
 but also the striving of the two sexes toward oue another, 
 capable of assuming the form of the most spiritual inter- 
 course of ideas alone, of mere animal intercourse, produc- 
 tive of the propagation of children, aud of all the various 
 steps between the two. The question as to the degree at 
 which the approximation of the sexes stops is decided 
 by this, what intercourse the uniting pair consider good, 
 necessary, and so desirable for a given time or for ever, 
 (A remarkable illustration of the fact that the relation 
 between the sexes is subject to the conception of what is 
 considered good, necessary, aud desirable is found in the 
 striking custom of Little-Eussian " bridegrooming," which 
 consists m this, that the betrothed lads for years pass the 
 nights with their brides without violating their virginity.) 
 A full gratification for the individual uniting pair 
 is found in the degree which these persons consider good, 
 necessary, and desirable, and depends on their personal 
 view. But independently of it, naturally, objectively, one 
 degree of intercourse must give more satisfaction to all 
 than any other form of it. Now what intercourse gives 
 this highest satisfaction naturally, to all, independently 
 of the personal view of the uniting pair, — the one which 
 approaches the spiritual, or the one which approaches the 
 physical ? The answer to this question, clear and indu- 
 bitable, though contradicting everything which people in 
 our society are in the habit of thinking about it, consists 
 in this, that the nearer the form of intercourse is to 
 the physical limit, the more is the desire fanned, and the 
 less satisfaction is received ; the nearer it is to the oppo- 
 site extreme, to the spiritual limit, the less are new de- 
 sires evoked, the fuller is the satisfaction. The nearer 
 to the first, the more destructive of vital force, and the
 
 442 ON" THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 
 
 nearer to the second, the spiritual, the more calm, joyous, 
 and strong is the mutual condition. 
 
 The union of man and woman into one flesh, in the 
 form of inseparable monogamy, the author considers an 
 indispensable condition of the highest human develop- 
 ment. Marriage, therefore, forming a natural and desir- 
 able condition for all men who have reached maturity, 
 is, according to the author, not necessarily a physical 
 union, but may also be spiritual. According to conditions 
 and temperaments, but chiefly, according to what the 
 uniting pair consider necessary, good, and desirable, mar- 
 riage will for some time approach spiritual intercourse, and 
 for others physical intercourse ; but the more the inter- 
 course will approach the spiritual, the fuller will its 
 satisfaction be. 
 
 Since the author recognizes that the same sexual ten- 
 dencies may lead to spiritual intercourse, - — to love, ; — and 
 to physical intercourse, — to productiveness and child- 
 birth, — and since one activity passes into the other in 
 dependence on consciousness, he naturally not only does 
 not recognize the impossibility of continence, but even 
 considers it natural and a necessary condition of a rational 
 sexual hygiene, both in marriage and outside it. 
 
 The whole article is enhanced by a rich selection of 
 examples and illustrations of what it tells about, and 
 by physiological data as to the processes of the sexual 
 relations, their effects upon the organism, and the possi- 
 bility of consciously directing them upon this path or that, 
 — to love or to productiveness. In confirmation of his 
 idea the author quotes the words of Herbert Spencer: 
 " If a certain law," says Spencer, " contributes to the good 
 of the human race, human nature will of necessity sub- 
 mit to it, so that the submission to it will become a pleas- 
 ure to man." And so we must not, says the author, 
 depend too much on established habits and conditions 
 which now surround us, but must rather look upon what
 
 ON THE KELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 443 
 
 a man must and can be in the brilliant future before 
 him. 
 
 The author expounds the essence of everything said as 
 follows. The fundamental theory of Diana is this, that 
 the relations between the sexes have two functions : the 
 productive and the love function, and that the sexual force, 
 so long as there is no conscious desire to have children, 
 ought always to be directed upon the path of love. The 
 manifestation which this force will assume depends on 
 reason and on habits, in consequence of which the gradual 
 agreement of reason with the principle here expounded 
 and the gradual formation of habits in agreement with 
 them will free men from many sufferings and will give 
 them the gratification of their sexual strivings. 
 
 At the end of the book there is added a remarkable 
 " Letter to parents and instructors," by Eliza Burns. 
 This letter, though treating subjects which are considered 
 indecent (caUing things by their names, and indeed it 
 could not be otherwise), can have such a beneficent 
 influence upon unfortunate youth, which is suffering from 
 excesses and irregularities, that the dissemination of this 
 letter among growTi men who in vain ruin their best forces 
 and their good, and chiefly among poor boys perishiog 
 only through ignorance, in families, schools, gymnasia, and 
 especially military schools and closed institutions, would 
 •be a true benefaction. 
 
 October I4, 1890.
 
 EXTEACTS FROM DIARIES AND PRIVATE 
 
 LETTERS 
 
 On sexual intercourse I have expressed my view, as 
 much as I could, in the epilogue to " The Kreutzer Sonata." 
 The whole question is decided briefly : a man must always, 
 under all circumstances, — whether he is married or single, 
 — be as chaste as possible, as Christ said, and Paul after 
 him. If he can be so continent as not to know a woman 
 at all, that is the best he can do. But if he cannot con- 
 tain himself, he must as rarely as possible submit to this 
 weakness, and by no means look upon the sexual inter- 
 course as upon a " jouissance." I think that any sincere 
 and serious man cannot help but look upon the matter in 
 this way, and that all men of this kind agree upon this. 
 
 And there is a letter from the editor of Tlie Adult on 
 free love. If I had time, I should like to write on this 
 subject. No doubt I will write about it. The main 
 thing is to show that the whole question is in securing 
 the greatest amount of pleasure for oneself, without any 
 thought of the consequences. Besides, they preach what 
 already exists and is very bad. Why will the absence of 
 external restraint mend the whole matter? I am, of 
 course, against all regulation and for full liberty, but the 
 ideal is chastity, and not enjoyment. 
 
 All the calamities which are begot by the sexual rela- 
 tions, by amorousness, are due to nothing but this, that 
 we mix up the carnal lust with the spiritual life, with, — 
 
 444
 
 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 445 
 
 it is terrible to say so, — with love ; we employ our reason, 
 not to condemn and determine this passion, but to deck 
 it out with the peacock feathers of spirituality. 
 
 This is where les extremes se touchent. To ascribe all 
 the attraction between the sexes to sexual lust seems very 
 material, whereas, on the contrary, it is a most spiritual 
 relation — to segregate from the spiritual sphere every- 
 thing which does not belong to it, in order to be able to 
 esteem it highly. 
 
 Passion, the source of the greatest calamities, we do not 
 lower or moderate, but, on the contrary, fan with all our 
 means, and then we complain that we suffer. 
 
 A woman who dresses herself up fans the passion in 
 herself. Even while dressing others up, she hves in 
 imagination in lust. For this reason -dresses exert such 
 an influence on women. 
 
 Fornicator is not a curse word, but a condition (I think 
 harlot is, too), a condition of unrest, curiosity, and demand 
 for novelty (like a drunkard), which comes from inter- 
 course for pleasure's sake, not with one, but with many. 
 One can contain oneself, but a drunkard is a drunkard, 
 and a fornicator is a fornicator, and they fall with the 
 first weakening. 
 
 What weakens us in our struggle with temptation is 
 this, that we busy ourselves in advance with the idea of 
 victory, that we take up a task which is above our strength, 
 a task which it is not in our power to do, or not to do. 
 We say to ourselves in advance, like a monk : " I promise 
 to be chaste," meaning by it external chastity. This is, in 
 the first place, impossible, because we cannot imagine 
 those conditions in which we may be placed, and in which 
 we shall not withstand the temptation. And, besides, it 
 is bad ; it is bad, because it does not aid us in reaching
 
 446 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 
 
 the goal, in approaching the highest chastity, but on the 
 contrary. 
 
 Having decided that their task consists in observing 
 external chastity, they either leave the world, avpid 
 women, like the monks on Mount Athos, or make them- 
 selves eunuchs and disdain that which is most important, 
 the internal struggle witli besetting thoughts in the world, 
 amidst temptations. This is the same as though a soldier 
 should say to himself that he would go to war, but only 
 under the condition that he should be certain to be vic- 
 torious. Such a soldier will have to avoid real enemies 
 and to fight with imaginary foes. Such a soldier will not 
 learn how to fight and will always be bad. 
 
 Besides, this placing before oneself the task of external 
 chastity and the hope, sometimes the certainty, of realiz- 
 ing it, have also this disadvantage, that, striving after it, 
 every temptation to which man is subject, and so much 
 the more the fall, at once destroys everything and makes 
 one doubt the possibility, even the legality, of the struggle. 
 " Consequently it is impossible to be chaste, and I have 
 put a false task before myself." And it is all over, and 
 the man abandons himself completely to lust and sinks 
 in it. It is the same as in the case of a soldier with an 
 amulet, which in his imagination makes him immune 
 against death and wounds. Such a soldier loses his last 
 bit of valour, and runs away at the slightest wound or 
 scratch which he receives. 
 
 Only this can be the task : the attainment of the 
 greatest chastity, in conformity with my character, my 
 temperament, and the conditions of my past and present, 
 
 — not before other men, who do not know what I have 
 to struggle against, but before myself and before God. 
 Then nothing impairs or arrests the motion ; then the 
 temptation, even the fall, — everything leads to one aim, 
 
 — to the departure from the animal and the approach to 
 God.
 
 ON THE RELATIOI^ BETWEEN THE SEXES 447 
 
 The Christian teaching does not determine the forms of 
 life, but only in all relations of man indicates the ideal, 
 the direction ; the same is true in the sexual question. 
 But the people who are not of a Christian spirit want 
 the determination of forms. For them was invented the 
 church marriage, which has nothing Christian about it. 
 But in the sexual relations, as in those others of violence, 
 of anger, we must not and should not leave out of sight 
 the ideal, or distort it. But it is this that the churchmen 
 have done with marriage. 
 
 *&^ 
 
 Through the misunderstanding of the Christian spirit 
 people are generally divided into Christians and non- 
 Christians. The coarsest division consists in regarding 
 only him who has been baptized as a Christian ; equally 
 incorrect is the division of men, though it is less coarse, 
 who on the basis of Christ's teaching live a pure domestic 
 life, who are not murderers, etc., and to call them Chris- 
 tians in contradistinction to those who live differently. 
 In Christianity there is no line of demarcation between a 
 Christian and a non-Christian. There is the light, the 
 ideal Christ ; and there is darkness, the animal, and — a 
 motion, in the name of Christ, toward Christ along this 
 path. 
 
 Even so the ideal in relation to the sexes is full, com- 
 plete chastity. A man who serves God can wish as little 
 to get married as to get drunk ; but there are various 
 stages on the path to chastity. There is one thing that 
 can be said for those who want an answer to the question, 
 " Shall I get married, or not ? " It is this : If you do not 
 see the ideal of chastity and do not feel the necessity of 
 abandoning yourself to it, then walk toward chastity, 
 without knowing it yourself, by the unchaste path of 
 marriage. Just as I, being tall of stature and seeing 
 before me a bell-tower, cannot point it out to an under- 
 sized man who is walking by my side and does not see it,
 
 448 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SF.XES 
 
 as the direction of his path, but am obliged to poiut out 
 to him some other laudmark on the same path: such a 
 landmark is honest marriage for those who do not see the 
 ideal of chastity. But this can be pointed out by me or 
 you ; Christ never pointed out anything else, nor could he 
 have pointed out anything but chastity. 
 
 To struggle, — even that is life, and that alone is life. 
 There is no rest whatever. The ideal is always ahead, and 
 I am never calm so long as I do not move toward it, even 
 if I do not reach it. 
 
 Take the ideal of celibacy. The gratification of the 
 physical sensation, which for a time calms passion, does 
 not satisfy me, just as the feeding of all the hungry 
 around me does not satisfy me in an economic sense. 
 What will satisfy you is nothing but the clear con- 
 templation of the ideal in all its height, a similarly 
 clear contemplation of your weakness in all its remote- 
 ness from the ideal, and the striving after an approach to 
 the ideal. This only will satisfy you, and not your plac- 
 ing yourself in such a position that you, by half-closing 
 your eyes, are able to avoid seeing the difference of your 
 position from the demand of the ideal. 
 
 The struggle with the sexual passion is a most difficult 
 struggle, and there is no position and no age, except first 
 childhood and the most advanced old age, wheii a man is 
 free from this struggle, and so we must not be vexed by 
 this struggle, but must hope that it is possible to come 
 to a state in which it will not exist, and not for a moment 
 weaken, but remember and use all those means which 
 weaken the foe : avoid what excites the body and the 
 soul, and try to be busy. That is one thing. Another 
 thing is : if you see that you will be vanquished by the 
 struggle, — get married, that is, choose a woman who 
 agrees to enter into wedlock, and say to yourself that if
 
 t 
 
 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 449 
 
 you cannot help falling, you will fall with none other 
 than this woman, and with her bring up your children, if 
 there shall be any, and with her, supporting her, arrive at 
 chastity, the sooner, the better, I know no other means. 
 But above all, to be able successfully to make use of 
 either means, strengthen your connection with God, think 
 as frequently as you can that you came from Him and 
 return to Him, and that the meaning and aim of this 
 whole hfe consists in nothing but doing His will. 
 
 The more you will remember Him, the more will He 
 aid you. 
 
 Another thing : Do not get discouraged if you fall ; do 
 not imagine that you are lost, and that you have no rea- 
 son for watching yourself after that, but must dissipate. 
 On the contrary, if you have fallen, struggle on with 
 greater energy. 
 
 Accesses of sexual passion beget a tangle of ideas, or 
 rather, an absence of ideas. The whole world will grow 
 dark ; the relation to the world is lost. Accidentalness, 
 darkness, impotence. 
 
 Poor man, you have suffered very much from this ter- 
 rible passion, especially when it is unbridled, that is, when 
 it has already come into play. I know how it veils 
 everything and for a time destroys everything heart and 
 reason lived by. But there is one salvation from it, — 
 and that is, to know that it is a dream, a suggestion, 
 which will pass, and I shall return to real life, to the 
 spot at which it seized me. It is possible to know this 
 even in moments of its power. May God help you. 
 
 Do not forget that you have never been and never will 
 be completely chaste, but that you are at a certain stage 
 of an approach to chastity, and so you must never get 
 discouraged in this approach : in moments of temptation,
 
 450 ON THE RELA.TION BETWEEN THE SEXES 
 
 in moments of fall even, do not stop recognizing what 
 you are striving after, and say to yourself : " I am falling, 
 but I hate the fall, and I know that if not now, at least 
 later, the victory will be, not on its side, but on mine." 
 
 A man must set himself the problem, not of chastity, 
 but of the approach to chastity. Strictly speaking, a 
 hving man cannot be chaste. A living man can only 
 strive after chastity, for the very reason that he is not 
 chaste, but subject to passion. If a man were not sub- 
 ject to passion, there would not exist for him any 
 chastity, nor the concept of it. The mistake consists in 
 setting to ourselves the problem of chastity (of the ex- 
 ternal condition of chastity), and not that of striving after 
 chastity, of the internal acknowledgment at all times 
 and in all condition? of life of the superiority of chas- 
 tity to debauchery, of the superiority of greater purity to 
 lesser. 
 
 This mistake is very important. For a man who has 
 set to himself as the problem the external condition of 
 chastity, the departure from this external condition, the 
 fall, destroys everything and interrupts activity and life ; 
 for a man who has set to himself as the problem the 
 striving after chastity, there is no fall, no interruption of 
 activity ; and temptations, and the fall, may fail to inter- 
 rupt the striving after chastity, and frequently even 
 intensify it. 
 
 When people do not know any other good than per- 
 sonal enjoyment for themselves alone, love, amorousness, 
 presents itself as an elevation ; but having experienced 
 the sentiment of love for God and for our neighbour, hav- 
 ing become Christians even in the weakest degree, so long 
 as this sentiment is sincere, it is impossible to do other- 
 wise than look on amorousness from above as on a sen- 
 timent from which it is desirable to be freed. Why
 
 ox THE RELATTOy BETWEEN THE SEXES 451 
 
 should you not have been satisfied with this Christian, 
 brotherly love ? And so, pardon me, what you say about 
 your love for her supporting you in your purity, is offen- 
 sive for woman. Every man, especially a Christian, 
 wants to be an instrument of spiritual, and not physical, 
 action. Keep your purity by your own powers, and offer 
 a love which is pure and free from all advantages. Do 
 not exchange God for man ; God will give you incompar- 
 ably more of everything, even the most unexpected, and 
 will give you the love of that man besides. You write 
 that you must save her. I absolutely fail to see from 
 what. And why and for what do you pity her ? Among 
 us people frequently repeat the mistake of wishing to get 
 married in some special, new fashion. As Christ has 
 said and Paul has confirmed, and our reason confirms, he 
 who can contain himself and remain chaste, let him con- 
 tain himself ; and who cannot, let him be married. But 
 it is impossible to get married in a new fashion : one can- 
 not marry differently from the way all get married, that 
 is, by choosing a mate, deciding to remain true to her, 
 not abandoning her until the grave, and trying with her 
 to reestablish the lost chastity. Even though we cannot 
 ascribe any meaning to the performance of the ceremony 
 and of various customs, we cannot look upon marriage 
 in any other way than the rest understand it. It is 
 not proper and it is impossible to mix up any higher 
 religious consideration with marriage. As marriage took 
 place in a natural way, in consequence of mutual attrac- 
 tion, so it will always take place. And if this mutual 
 attraction be wanting, marriage as such is a bad thing. 
 
 I understand, I think, both of you, and should like 
 very much to help you in order to extract from your rela- 
 tions what is painful and agitating in them, leaving that 
 which is good and joyful. She is quite right when she 
 says that exclusive love is not only no love for God, but
 
 452 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 
 
 even interferes with that love. But this exclusive love, 
 the one which you experience toward her, is a fact and 
 just as indubitable, and one cannot help but count with 
 it as with the presence of the body and the properties 
 of character, which it is impossible to destroy. Having 
 recognized the existence of the fact, we must act in 
 such a way as to take what is best from it and reject 
 what is bad. What is good is the consciousness of the 
 lovableness of what is loved, and what is loved is loved 
 not egotistically, but for the purpose of aiding one another 
 to serve God's work. That is joy. But in order that 
 this may be joy, you must sterilize it well from the exag- 
 geration of amorousness (and you are guilty of this), from 
 the consequent and exclusive exaction, jealousy, and every 
 kind of abomination, which is covered up with good 
 names. My practical advice is, — do not rummage in 
 your sentiments, do not communicate everything to one 
 another (this is not concealment, but reserve), and write 
 about yourself, about common matters. That you love 
 her exclusively, and she you, she knows, and you know, 
 and so you know all the motives of your acts and words. 
 There is a limit to the interchange of sentiments, which 
 must not be crossed, but you have crossed it. This limit 
 is such that beyond it every transmission of sentiments 
 becomes not a joy, but a burden. 
 
 Make use of that joy of love which God has sent you, 
 without forgetting that this is love, that is, a desire for 
 the good for another, and not for oneself. And as soon 
 as this will be love indeed, that is a desire for the good 
 for her, there will be destroyed in it everything which in 
 this sentiment is painful for you and for her. 
 
 Love cannot be harmful, so long as it is love, and not 
 the wolf of egotism in the sheepskin of love. One needs 
 but ask oneself : " Am I prepared for his, or her, good 
 never to see him, or her, and to break my relations with 
 him, or her ? " If not, it is the wolf, and he has to be
 
 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 453 
 
 beaten and killed. I know your religious and loving 
 soul, and so am convinced that you will conquer the wolf, 
 if it is he. 
 
 Yes, it is impossible to love all alike. And it is a great 
 happiness to love even one more especially, but it must 
 be to love him, or her, and not oneself, one's own enjoy- 
 ment which is experienced in a communion with him, 
 or her. 
 
 I have often thought of falling in love, and have never 
 been able to find a place and meaning for it. But this 
 place and meaning is very clear and definite : it consists 
 in making easier the struggle of passion with chastity. 
 Falling in love must in young people, who are unable to 
 abstain in complete chastity, precede marriage and free 
 young people in their most critical years, from sixteen 
 years until twenty and more, from an agonizing struggle. 
 That is the place of falling in love. But when it invades 
 the lives of men after marriage it is out of place and 
 detestable. 
 
 There is a dispute as to whether falling in love is good. 
 For me the solution is clear. 
 
 If a man already lives a human, spiritual life, falling 
 in love, love, marriage, will be a fall for him ; he will 
 have to give part of his powers to his wife, his family, or 
 even the object of his enamourraent. But if he is on the 
 animal stage, eating, working, serving, writing, playing, 
 this falling in love will be for him an uplifting, as it is 
 for animals, for insects. 
 
 I do not think that you need any friendship with 
 women, especially any spiritual communion with them.' 
 Communion with them is only then good and joyful when 
 in your consciousness you in no way distinguish them 
 from other men.
 
 454 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 
 
 What you need most of all, it seems to me, is work, 
 work which would absorb all your energies. 
 
 I took a liking to a pamphlet sent me lately by Mrs. 
 Stockham on " The Creative Life," as she calls it. She 
 says that when in man there appears, in addition to his 
 usual functions, the sexual need, he ought to know that 
 it is a creative need, which only in its lowest manifesta- 
 tion is expressed in sexual passion ; it is a creative 
 ability, and it depends on the will and endeavour, stub- 
 born endeavour to transfer it to another, a physical, or, 
 best of all, a spiritual activity. 
 
 I believe that it is indeed the power which takes part 
 in the work of God and the establishment of the kingdom 
 of God upon earth ; with the sexual act it is only the 
 transmission to others, to the children, of the possibility 
 of taking part in the work of God ; with continency and 
 the direct activity of the service of God, it is the highest 
 manifestation of life. The transition is difficult, but it is 
 possible and is accomplished by hundreds and by thousands 
 of men in our very sight. 
 
 If you overcome it, it is well ; if you do not overcome 
 it, get married, — it will not be so good, but it will not 
 be bad. 
 
 It is bad, as Paul says, to burn, bad to carry around this 
 poison, imbibing it with the whole blood. But do not 
 believe yourself in this, that there is something good and 
 softening in cultivating the acquaintance of women. All 
 this is a deception of lust. In the friendship with women, 
 as in that with men, there is much which is joyful, but 
 there is nothing of any particular joy in the friendship 
 with women ; but what there is, is a deception of sensu- 
 ality, of very concealed sensuality, but none the less of 
 sensuality. 
 
 You ask what means there is for struggling with pas- 
 sion. Among the minor means, such as work, fasting,
 
 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 455 
 
 the most effective is poverty, the lack of money, the 
 external aspect of want, a position in which it is evident 
 that you cannot be attractive to any woman. But the 
 chief and only means which I know is the uninterrupted- 
 ness of the strusrcrle, the consciousness of the fact that the 
 struggle is not an accidental, temporary condition, but a 
 constant, unchangeable condition of hfe. 
 
 You ask me about the Eunuchs, whether the opinion 
 about them "is just that they are bad people, and whether 
 the Eunuchs understand correctly the Gospel, Chapter 
 XIX. of Matthew, making themselves and others eunuchs 
 on the basis of the twelfth verse of this chapter. 
 
 To the first question, my answer is that there are no 
 bad men, and that all men are the cliildren of one Father, 
 and all are brothers and equal, — nobody is better or 
 worse than anybody else. And judging from what I have 
 heard about the Eunuchs, they live morally and by hard 
 work. To the second question, as to whether they under- 
 stand correctly the Gospel, making themselves and others 
 eunuchs on its basis, I answer with full confidence that 
 they understand the Gospel incorrectly and, in making 
 themselves, and especially others, eunuchs, they commit 
 acts which are in direct opposition to true Christianity. 
 Christ preaches chastity, but chastity, like any virtue, is 
 of value only when it is attained through an effort of the 
 will and is supported by faith, and not when it is attained 
 by the impossibility of sinning. It is the same as though 
 a man, for fear of glutting himself, produced in himself a 
 disease of the stomach, or, for fear of fighting, tied his 
 hands, or, for fear of swearing, cut out his tongue. God 
 has created man such as he is ; he breathed the divine 
 soul into the carnal body in order that this soul should 
 vanquish the lusts of the body (in this does all the life of 
 man consist), and not in order to maim his body, correcting 
 God's work.
 
 456 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 
 
 If people are drawn to sexual intercourse, this is done 
 for the purpose that the perfection which one generation 
 has not reached may be attained by the next. Wonderful 
 in this respect is God's wisdom : man is ordained to perfect 
 himself, — " Be ye as perfect as your Father who is in 
 heaven is perfect." A true sign of perfection is found 
 in chastity, true chastity, — not only in deeds, but also in 
 the soul, that is, in a full liberation from sexual passion. 
 If men reached perfection and became chaste, the human 
 race would come to an end, and there would be no reason 
 why it should exist upon earth, for men would be like 
 angels, who do not marry and are not given in marriage, 
 as the Gospel says. But so long as men have not reached 
 perfection they procreate a posterity, and this posterity is 
 being perfected and approaches what God has commanded 
 it to attain, and comes nearer and nearer to perfection. 
 But if men acted as do the Eunuchs, the human race 
 would come to an end, and would never attain perfection, 
 — it would not be doing God's will. 
 
 This is one reason why I consider the action of the 
 Eunuchs wrong ; another is this, that the Gospel teaching 
 gives the good to men, and Christ says, " My yoke is 
 good, and my burden is light," and forbids any violence 
 against people ; and so the infliction of wounds and 
 sufferings, even though not upon others (which is an 
 obvious sin), but upon oneself, is a violation of the 
 Christian law. 
 
 The third reason is this, that the Eunuchs obviously 
 give a wrong interpretation to verse 12 of the nineteenth 
 chapter of Matthew. The whole discourse from the 
 beginning of the nineteenth chapter is about marriage, 
 and Christ not only does not prohibit marriage, but even 
 prohibits divorce, that is, the change of a wife. When 
 his disciples (verse 10) told him that in this way it was 
 very hard to contain oneself, that is, to get along with 
 one wife only, he told them that, although not all persons
 
 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 457 
 
 were able to contain themselves, as those contain them- 
 selves who are born as eunuchs, or those who, like the 
 eunuchs, are mutilated by men, there were some who 
 made themselves eunuchs for the sake of the kingdom of 
 heaven, that is, who iu spirit vanquished the passion in 
 themselves, and that it was necessary to be like them. 
 That under the words, " Such as made themselves eunuchs 
 for the sake of the kingdom of heaven," it is necessary to 
 understand the spiritual victory over the flesh, and not 
 the physical mutilation, can be seen from the fact that 
 where it speaks of the physical mutilation it says, " Were 
 made eunuchs of men," and where it speaks of the victory 
 of the spirit over the flesh, it says, " Made themselves 
 eunuchs." 
 
 Thus I think, and thus I understand verse 12, but I 
 must add that if the interpretation of the letter should 
 seem inconclusive to you, aou must remember that it is 
 only the spirit that gives life. A compulsory or even 
 voluntary mutilation is contrary to the whole spirit of 
 the Christian teaching. 
 
 I should like to write to him in that sense, even as I 
 understand it, that the bearing of children in marriage is 
 not fornication ; but I should like to consider it better, so 
 as to write with greater thoroughness, because there is 
 also truth in the opinion that carnal intercourse, even 
 with one's own wife, for the sake of lust alone, is sinful. 
 I think that self-mutilation is the same kind of a sin as 
 carnal intercourse for the sake of lust, just as I think that 
 it is as much a sin to gorge oneself as to starve or poison 
 oneself. Only such food is legitimate for the body as 
 makes it possible for a man to serve others, and only such 
 carnal intercourse is legitimate as perpetuates the human 
 race. 
 
 The Eunuchs are right when they say that cohabitation 
 with one's wife, if it takes place without spiritual love.
 
 45S ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 
 
 only for the sake of lust, and so not in proper time, is 
 fornication ; but they are not right when they say that 
 intercourse with one's wife for the purpose of bringing 
 forth children and in spiritual love is a sin. It is not a 
 sin, but God's will. 
 
 Mutilation is, in my opinion, like this. Let us say a 
 man was living intemperately and was in the habit of 
 distilling liquor and brewing beer out of his grain, and 
 of getting intoxicated, and that he suddenly felt that this 
 was bad and sinful, and, instead of giving up his bad 
 habit and learning to do what was proper, — to use the 
 grain for feeding man and beast, — he decided that there 
 was one way of getting rid of the sin, and that w^as, to 
 burn his grain, aud went and did so. What w^ould hap- 
 pen would be this : the sin would still remain the same 
 in him, and his neighbours would still proceed brewing 
 beer and distilling liquor, while he would be unable to 
 feed himself, or his family, or other good people. 
 
 With good reason Christ praised the children and said 
 that the kingdom of God was theirs and that what was 
 hidden from the wise was revealed to them. We know 
 that ourselves : if there were no children, if children were 
 not born anew, there would be no hope for the kingdom 
 of God upon earth. Only in them is all the hope. We 
 are all soiled, and it is difficult for us to be cleansed, but 
 with every new generation, with every family, there come 
 new innocent souls that may remain sucli. The river is 
 turbid and dirty, but many clean springs fall into it, and 
 there is hope that the water will become purified. 
 
 It is a great question, and I am glad to think about it. 
 I know this much : lustful fornication and mutilation are 
 equally bad and sinful. But the second, mutilation, is 
 worse. In fornication there is no pride, but there is 
 shame, while in mutilation people have no shame, and 
 pride themselves on this, that they have once for all 
 violated the law of God in order not to succumb to temp-
 
 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 459 
 
 tation and not to have to struggle. It is necessary to 
 mutilate the heart and then the external mutilation will 
 not be necessary, for external mutilation does not save 
 one from temptation. People fall into this deception 
 because it is altogether impossible to destroy in the heart 
 the lust of fornication and nothing more, it is necessary to 
 destroy all lust, it is necessary to love God in such a way 
 as to despise all the temptation of the world, and that is 
 a long path ; but here it is as though one could by a short 
 way free oneself from the most obvious and disgraceful 
 sin, and the trouble is that by this short cut one frequently 
 arrives nowhere except at a swamp. 
 
 The sexual instinct is a striving, if not after fulfilling 
 the whole law, at least after securing the possibility of 
 its fulfilment to one's posterity. The truth of this is con- 
 firmed in separate individuals: the more a man approaches 
 the fulfilment of the law, the more he turns away from 
 sexual lust, and vice versa. 
 
 Just as man, together with other animals, submits to 
 the law of the struggle for existence, so he submits, 
 like the animals, to the law of sexual propagation ; but 
 man, as a man, finds in himself another law, which is 
 contrary to the struggle, the law of love, and the law of 
 chastity, which is contrary to sexual intercourse for the 
 sake of propagation. 
 
 According to the church belief there is to be an end of 
 the world ; according to science man's life on earth, and 
 earth itself, are to come to the same end ; what, then, is it 
 which so provokes people that the good and moral life 
 will also lead to the end of the human race ? Maybe 
 these things coincide. In the statutes of the Shakers it 
 says : " "V\Tiy should men through continence not free 
 themselves from violent death ? " Beautiful.
 
 iGO ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 
 
 There is a calculation by Herschel from which it fol- 
 lows that if humauity doubled every fifty years, as it now 
 does, then, if we count seven thousand years from the first 
 pair, there would have been l)y this time so many people 
 that, if they were placed upon each other over the whole 
 earth, this pyramid would not only reach up to the sun, 
 but would pass the distance twenty-seven times. What 
 deduction do we make from this ? 
 
 There are only two deductions : either to admit and 
 wish for plagues and wars, or to strive after sexual purity. 
 Only the striving after purity can establish the balance. 
 
 The statistics of plagues and wars and celibacy would 
 be interesting. No doubt they are in inverse proportion, 
 that is, the less destructive conditions there are, the more 
 there are celibates : one balances the other. 
 
 Another deduction, which involuntarily presents itself 
 and which I am still unable to formulate in a clear man- 
 ner, is this, that mental cares and calculations about 
 shortening human life are irregular. Wliat is regular is 
 onlv love; and love is never alone, but is connected with 
 purity. Imagine a man who begets other men and at the 
 same time considers cutting their lives short ; both acts 
 taken together are senseless. What would be the right 
 thing to do under such conditions would be to beget one 
 and at least to kill one. One thing is rational : Be ye as 
 perfect as your Father is perfect. But this perfection is 
 in purity and then in love. 
 
 All young men of your age, who live under the condi- 
 tions under which you are living, are in a very danger- 
 ous state. The damper consists in this, tbat at an age 
 when habits are formed which will remain for all time, 
 like creases in the paper, you live without any, without 
 any moral and religious restraint, seeing nothing but 
 those unpleasantnesses of the teaching, which are im- 
 posed upon you and from which you try to free yourself
 
 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 4Gl 
 
 in one way or another, and those most varied gratifications 
 of lust, which attract you on all sides and which you are 
 able to satisfy. Such a state seems to you quite natural 
 and cannot seem otherwise, and you are not at all to 
 blame because it appears so to you, for you grew up in it, 
 and your companions are in the same condition, — but 
 this state is quite exclusive and terribly dangerous. It is 
 terribly dangerous because, if you are to place the whole 
 aim of your life in such a gratification, as it is with you 
 young men, when these lusts are new and especially 
 strong, then it is bound to happen, according to a very 
 well known and indubitable law, that, in order to receive 
 the satisfaction which one is accustomed to receive from 
 the gratification of the appetites, or from savoury food, 
 driving, play, attire, music, one would have to keep add- 
 ing objects of lust, because lust, once satisfied, does not 
 furnish that enjoyment a second and a third time, and 
 one has to gratify new and stronger lusts. (There even 
 exists a law from which we know that enjoyment in- 
 creases in an arithmetical progression, while the means 
 for the production of this enjoyment have to be increased 
 by squares.) 
 
 And since of all the lusts the strongest is the sexual, 
 which is expressed in enamourment, fondling, onanism, 
 and cohabitation, it always and very soon arrives at this, 
 which is always one and the same. When for these 
 enjoyments can no longer be substituted something new, 
 something stronger, there begins the artificial increase of 
 this very enjoyment by means of intoxicating oneself with 
 wine, tobacco, and sensuous music. This is such a usual 
 path that upon it walk, with rare exceptions, all young men, 
 both rich and poor, and if they stop in time, they return 
 to real life more or less crippled, or perish altogether, as 
 hundreds of young men have perished in my sight. 
 
 There is but one salvation in your state : to stop, to 
 come to your senses, to look about, and to find ideals for
 
 462 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN" THE SEXES 
 
 yourself, that is, of what you wish to be, and to hve in 
 such a way as to attain that which you wish to be. 
 
 The whole matter is in continence. As soon as people 
 will find their good in continence, marriages will be 
 moderated. 
 
 A man will never succeed in getting married in order 
 to live more happily. To set marriage, the union with 
 whom one loves, as the chief, all-absorbing aim of one's 
 life, is a great error, and a palpable error, if you reflect 
 on it. The aim is marriage. Well, you are married, 
 what then ? If there was no other aim before marriage, 
 it will be very difficult, almost impossible, for the two to 
 find it later. It is even sure, if there was no common 
 aim before marriage, that you will under no condition 
 come together, but will be sure to separate. Marriage 
 gives happiness only when there is one common aim. 
 People meet on the road, and say : " Let us go together." 
 " Let us go," and they take each other's hands ; but not 
 when, attracted by one another, they get off the road. 
 
 All this is so because equally false is the conception, 
 shared by many, that life is a valley of tears, and the 
 other, which is shared by a vast majority, and to wliich 
 you are inclined by youth and health and riches, that 
 life is a place of enjoyment. Life is a place of service, 
 where one has frequently to endure many hardships, but 
 oftener still to experience very many joys. But there 
 can be true joys only when men themselves understand 
 their life as service, — when they have a definite aim of 
 life which is outside them, outside their personal happi- 
 ness. People who get married generally forget this com- 
 pletely. There are to be so many happy incidents in 
 marriage, the birth of children, that, it seems, these inci- 
 dents will form life itself, but that is a dangerous decep- 
 tion. If the parents live on and bring forth children,
 
 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 463 
 
 without haviug any aim in life, they will only defer the 
 question of the aim of life and that punishment to which 
 men are subjected who live without knowing for what, — 
 they will only defer it, but not avoid it, because they will 
 have to educate and guide their children, and there is 
 nothing to guide by. Then the parents lose their human 
 properties and the happiness which is connected with 
 them, and become racial beasts. And so I say : people 
 who are preparing themselves to get married, for the very 
 reason that life seems full to them, must more than ever 
 think and make clear to themselves in the name of what 
 each of them is hving. But, in order to make this clear 
 to yourself, you must think and consider the conditions 
 under which you live, and your past, and estimate the 
 value of everything in life, — what you consider impor- 
 tant, what not important, what you believe in ; that 
 is, what you consider as an eternal, indubitable truth, 
 and what you will be guided by in life. And you must 
 not only find that out and make it clear to yourself, but 
 also experience it in fact and introduce it into your life, 
 because, so long as you do not do what you believe in, 
 you do not know yourself whether you believe or not. 
 I know your faith, and it is this faith, or its sides, which 
 find their expression in deeds, that you must more than 
 ever, even now, make clear to yourself, by putting them 
 into execution. The faith consists in believing that the 
 good is in loving men and being loved by them. To 
 obtain it I know three activities which I practise all the 
 time, which one cannot practise enough, and which you 
 need now more especially. The first thing is, in order 
 to be able to love men and be loved by them, a man must 
 accustom himself to demand as httle as possible of them, 
 because if I demand much, I have many privations ; and 
 if I have many privations, I am inclined to reproach, 
 and not to love, — there is much labour. 
 
 The second, — in order to love men not in words, but
 
 464 ON TnE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 
 
 in deeds, a man must teach himself to do what is useful 
 to men. There is still more labour here, especially for 
 you in your years, when it is proper for a man to study. 
 
 The third, — in order to love men and be loved by 
 them, a man must learn meekness, humility, and the art of 
 enduring disagreeable people and unpleasantnesses, — the 
 art of always treating them in such a way as not to grieve 
 any one, and in case of being unable to keep from causing 
 them grief, of being able to choose the lesser grief. And 
 here there is even more work, and constant work, from 
 wakening until falling asleep. And it is most joyous 
 work, because day after day you rejoice at your success 
 in it, and, besides, receive a very joyous, though at first 
 invisible, reward in the love of men. 
 
 And so I advise you to think and live as seriously as 
 possible, because only by this means will you find out 
 whether you are indeed walking on the same road, 
 and whether it is good for you to give one another 
 your hands, or not, and at the same time, if you are 
 sincere, to prepare the future for yourself. Your aim 
 in life ought not to be the joy of marriage, but the joy 
 of bringing by your life more love and truth into the 
 world. Marriage consists even in this, that people may 
 aid one another to attain this aim. Lcs extremes se tou- 
 chent. The most egotistical and abominable of lives is 
 that of two people who have united for the purpose of 
 enjoying life, and the highest calling is that of men who 
 live for the purpose of serving God, bringing the good 
 into the world and who have united for it. So do not 
 get entangled : that's it, but not exactly it. Why should 
 a man not choose that which is higher ? But having 
 chosen the highest, a man has to put his whole soul into 
 it, — with a little there will be no results. 
 
 One should by no means marry for love, but by all 
 means from calculation except that these two words are
 
 ON" THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 465 
 
 to be understood in the opposite sense from what they 
 are generally understood, that is, one should marry, not 
 from sensual love, but from calculation, not as to where 
 and by what to live (all men live), but as to how probable 
 it is that the future wife would aid, and not hinder me in 
 my living a human life. 
 
 Above all, think twenty, a hundred times about mar- 
 riage. To unite one's life with that of another person in a 
 sexual union is for a moral, sensitive man the most signif- 
 icant act, most pregnant with consequences, which a man 
 can perform. One must always marry just as one dies, 
 that is, only when it is not possible to do otherwise. 
 
 Next to death in importance, and next to death in time, 
 there is nothing more important and irretrievable than 
 marriage. And just as death is good only when it is 
 inevitable, and every intentional death is bad, so is also 
 marriage. Marriage is no evil only when it is invincible. 
 
 The matter of marriage is in itseK not so simple as it 
 seems. Enamour men t is a deviation to one side, but cold 
 calculation is a still worse deviation on the other side. 
 If, as you say, one should turn to the first girl, that is, 
 one should not choose for his happiness, then it is neces- 
 sary to abandon oneself to accident, to fate, which guides 
 the external phenomena, subordinating one's choice to the 
 choice of oneself. Sentiment will confuse a man, but 
 reason will confuse one even more, while this is the great- 
 est thing in life. In my opinion, it is necessary, as in 
 everything in life, and more than in anything else, not 
 to set to onself the problem of getting married, but to 
 propound the one, eternal problem of how to live well and 
 suffer and wait, and then the time will come and circum- 
 stances will make it impossible not to get married. In this 
 wav vou will be more certain not to err and not to sin.
 
 466 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 
 
 Princess Marya Aleksy^evna's judgment about marriage 
 is the well-known one : " If young men marry without 
 sufficient means, — there will come children, want, — they 
 will get tired of one another in a year or two, or ten, there 
 will be quarrels, misery, hell." In all this Princess Marya 
 Aleksy^evna is quite right, and predicts correctly, so long 
 as these marrying people have not another sole aim, 
 which is unknown to Princess Marya Aleksydevna, — not a 
 mental aim, which is cognized by reason, but one which 
 forms the light of life, the attainment of which agitates 
 more than anything else. If this exists, it is well, and 
 Princess Marya Aleksy^evna will be fooled. If this does 
 not exist, there are ninety-nine chances out of a hundred 
 that nothing will come of the marriage but unhappiness. 
 
 People who marry Hke that present themselves to me 
 like people who fall without stumbling. If you have 
 fallen, what is to be done ? And if you have not stumbled, 
 what sense is there in falling intentionally ? 
 
 There are two things that bind you, — your convictions, 
 — faith and love. In my opinion one is enough. The 
 real, true union is human, Christian love ; if this shall 
 exist, and upon it shall grow up love, enamourment, it 
 is well and firm. If there is but love, enamourment, it is 
 not exactly bad, but also not good, — still it is possible. 
 Honest natures can with great struggles live through it. 
 But • if neither exists, but only a pretexte of one or the 
 other, it is certainly bad. A man has to be as severe as 
 possible with himself, and must know in the name of 
 what he is acting. 
 
 ^o* 
 
 Novels end by the marriage of the hero and the heroine. 
 They ought to begin -with this and end with their unmarry- 
 ing, that is, becoming free. For to describe the lives of 
 men in such a way as to break off the description at
 
 ON" THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 467 
 
 marriage, is the same as, in describing a man's travels, to 
 break off in the place where the traveller has fallen 
 among robbers. 
 
 Yes, in the Gospel there are no indications of marriage ; 
 there is a negation of it, there is a counteraction to 
 debauchery, lust, and divorce for those who are already 
 in marriage ; but of the institution of marriage, in the 
 way the church speaks of it, there is not even any 
 mention. Nothing but the insipid miracle at Cana, 
 which confirms marriage to the'same extent that Zaccheus's 
 visit confirms the collection of tribute. 
 
 Yes, I think that marriage is a non-Christian institution. 
 Christ never married, nor did His disciples, and He never 
 established marriage, but, when He turned to people, of 
 whom some were married, and some not. He told the 
 married people not to change their wives through divorce, 
 as could be done according to the law of Moses (Matt. 
 V. 32), and those who were not married. He told to refrain 
 from getting married, if they could do so (Matt. xix. 
 10-12). He told both that they must understand that 
 the chief sin consists in looking upon woman as a subject 
 of enjoyment (Matt. v. 28). (Naturally, the saine must 
 be understood on the part of woman in relation to man.) 
 
 From this proposition naturally result the following 
 moral deductions : 
 
 1. We must not consider, as people now do, that every 
 person, man or woman, must by all means enter into 
 wedlock ; but, on the contrary, we must consider that 
 every person, man or woman, ought best of all to preserve 
 his or her purity, so that nothing may interfere with 
 giving all the strength to the service of God. 
 
 2. We must not look, as people now do, on the fall of 
 man, — man or woman, — that is, on the entrance into 
 sexual intercourse as on an error which may be mended
 
 468 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN" THE SEXES 
 
 by a new sexual intercourse (in the shape of marriage) 
 with another person, or even as on a permissible gratifica- 
 tion of a need, or even a pleasure ; but we must look upon 
 the entrance into the first sexual intercourse of any one with 
 any one whatsoever as upon an entrance into inseverable 
 marriage (Matt. xix. 4-6), which binds the conjugal pair 
 to a definite activity as a redemption of a sin committed, 
 
 3. We must not look upon marriage, as they do now, 
 as upon a dispensation to gratify carnal lust, but as upon 
 a sin demanding its redemption. 
 
 The redemption of the sin consists, — in the first place, 
 in the liberation of self from lust, the conjugal pair help- 
 ing one another in this, and in the attainment, as far as 
 this is possible, of the establishment among themselves of 
 the relations, not of lovers, but of a brother and sister; 
 and, in the second place, in the education of the children, 
 the future servants of God, who spring from marriage. 
 
 The difference of such a view on marriage from the 
 existing one is very great : people will marry just as much 
 as ever, and just as much will parents think of getting their 
 children married, but the great difference consists in this, 
 as to when the gratification of the lust is considered per- 
 missible and legitimate and the greatest happiness in the 
 world, or when it is considered a sin. Following the 
 Christian teaching a man will marry only when he feels 
 that he cannot act otherwise, and having married he will 
 not abandon himself to his lust, but will strive to subdue 
 it (both man and woman) ; the parents, caring for the 
 spiritual good of their children, will not consider it 
 necessary to get all married, but will get them married, 
 that is, will counsel the fall, or make it easy for them, 
 only when the children are not strong enough to preserve 
 their purity, and only when it shall become clear that 
 they cannot live otherwise. The conjugal pair will not 
 desire, as they do now, a large number of children, 
 but, on the contrary, striving after purity of life, will
 
 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 469 
 
 be glad that they have but few children, and are able to 
 devote all their strength to the education of those of their 
 children whom they have already, and to those children 
 of others whom they can serve, if they wish to serve 
 God with the education of future servants of God. 
 
 The difference will be the same that exists between 
 men who partake of food because they cannot get along 
 without it, and so try to lose as little time and attention 
 as possible on the preparation and consumption of the 
 food, and those who place the chief interest of life in 
 the invention, adaptation, and increase of savouriness and 
 in the consumDtion of the food, which the Eomans carried 
 
 J. ' 
 
 to the highest degree, when they took emetics ^ in order to 
 be able to eat again. 
 
 The first thing I have to say about this is this, that I, 
 in speaking of the manner in which the married pair 
 ought to Hve, not only do not hint at having lived or 
 living myself as I ought to, but, on the contrary, know 
 from my own hard knocks how T ought to have lived 
 only because I have not lived properly. 
 
 I do not take back anything I have said ; on the con- 
 trary, I should try to say more strongly all I have said, 
 but in reality I have to give an explanation. I must do 
 so, because we are in our lives so far from what we ought 
 to be in conformity with our consciences and with Christ's 
 teaching, that the truth in this respect startles us as 
 much (I know this from experience), as a provincial mer- 
 chant who is growing rich would be startled by the hint 
 that he ought not to lay by for his family and for church 
 bells, but ought to give away everything he has, if he 
 wishes to be freed from evil. 
 
 You say : " Do not sleep together." Of course not. I 
 have thought of it myself. I will write about it every- 
 thing that I think of it, just as it occurs to me. 
 
 1 Precisely the same is doue in our country in order to prevent the 
 birth of children. — Author's Note.
 
 470 ON" THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 
 
 There is the sentiment of enamourment, most power- 
 ful in man, which has its inception between two persons 
 of the opposite sex who did not know one another, and 
 which leads to marriage ; marriage has immediately a 
 child for its consequence. There begins pregnancy and 
 in consequence of it a sexual indifference of the conjugal 
 pair toward one another, an indifference which would be 
 very perceptible, and would interrupt the carnal inter- 
 course, as it is interrupted in the case of the animals, if 
 men did not consider the carnal intercourse a legitimate 
 enjoyment. Such an indifference, which gives way to the 
 care respecting the growth and the nursing of the child, 
 continues to the child's weaning, and in a good marriage 
 (in this does the difference of man from the animal exist) 
 there begins again, with the weaning of the child, the 
 feeling of enamourment between the same conjugal pair. 
 
 No matter how far we may be from it, there can be no 
 doubt that it ought to be so, and for these reasons : 
 
 In the first place, sexual intercourse at a time when 
 woman is not prepared for bearing children, that is, when 
 she has no menses, has no rational meaning and is noth- 
 ing but carnal enjoyment and a very bad and disgraceful 
 enjoyment, as every conscientious man knows, which re- 
 sembles the most heinows and unnatural sexual excesses. 
 A man who abandons himself to it becomes more irra- 
 tional than an animal, that is, he uses his reason for the 
 purpose of departing from the law of reason. 
 
 In the second place, all know and agree to it, that 
 sexual intercourse weakens and exhausts a man, and 
 weakens him in the most essentially human activity, — 
 in his spiritual activity. " Moderation," the defenders of 
 the present order will say, but there can be no moderation, 
 the moment there is a transgression of the laws estab- 
 lished by reason. But the harm of the excess (and inter- 
 course outside the free period is an excess) may for a man 
 not be great with moderation (it is disgusting even to
 
 ON" THE RELATION" BETWEEN THE SEXES 471 
 
 pronounce this word in relation to such a subject), if he 
 knows one woman ; but what will be moderation for the 
 man will be a terrible immoderation for the woman who 
 is in the period of pregnancy or nursing. 
 
 I think that the backwardness of women and their hys- 
 terical condition are for the most part due to this. It is 
 from this that woman ought to be freed, in order that she 
 may become one body with her husband, and the servant, 
 not of the devil, which she now is, but of God. The 
 ideal is remote, but great. Why should we not strive 
 after it ? 
 
 I imagine that marriage ought to be like this : the pair 
 cohabit carnally under the invincible pressure of amorous- 
 ness, the child is conceived, and the conjugal pair, avoid- 
 ing everything which for her may impair the growth or the 
 nutrition of the child, avoiding every carnal temptation, 
 and not evoking it, as is done nowadays, live together as 
 brother and sister. 
 
 As it now is, the man, who was debauched before, 
 transfers his methods of debauchery to his wife, infects 
 her with the same sensuality, and imposes upon her the 
 intolerable burden of being at the same time a sweetheart, 
 an exhausted mother, and a sickly, hysterical person. 
 And the husband loves her as a sweetheart, ignores her 
 as a mother, and despises her for her irritabihty and hys- 
 teria, which he himself induces in her. It seems to me 
 that in this is to be found the key to all the sufferings 
 which in an enormous majority of the cases is liidden in 
 all families. 
 
 And so I imagine that husband and wife live like 
 brother and sister ; she bears calmly, nurses without im- 
 pairment, and with this grows morally, and only in free 
 periods do they abandon themselves to amorousness, 
 which lasts some weeks, and again there is calm. 
 
 I imagine that this amorousness is that steam pressure 
 which would burst the boiler if the safety-valve did not
 
 472 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 
 
 rise. The valve opens only during this great pressure, 
 but it is always closed, carefully closed, and it ought to 
 be our aim consciously to close it as tightly as possible, 
 and to put such heavy weights on it that it may not 
 open. In this sense do I understand, " Who can contain, 
 let him contain," that is, let everybody strive never to get 
 married, and having married, to live with his wife as 
 brother and sister. But the steam collects and opens the 
 valves ; but we must not open them ourselves, as we do 
 when we look on sexual intercourse as on a legitimate 
 enjoyment. It is lawful only when we cannot abstain 
 from it, and when it bursts forth in spite of our 
 wish. 
 
 How are we to determine when we are not able to 
 abstain from it ? 
 
 How many such questions there are, and how insoluble 
 they seem, whereas how simple they are when you de- 
 cide them in your own case and for yourself and not in 
 the case of others and for otliers. For others you know 
 only a certain gradation : an old man abandons himself 
 to sexual intercourse with a prostitute, — that is dread- 
 fully disgusting ; a young man does the .same, — and it is 
 less disgusting. An old man sensually caresses his wife, 
 — it is quite disgusting, but less so than in the case of a 
 young man with a prostitute. A young man has sensual 
 relations v/ith his wife, — it is still less . disgusting, but 
 none the less disgusting. Such a gradation exists for 
 others, and all of us, especially uncorrupted children and 
 young people, know it very well ; but in our own case 
 there exists also something else: every man who has 
 known no sexual indulgence, and every virgin, has the 
 consciousness (frequently quite bedimmed by false con- 
 ceptions) that he or she must guard his or her purity, and 
 the desire to preserve it, and sorrow and shame at its 
 loss, no matter under what conditions. There is a voice 
 of conscience wliich always says clearly afterward and at
 
 ON" THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 473 
 
 all times that it is bad and shameful. The whole matter 
 is in the consciousness, in the comprehension. 
 
 In the world it is considered that it is very good to 
 enjoy love, precisely as though it should be considered 
 good to open the safety-valves and let out the steam ; 
 but according to God's law it is good to hve only a 
 true life, to work with one's talent for God, that is, 
 to love men and their souls, and among them first the 
 nearest, — one's wife, — and to help her in the compre- 
 hension of the truth, and not to strangle her abihty of 
 conceiving, by making her the instrument of one's enjoy- 
 ment, that is, to work with the steam and to use aU 
 efforts in order that it may not all escape through the 
 safety-valves. 
 
 " But in this way the human race will come to an 
 end." In the first place, no matter how strictly we may 
 try not to have any sexual intercourse, there are the 
 safety-valves so long as they are needed, and — there 
 will be children. Yes, what is the use of lying ? Do 
 we, while defending sexual intercourse, care about the 
 perpetuation of the race ? We care about our enjoyment, 
 and we ought to say so. The human race will come to 
 an end ? What will come to an end will be the animal 
 man. What a misfortune ! Antediluvian animals have 
 been extinguished, and so the animal man wiU certainly 
 be extinguished (to judge from appearances in space 
 and time). Let it come to an end. I am as little sorry 
 for this two-legged animal as for the ichthyosauri, and 
 so forth ; all I care for is that the true life, the love of 
 the beings capable of love, should not be extinguished. 
 But this will not only not come to an end if the human 
 race shall come to an end, because men will out of love 
 renounce the pleasures of lust, but it will be multiplied 
 an endless number of times ; this love will increase so 
 much and the beings that experience it will become such 
 that the continuation of the human race will not be
 
 474 ON THE RELATIOIir BETWEEN THE SEXES 
 
 necessary for them. Carnal love is necessary for no 
 other reason than that there should be no interruption of 
 the possibility of working out such beings from men. 
 
 The animals abandon themselves to sexual intercourse 
 only when the progeny can be born. Unenlightened 
 men, such as we all are, are ready for it at all times and 
 have even invented the statement that this is a necessity. 
 Through this invented necessity the activity of the mis- 
 tress ruins the woman, by compelhng her to do unnatural 
 work, which is above her strength, during the time while 
 she is pregnant or nursing. With this demand we have 
 ourselves ruined this rational nature in woman, and then 
 we complain of her irrationality, or develop it with books 
 and university courses. Yes, in everything animal, man 
 has still consciously to come up to the animal, and this 
 takes place of itself when the comprehension begins to 
 live, for otherwise the activity of the reason is directed 
 only to the distortion of the animal life. 
 
 The question of the sexual relations between husband 
 and wife, to what extent they are legitimate, is one of 
 tlie most important practical Christian questions, some- 
 thing like the question of property, and never ceases 
 to interest me. And, as always, this question is solved 
 in the Gospel, and, as always, our life has been so 
 remote from the solution which Christ has given that 
 we have been unable not only to apply the Christian 
 solution, but even to comprehend it. Matt. xix. 11, 
 12 : But he said unto them. All men cannot receive 
 the saying, save they to whom it is given. For there 
 are some eunuchs, which were so born from their moth- 
 er's womb : and there are some eunuchs, which were 
 made eunuchs of men : and there be eunuchs, which have 
 made themselves eunuchs for the kingdom of heaven's 
 sake. He that is able to receive it, let him receive it.
 
 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 475 
 
 Tliis passage, which has been conjmented upon so fre- 
 quently and so falsely, means nothing but this, that, if 
 a man asks what he is to do in relation to the sexual 
 feeling, what to strive after, wherein, in our language, 
 man's ideal is to consist, — he answers : to become a 
 eunuch for the sake of the kingdom of heaven. And he 
 who will attain this will attain the highest ; and he who 
 will not attain it will fare well for having striven after it. 
 He who can receive, let him receive. 
 
 I think that for man's good, man and woman ought 
 to strive after complete \-irginity, and then man will be 
 what he ought to be. We must aim beyond the goal, 
 in order to reach the goal. But if man consciously 
 strives, as is the case among us, after sexual intercourse, 
 even though in marriage, he will inevitably fall into what 
 is contrary to the law, into debauchery. If a man con- 
 sciously strives to live, not for the belly, but for the 
 spirit, his relation to food will be such as it ought to be. 
 But if a man in advance prepares savoury dinners for 
 himseK, he will inevitably fall into lawlessness and 
 debauchery. 
 
 I have thought a great deal about the marital life, — 
 and, as has always been the case with me, whenever I 
 begin to think seriously, I am urged on and helped from 
 without. The other day I received from America a book 
 by a woman doctor (she had ^vritten to me), Stockham, 
 under the title of " Tokology." The book is in general ex- 
 cellent from a hygienic standpoint, but, above all, in one 
 chapter it treats the very subject about which we have 
 been corresponding, and which, of course, solves the 
 question in the same way as you and I do. It is a pleas- 
 ure to see that the question has long ago been raised, and 
 that the scientific authorities are deciding it in the same 
 sense. It is an immense pleasure to find yourself in the 
 darkness and to see a light far ahead of you. With my
 
 47G ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 
 
 egoism it makes me sad to thiuk that I have passed 
 all my life in a beastly way and that I no longer can 
 mend my life, particularly sad, because people will say : 
 " It is all very well for you, a decaying old man, to 
 say this, but you did not live accordingly. Wlien we 
 get old, we shall be speaking in the same manner." This is 
 where the chief punishment for sins lies : you feel that you 
 are an unworthy instrument for the transmission of God's 
 will, an instrument that is spoiled and soiled. But there 
 is the consolation that others will be such. May God 
 help you and the others. 
 
 I have been thinking, among other things, for the 
 epilogue : Marriage was formerly the acquisition of a wife 
 for the purpose of possessing her. Again, the relation 
 to woman was established by war, by captivity. Man 
 arranged for himself the possibility of his lust, without 
 thinking of woman, — the harem. Monogamy changed 
 the number of wives, but not the relation to her. The 
 true relation is quite the opposite. A man can always 
 have a woman and can always contain himself; but a 
 woman (especially one who has known a man) can with 
 much greater difficulty contain herself when she may 
 have intercourse, which happens with her once in two 
 years. And so, if there is any one who can ask for 
 gratification, it is by no means the man, but the woman. 
 The woman may demand this, because for her it is not a 
 Genuss, as for man, but, on the contrary, because she 
 gives herself up with pain, and expects pain, — pain, and 
 suffering, and cares. It seems that marriage ought to be 
 formulated like this : Man and woman come together, 
 loving one another spiritually, and both promise one 
 another that if they shall have children, they will 
 have them of one another. But the demand for sexual 
 intercourse ought to come from her, and not from 
 him.
 
 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 477 
 
 I think, in the first place, that you judge quite in- 
 correctly when you say that you must not turn to the 
 father of your children (you write : " I will not, and I 
 cannot "). The union between a man and a woman from 
 whom children were born is insoluble, independently of 
 whether it is sanctified in an external manner, by ecclesi- 
 astic marriage. And so I think that, no matter who the 
 father of your children may be, whether he be married or 
 single, rich or poor, bad or good, whether he has offended 
 you or not, you must turn to him and point out to him, if 
 he has neglected it, his duty to serve his children and 
 their mother with his life. If he should answer to this 
 not only with indifference, but also with contempt and 
 insult, you are none the less obliged before God, before 
 yourself, before your children, and, above all, before him, 
 to turn to him, to remind him, to beg him for his own 
 sake to do his duty, — to ask him meekly, lovingly, but 
 persistently, as the widow of the Gospel begged the judge. 
 This is my well-considered and sincere opinion ; you may 
 leave it without attention or follow it. But I have felt it 
 to be my duty to tell it to you. 
 
 The physical connection with the accidental husband is 
 one of the means established by God for the dissemination 
 of his truth : for the trial and confirmation of the stronger 
 and the enlightenment of the weaker. 
 
 In the Bible and the Gospel it says that man and wife 
 are not two beings, but one, and this is true, not because 
 it was supposedly said by God, but because it is a 
 confirmation of the undoubted truth that the sexual 
 intercourse of two beings, which has childbirth for its 
 consequence, unites these two beings in some mysterious 
 manner, which is distinct from any other union, so that 
 these two in a certain way cease to be two and become 
 one being.
 
 478 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 
 
 And so I think that the striving after chastity, after 
 the cessation of such relations, can and must be accom- 
 pHshed by this united being, that is, by both the husband 
 and the wife together, and the one who is in advance in 
 this relation must try and influence the other with all 
 means at command, — with simplicity of life, with ex- 
 ample, with conviction. So long as they have not met 
 in one desire, they must bear together the burden of the 
 sins of their united being. 
 
 In matters of our passions we certainly do things which 
 are contrary and repulsive to our conscience ; even so we 
 have to do deeds which are contrary to our conscience, if 
 only we do not regard ourselves as separate beings, but as 
 parts of the united beings of the conjugal pair. The only 
 point is, as in one's persoual temptations, so also in tlie 
 temptation of this united being, not for a moment to fail 
 to recognize the sin as a sin, — to cease fighting. 
 
 You are right when you say that there are obligations 
 to oneself, the image and likeness of God, and a man 
 cannot and must not admit a defilement of his body ; but 
 this does not refer to those marital relations from which 
 there have been and can be children. The bringing forth 
 of children and their education and nursing destroy the 
 greater part of the weight and criminality of these rela- 
 tions and, besides, for the long period of pregnancy and 
 nursing frees from them. 
 
 It is not our business to discuss whether the bringing 
 forth of children is good or not. He who established this 
 redemption for the sin of violating chastity knew what he 
 was doing. 
 
 Forgive me if what I shall say shall offend you : In 
 what you say that bearing children one becomes more 
 and more nervous, there is expressed an evil, coarsely 
 egotistical trait. You do not live in order to be merry 
 and healthy, but in order to do the w^ork for which you 
 were appointed. Now this business consists, in addition
 
 ON THE KELATIOlSr BETWEEN THE SEXES 479 
 
 to all tlie most important affairs of your inner life, — if 
 you are ahead of your husband in the matter of chastity, — 
 in helping him advance on this path, and, if you yourself 
 have not fulfilled everything demanded of you, in giving 
 to the world other beings who will be able to fulfil it. 
 
 Besides, if certain relations exist between husband and 
 wife, both of them invariably take part in it. If one of 
 them is more passionate, it seems to the other that he 
 or she is absolutely chaste ; but this is not true. 
 
 I think it is not true even in your case. You merely 
 do not see your sin behind the more noticeable sin of 
 some one else. If you were absolutely pure in this respect, 
 you would be indifferent to where your husband is going 
 to find a gratification of his passion, — indifferent in the 
 sense of jealousy, and would only pity him for his fall ; 
 but this is not the case. 
 
 If you were to ask practical advice of me, I should 
 say : Choose the best minute of a pure mood of love in 
 your husband, and tell him how hard and painful these 
 relations are to you, and how passionately you wish to be 
 freed from them. If, as you write, he does not agree 
 with you that chastity is good, and wiU insist, — submit, 
 and, if you shall be pregnant, which you ought to wish, 
 demand your full freedom during the time of pregnancy 
 and nursing. And again do the same, and do not trouble 
 yourself as to what will come of it. 
 
 Nothing but good can come from it, for you, and for your 
 husband, and for your children, because, by acting in this 
 manner, you will be seeking, not your happiness and 
 peace, but the fulfilment of what God wants of you. 
 
 Forgive me if I have not written well ; I tried before 
 Grod to give utterance to what I have experienced and 
 thought concerning this question. 
 
 Oppressive relations with one's wife (or husband) can be 
 untied only by a meek life, just as a knot can be untied
 
 480 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 
 
 only by submissively following with the whole skein after 
 the thread. 
 
 Believe me that there are no external conditions which, 
 are good in themselves, and a senseless man who is mar- 
 ried to an angel, and another who is married to a devil, is 
 equally dissatisfied, and that many, not only many, but 
 nearly all who are dissatisfied with their marital state 
 (they are all of them dissatisfied) think that there can 
 be nothing worse than their situation. Consequently it is 
 all the same with everybody. 
 
 If you look upon woman as an object of enjoyment, 
 even if it were your own wife, — so much the worse if 
 she is your wife, — you are committing adultery and are 
 sinning. With the fulfilment of the law of bread labour, 
 cohabitation has the aim of impersonal enjoyment, of an 
 aid, a continuator ; but with superabundance, — that of 
 debauchery. 
 
 The gardener's wife has again had a child, and again 
 there came an old woman and took the baby away some- 
 where. 
 
 All are terribly agitated. The use of means for pre- 
 venting birth is nothing, but for this there are not suffi- 
 cient condemnatory words. 
 
 It was learned to-day that the old midwife has re- 
 turned and has brought the child back. On the road the 
 midwife came across others who were taking with them 
 just such children. One of these children was given the 
 nipple too far down into the mouth. It pulled it in, and 
 strangled. In one day they brought twenty-five children 
 to Moscow. Of these twenty-five, nine were not ac- 
 cepted, because they were legitimate or sick. 
 
 N went in the morning to admonish the gardener's 
 
 wife. The gardener's wife warmly defended her husband,
 
 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 481 
 
 saying that with their poverty and indefiniteness of life 
 she could not have any children. Her breast even does 
 not fill up. In short, it is inconvenient for her. . . . 
 
 Just before that I was swinging three waifs, and I 
 came across another boy, Vasya's nephews. Altogether 
 there is a swarm of this brood of children. They are born 
 and they grow up to become drunkards, syphilitics, sav- 
 ages. 
 
 And with all this they talk of the salvation of the lives 
 of men and children and of their destruction. What is 
 the sense of breeding savages ? What good is there in this ? 
 They ought not to be killed, nor ought people to stop 
 breeding them, but they ought to employ all their forces 
 in order, to make men out of the savages. This is the 
 only good. But this deed is not done with words alone, 
 but with the example of life. 
 
 If you have fallen, know that there is no other redemp- 
 tion of this sin than (1) freeing both yourselves from the 
 offence of the lust and (2) bringing up the children as 
 servants of God. . 
 
 Be both of you (husband and wife) careful and, more 
 than anything, attentive to your mutual relations, so that 
 the habits of irritation and alienation may not steal in. 
 It is not an easy matter to become one soul and one body. 
 We must try. And tbe reward for the endeavour is 
 great. I know one chief means for this : amidst your 
 conjugal love do not for a moment forget or lose the love 
 and respect of man to man. Let there be relations of 
 man to wife, but at the base of all let the relations be as 
 to a stranger, a near friend, — this is the chief relation. 
 In them is the power. 
 
 Do not strengthen your attachment for one another, but 
 with all your strength increase the caution in your
 
 482 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 
 
 relations, the alertness, so that there may be no conflicts. 
 That is a terrible habit. With no one are there such 
 close and many-sided relations as with a husband or wife, 
 and for this reason we always forget to think of them, to 
 be conscious of them, just as we cease being conscious of 
 our body. And that is where the trouble is. 
 
 For a conjugal pair to be happy, as they write about 
 happmess in novels, and as every human heart wishes for 
 it, it is necessary that there should be concord. But in 
 order that there should be concord, it is necessary for 
 husband and wife to look in the same way upou the 
 world and the meaning of Hfe (this is particularly neces- 
 sary in relation to children). But that husband and wife 
 should understand life alike, should stand on the same 
 level of comprehension, will happen as rarely as that one 
 leaf of a tree should precisely cover another. And since 
 this does not exist, the only possibility of concord, and so 
 of happiness, consists in this, that one of the two should 
 submit his or her comprehension to the other. 
 
 Here lies the chief difficulty : the spouse with the supe- 
 rior comprehension cannot, in spite of his or her best desire, 
 surrender it to the inferior comprehension. It is possible 
 for the attainment of concord not to sleep, not to eat, to 
 make beds for flowers, etc., but it is impossible to do that 
 which you consider wrong, sinful, not only irrational, but 
 directly opposed to reason, and bad. In spite of all 
 the consciousness that the happiness of both depends on 
 concord, that this concord is necessary for happiness and 
 for the correct education of the children, a wife cannot 
 contribute to her husband's intoxication or gambling, and 
 the husband cannot contribute to his wife's balls and to 
 teaching his children dancing and fencing and religion 
 according to Filar^t's Catechism. 
 
 For the observance of concord and not only of happi- 
 ness, but also of the true good, which coincides with love
 
 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 483 
 
 and union, the one who stands on the lower level of com- 
 prehension and feels the higher comprehension of the 
 other must submit, and not only submit in worldly, prac- 
 tical matters, in such things as what to eat, how to eat, 
 how to dress, how to hve, but must also submit in the 
 direction of life, in the aims of the activity. 
 
 If it should turn out that I like billiards, or the races, 
 or my ambition more than my children, there might be 
 place for reproaches ; or if it should turn out that I am 
 a coward and am afraid to go against the existing order, 
 lest my peace be disturbed, these -reproaches might touch 
 me. But if I love God, that is, the good and truth, I cer- 
 tainly love my children in the best way possible and for 
 them do the very best I can do. 
 
 For happiness, still more, for the true good of the 
 married pair and of the children who live with them, 
 and for the good of all their near friends, the concord 
 of the spouses is indispensable ; discord, quarrels, are 
 a misfortune for them, for the children, and an offence 
 for people, a most terrible hell. That this may not be, 
 but one thing is needed : one of the two must submit. 
 
 It seems to me that it is so easy and such a joy 
 for that one of the marital pair to submit who under- 
 stands that his other half stands higher, understands 
 something not quite accessible to him or her, but some- 
 thing that is good and divine, — one always feels that, — 
 that I wonder why they do not do it. 
 
 It is necessary to unite serving men and serving the 
 family, not by distributing the time mechanically between 
 this and that, but chemically, by adding to the care of the 
 family, the education of the children, an ideal meaning in 
 the service of men. Marriage, true marriage, which is 
 manifested in the birth of children, is in its true signifi- 
 cance only a mediate service of God, a service of God 
 through the children. For this reason marriage, conjugal
 
 484: ON THE RELATION" BETWEEN THE SEXES 
 
 love, is always experienced by us as a certain alleviation 
 and pacification. It is the moment of the transmission 
 of one's work to another, " If I have not done what 
 I could and should have done, here are my children to 
 take my place, — they will do it." 
 
 The real point is that they should do it and that they 
 should be educated to be, not a hindrance to God's works, 
 but His labourers, so that, if I was unable to serve the 
 ideal which was standing before me, I may be able to do 
 everything in my power so that my children may serve 
 Him. This gives the whole programme and the whole 
 charaeter cf the education, and supplies a religious signifi- 
 cance to education ; and it is this which chemically unites 
 into one the best, self-sacrificing tendencies of youth and 
 the care of the family. 
 
 I welcome newly arrived Ivan. Wlience does he come ? 
 What is he for ? Whither is he going ? And who is he ? 
 It is well for those to whom the protoplasm forms a suffi- 
 cient answer to these questions ; but those whom this 
 answer does not satisfy must inevitably believe that there 
 is a deep significance in Ivan's appearance and life, and 
 that we shall understand this significance in proportion 
 as we shall do everything we must in relation to him, — 
 to Ivan. 
 
 Men of a family must either abandon their wives and 
 children, — and this cannot be done, — or they must live 
 in a settled state. This wandering must be painful for 
 the wives who for the most part (I hope they will forgive 
 me this), if at best they lead a Christian life, lead it not 
 for God, but for their husbands. For them, the poor 
 women, this is difficult. And so, it seems to me, they 
 should be taken care of and pitied. Barely has some 
 balance established itself between husband and wife, and 
 they manage to get on their legs, when there comes the
 
 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 485 
 
 difficulty of the migration and of the new establishment. 
 It is above their strength, and every building which is 
 reared with labour caves in. I know, you will say that 
 there is no need of living with the family : Leave your 
 wife and cliildren, as Christ has said ; but I beheve that 
 this may be done only by mutual consent, and there is 
 another saying of Christ, and one which is more obliga- 
 tory : Man and wife are not twain, but one flesh, and that 
 those whom God has united man cannot sever. People 
 like you and other happy and strong men must not get 
 married, but if they have married and have children, they 
 must not violate what has been done, must not wipe out 
 the sin, but bear its consequences. I think that it is 
 a great sin to ask or advise husbands to abandon their 
 wives. It is true, it seems that God's work will gain 
 from it, that without a wife I shall do a great deal more 
 than now, but frequently it only seems so. If I could be 
 absolutely pure, absolutely without sin, it would be so. 
 We must not ask and advise this for this other reason, 
 that with such a view people who have sinned, that is, 
 married people, would appear to themselves and to others 
 as people who are done for, and that is not good. I think 
 that sinners and weak people can also serve God. 
 
 Having once come to sin through marriage, we must 
 bear the consequences of our sin in the best, most Chris- 
 tian manner, and not free ourselves from it, by commit- 
 ting a new sin, and we must in this situation serve God 
 with all our strength. 
 
 "O" 
 
 You understand the words of the Gospel, Leave father 
 and mother, and wife, and children, and follow me, in too 
 literal a sense. In respect to the meaning of these words, 
 — especially as to how we ought to solve those conflicts 
 and contradictions which take place between domestic ties 
 and the demands of Christ, that is, of truth, — I think 
 that the solution of these questions cannot be from with-
 
 486 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 
 
 out, by means of rules and prescriptions, and each person 
 solves it according to his powers. The ideal, of course, 
 always remains one and the same, and is expressed in the 
 Gospel: Leave your wife, and follow me. But to what 
 extent a man may do so, that only he and God know. 
 
 You ask what is meant by the words, Leave your wife. 
 Does it mean to go away from her or to stop sleep- 
 ing with her and begetting children ? Of course, " to 
 leave " means to do this, that your wife should not be 
 as a wife, but as any other woman, as a sister. In this 
 does the ideal lie. And this ought to be done in such 
 a way as not to irritate the wife, not to offend her, not to 
 subject her to anger and to temptation. And that is ter- 
 ribly hard to do. A married man who strives after the 
 Christian life feels within his heart the whole difficulty 
 of healing the wound which he himself has inflicted. 
 This one thing I think and say . . . and that is, being 
 married, one should strain all one's life and all one's 
 forces to become unmarried without increasing the sin. 
 
 Yes, Christ's ideal of serving the Father is a service 
 which first of all excludes the care both of life and of the 
 continuation of the species. So far an attempt at renounc- 
 ing these cares has not put a stop to the human race. 
 What will happen in the future, I do not know. 
 
 I do not like to speak of the peculiarity of our time, 
 but, in the relations of husbands and wives, of men and 
 .women, amidst the rich and the poor, there is in every 
 country something peculiar. Thus the relations of hus- 
 bands and wives, it seems to me, are spoiled by that 
 spirit, not only of iusubmissiou, but even of animosity 
 of the women against the men, of rancour, of a desire to 
 show that they are not worse than the men, that they 
 can do the same as the men, and at the same time by the 
 absence of that moral, religious feeling which, if it existed
 
 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 487 
 
 before in the women, is replaced by the maternal feeling. 
 I believe that women are absolutely equal with men, but 
 the moment they marry and become mothers, there natu- 
 rally takes place a division of labour in the conjugal pair. 
 The maternal feelings absorb so much energy that there 
 is little of it left for moral guidance, and the moral guid- 
 ance naturally passes over to the husband. So it has 
 been ever since we have known the world. Now, since 
 this natural order of things has been misused, — since 
 the guidance of man has been asserted through rude force, 
 and women were liberated by Christianity, — woman has 
 ceased to obey man from fear, or to delegate to him the 
 guidance of life from a consciousness that it is better so ; 
 and there began a tangle and disorganization of life, which 
 is noticeable in all layers of society and under all condi- 
 tions. 
 
 The mental fashion of lauding the women, of asserting 
 that they are spiritually not only equal, but even supe- 
 rior to men, is a very bad and harmful fashion. . 
 
 There can be no doubt as to this, that women ought 
 not to be limited in their rights, that we must treat a 
 woman with the same deference and love as men, that 
 she is legally man's equal ; but to assert that the average 
 woman is endowed with the same spiritual power as man, 
 to expect to find in every woman what you expect to find 
 in every man, means intentionally to deceive oneself, and 
 — to deceive oneself to the injury of woman. 
 
 If we expect from woman the same as from man, "we 
 shall be demanding it ; and if we do not find what 
 we demand, we shall become irritated, shall ascribe to 
 ill-will what is due to impossibility. 
 
 Thus it is not a cruelty to woman to recognize that she 
 is what she is, — a spiritually weaker being ; it is a 
 cruelty to recognize her as equal. 
 
 What I call weakness or lesser spiritual power is the
 
 488 ON THE EELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 
 
 lesser submission of the flesh to the spirit, especially — 
 womau's chief characteristic — a lesser faith in the com- 
 mands of reason. 
 
 The greatest number of sufferings which result from 
 the intercourse of men and women result from the abso- 
 lute misunderstanding of one sex by the other. 
 
 Very few men understand what children mean to a 
 woman, what place they occupy in her life ; and still 
 fewer women understand what the duty of honour, the 
 social duty, the religious duty, mean to a man. 
 
 A man may understand, though he has never been 
 pregnant or borne a child, that it is hard and painful to 
 be pregnant and to bear a cliild, and that it is an impor- 
 tant matter ; but there are extremely few women who will 
 understand that spiritually to carry and bring forth a new 
 conception of life is a hard and an important matter. They 
 will understand it for a minute, but immediately forget 
 it. And the moment their cares, even if it be of their 
 household, of their attire, appear on the scene, they can 
 no longer remember the reality of men's convictions, and 
 all that appears to them as an unreal invention in com- 
 parison with cakes and pieces of chintz. 
 
 I have been struck by the thought that one of the chief 
 causes of an inimical feeling between husbands and wives 
 is their rivalry in the matter of conducting their family. 
 
 The wife must not recognize her husband as sensible 
 and practical, because, if she did so, she would have to do 
 his will, and vice versa. 
 
 If I were now writing the Kreutzer Sonata, I would 
 bring this out. 
 
 The insipidity of our life is due to the power of the 
 women ; but the power of the women is due to the in-
 
 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 489 
 
 continence of the men ; thus the cause of the monstrosity 
 of life is due to the incontinence of the men. 
 
 An attractive woman says to herself : " He is clever, 
 he is learned, he is famous, he is rich, he is great, he is 
 moral, holy ; but he surrenders himself to me, a foolish, 
 ignorant, poor, insignificant, immoral woman ; conse- 
 quently reason and learning and everything are nonsense," 
 This undoes them and makes them bad. 
 
 After all, it is always those against whom violence is 
 used that rule, that is, those who fulfil the law of non-re- 
 sistance. Thus women try to obtain their rights, but they 
 rule us for the very reason that they have been subjected 
 by force. The institutions are in the hands of men, but 
 pubhc opinion is in the hands of women. And public 
 opinion is a million times more powerful than all the 
 laws and the army. As a proof that public opinion 
 is in the hands of women, may serve this, that not only 
 the arrangement of the house, the food, is determined by 
 the women, but that the women spend the wealth, con- 
 sequently guide the labours of men ; the success of the 
 productions of art and of books, and even the appoint- 
 ment of rulers, is determined by public opinion, but public 
 opinion is determined by the women. 
 
 Somebody has well said that it is the men who need to 
 seek their emancipation from the women, and not vice versa. 
 
 It is proper for women to sustain life by childbirth, 
 the education of their children, the furnishing of new 
 forces in place of those used up ; it is proper for men to 
 direct these forces, that is, Hfe itself. Either can do 
 both; but this is proper. 
 
 What can there be more stupid and more harmful for 
 the women than the modern talk about the equality
 
 490 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 
 
 of the sexes, or eveu about the superiority of the women 
 over the men. For a man with a Christian world con- 
 ception there can naturally he no question about giving 
 any rights exclusively to meu, or about not respecting 
 and loving a woman like any other person ; but to as- 
 sert that woman has the same spiritual forces as man, 
 especially that woman can just as much be guided by 
 reason and can believe in the same way as man, is to 
 demand of woman what she cannot give (I do not speak 
 of exceptions), and to provoke in her irritation, which is 
 based on the supposition that she does not want to do 
 what she cannot do, without having for it a categorical 
 imperative in reason. 
 
 If the question is about being removed by man from 
 those cares and labours which result from education, or 
 rather from tending on little children, — from putting 
 them to bed, washing their linen and, in general, all 
 hnen, from preparing food for them and, in general, for 
 all, from making clothes for them, and so forth, — this 
 is in the highest degree not only un-Christian and not 
 good, but also unjust. 
 
 Woman, as it is, bears the greater labour of carrying 
 and nursing the children, and so, it would seem, it is 
 natural that all the other cares ought to be taken over 
 by man as much as it is possible without interfering with 
 his work, which is also necessary for the family. And so 
 it would be by all means, if the barbarous habit of throw- 
 ing the whole burden of work on the weaker, and, there- 
 fore, on the oppressed, had not taken such firm root in 
 our society. This has so permeated our habits that, 
 in spite of the equality of woman as recogidzed by men, 
 the most liberal man, as well as the most chivalrous, 
 will warmly defend a woman's right to be a professor, a 
 preacher, or will at the risk of his life rush to lift up 
 a handkerchief which a woman has dropped, and so forth,
 
 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 491 
 
 but will never fall upon the idea of washing the diapers 
 which their common child has soiled, or of making a pair 
 of trousers for his son, when his wife is pregnant, or is 
 nursing, or simply tired, or simply wants to read or think 
 awhile to make up for the time lost in carrying and 
 nursing. 
 
 Public opinion is so distorted in this respect that such 
 acts would be found ridicules, and it would take great 
 courage to do them. 
 
 Here is the real emancipation of woman : 
 Not to consider any work woman's work such as it 
 would be a disgrace to touch, and to aid them with all 
 our strength, for the very reason that they are physically 
 weaker, and to take away from them all the work which 
 we can take upon ourselves. 
 
 The same in the education of the girls, having in view 
 the fact that they will probably have to bring forth chil- 
 dren, and so will have less leisure ; in view of this fact 
 the schools ought to be arranged, not worse, but even 
 better than those for men, so that they may in advance 
 gain strength and knowledge. They are capable of that. 
 
 It is quite true that in relation to women and their 
 labour there exist many very harmful prejudices which 
 have taken strong root since antiquity, and it is still more 
 true that it is necessary to struggle against them. But 
 I do not think that a society which will establish reading- 
 rooms and apartments for women will be a means for the 
 struggle. I am not provoked by the fact that women 
 receive smaller wages than men, — wages are established 
 according to the worth of the labour, — but by this, that 
 the woman who bears, nurses, brings up little children is 
 also burdened with the work of the kitchen, that she has 
 to broil at the stove, wash the dishes and the linen, make 
 the clothes, and wash the tables, floors, and windows.
 
 492 ON tup: relation between the sexes 
 
 Why is this dreadfully hard labour thrown on woman's 
 shoulders ? A peasant, factory hand, official, and any 
 other man may have nothing to do, but he will be lying 
 and smoking, leaving it to a woman (and the woman sub- 
 mits to it), who is frequently pregnant, or sick, or with 
 children, to broil at the stove or to bear the terrible 
 labour of washiug the linen, or of tending her sick babe 
 at night. And all this is due to the superstition that 
 there is such a thing as woman's work. 
 
 It is a terrible evil, and from this come numerous 
 diseases of women, premature aging, death, dulling of the 
 women themselves and of their children. 
 
 For the agreement of the conjugal pair it is necessary 
 that in their views on the world and on life, if they do 
 not coincide, the one who thinks less should submit to the 
 one who thinks more. 
 
 Women have always recognized men's power over 
 them. It could not have been otherwise in the non- 
 Christian world. Man is strong, and so man exerted 
 power. Thus it has been in the whole world (excluding 
 the doubtful amazons and the law of maternity), and thus 
 it is even now among nine hundred and ninety-nine thou- 
 sandths of the human race. But in order that the freedom 
 of the slaves and of woman may not be a misfortune, 
 it is necessary that the emancipated should be Christians, 
 that is, should use their lives in serving God and men, 
 and not themselves. What, then, is to be done ? This 
 one thing is to be done : it is necessary to draw men to 
 Christianity, to convert them to Christianity. But this 
 can be done only by doing in life Christ's law. 
 
 I have, among other things, thought a great deal about 
 women, about marriage, and I should like to tell about it, 
 of course, not about the modern little idols, the univer-
 
 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 493 
 
 sity courses, but about woman's great eternal destination. 
 Many perverse things in this respect are preached precisely 
 in the circles of intelligent women, and namely this : for 
 example, they preach that woman ought not to be exclu- 
 sive, — that she must not love her children more than any 
 one else. They preach many misty, obscure things about 
 evolution, about her equahty with man ; but this proposi- 
 tion, that woman must not love her children more than 
 strangers, is preached everywhere, at all times, is con- 
 sidered an axiom, and as a practical rule includes in 
 itself the essence of the doctrine ; but this very proposi- 
 tion is quite false. 
 
 It is the destiny of every man, both man and woman, 
 to serve men. With this general proposition, I believe 
 agree all men who are not immoral. The difference 
 between men and women in the fulfilment of this destiny 
 is great, according to the means with which they serve 
 men. A man serves men with physical, and mental, and 
 moral labour. The means of his ministration are very 
 varied. The whole activity of humanity, with the ex- 
 ception of childbirth and nuising, forms the arena of his 
 ministration to men. But woman, in addition to her 
 ability to serve men with all the same sides of her being 
 as man, is by her constitution destined and inevitably 
 drawn to that ministration which alone is excluded from 
 the sphere of man's ministration. The ministration to 
 humanity is naturally divided into two parts: one — the 
 increase of the good in existing humanity, the other — 
 the continuation of humanity itself. Men are preemi- 
 nently destined for the first, for they are deprived of 
 the possibility of serving the second. Women are pre- 
 eminently destined for the second, because they are 
 exclusively adapted for it. It is impossible, wrong, and 
 sinful (that is, a mistake) to forget and to wipe out the 
 second, as people try to do. From this distinction result
 
 494 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 
 
 the duties of either, duties which are not invented by 
 men, but lie in the nature of things. From this same 
 difference results the valuation of man's and woman's 
 virtue and vice, — a valuation which has existed through 
 all the ages and which can never cease to exist, so long 
 as men have reason. 
 
 It has always been so, and it will always be so, that a 
 man who has passed his life in his manifold male labour, 
 and a woman w^ho has passed her life in bearing, nursing, 
 and bringing up her children, will feel that they are doing 
 what is right, and they will evoke men's respect and 
 love, because both have fulfilled their indubitable destiny. 
 Man's destiny is more varied and broader, woman's 
 destiny is more uniform and narrower, but deeper, and 
 so it has always been and it always will be so that a man, 
 who has hundreds of duties and has been false to one or 
 ten of them, will not be a bad or harmful man, so long 
 as he has performed nine-tenths of his destiny. But a 
 woman, who has three duties, will, by becoming untrue 
 to one of them, perform only two-thirds of them, and, 
 having become untrue to two, becomes negative, harmful. 
 Public opinion has always been such and always will be 
 such, because such is the essence of the matter. A man, 
 to do God's will, must serve Him in the sphere of physical 
 labour, and of thought, and of morality ; with all these 
 works is he able to accomplish his destiny ; for woman 
 the means for serving God are preeminently and almost 
 exclusively (because no one but her can do it) the children. 
 
 Man is called to serve God only through his works ; 
 woman is called to serve only through her children. 
 
 And so the love of her children, which is inherent in 
 woman, the exclusive love, with which it is quite vain to 
 struggle by means of reason, will always be, and always 
 must be, peculiar to the woman as mother. This love 
 for the child in babyhood is not at all egoism, as we are 
 falsely taught to believe, but the love of the labourer for
 
 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 495 
 
 the work which he is doiag, when it is in his hands. 
 Take this love for the object of his work away from him, 
 and the work is impossible. 
 
 So long as I am making a boot I love it more than 
 anything, just as a mother loves her child ; if they spoil 
 it for me, I shall be in despair ; but I love it so long as I 
 am working at it. \Mien I am done with it, there is left 
 an attachment, a feeble and illegitimate predilection ; even 
 so it is with the mother. 
 
 Man is called to serve men by means of varied labours, 
 and he loves these labours so long as he is at work over 
 them ; woman is called to serve men through her children 
 while she is making them, that is, rearing and bringing 
 them up. 
 
 In this do I see a complete equality of man and woman, 
 — in their common destiny to serve God and men, in spite 
 of the difference of the form of this service. This equality 
 is manifested in this also, that one is as important as the 
 other, that one is as unthinkable as the other, that one 
 conditions the other, and that in order to attain their 
 destiny, the knowledge of the truth is indispensable to 
 both, and that without this knowledge the activity both 
 of the man and the woman becomes, not useful, but 
 harmful, to humanity. 
 
 ]\Ian is called to fulfil his varied work, but his work is 
 only then useful, and his work (to plough the field or 
 make cannon), and his mental activit"*^ rto make men's 
 life easier or to count out money), and his religious 
 activity (to bring men closer together or sing a mass) are 
 only then fruitful, when they are done in the name of 
 the highest truth accessible to man. 
 
 The same is true of woman's destiny : her bringing 
 forth, nursing, and rearing of children will be useful to 
 humanity when she will bring up children, not simply 
 for her pleasure, but as future servants of humanity, 
 when the education of these children will be accom-
 
 496 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 
 
 plished in the name of the highest truth accessible to 
 her, that is, when she will educate her children in such 
 a way that they may be able to take as little as possible 
 from men and give them as much as possible. The ideal 
 woman will, in my opinion, be she who, having acquired 
 the highest world conception, — the faith which will be 
 accessible to her, — will abandon herself to her feminine 
 calling, which is invincibly inherent in her, of bringing 
 forth, nursing, and educating the largest number of 
 children capable of working for men according to the 
 world conception which she has made her own. But 
 this world conception is not drawn from university 
 courses, but is acquired only by not closing eyes and 
 ears, and by meekness of heart. 
 
 Well, and those who have no children, who have not 
 married, widows ? They will do well, if they will take 
 part in man's varied work. 
 
 And every woman who is through bearing children 
 will, if she has strength, be able to busy herself with this 
 aid to man in his work, and this aid is very precious. . . . 
 
 A good domestic hfe is possible only with the con- 
 scious conviction, educated in woman, of the necessity of 
 permanent submission to man. I have said that this is 
 proved by the fact that this has been so as far back 
 as we know the lifo of man, and by this, that domestic 
 life with children is a voyage in a frail boat, which is 
 possible only if all submit to one man. Such they have 
 always recognized man to be, because, since he does 
 not bear children or nurse them, he is able to be a 
 better guide to his wife than the wife can be to her 
 husband. 
 
 But are women really always inferior to men? Not 
 at all. The moment both are chaste, they are equal. 
 But what is meant by this, that women now demand, not 
 only equality, but also supremacy ? Only this, that the
 
 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 497 
 
 family is evolving, and so the older form is falling to pieces. 
 The relations of the sexes are looking for new forms, and 
 the old form is decomposing. 
 
 It is impossible to tell what the new form will be, 
 though many things may be noticed. Maybe a greater 
 number of men observing chastity ; there may be tempo- 
 rary marriages, coming to an end after the birth of children, 
 so that the conjugal pair separates after the birth of 
 children and remains chaste ; maybe the children will 
 be brought up by society. It is impossible to foresee the 
 new forms. But what is unquestionable is this, that 
 the old form is decomposing, and that the existence of the 
 old form is possible only with the submission of wife to 
 husband, as it has always and everywhere been, and as 
 happens there where the family is still preserved. 
 
 Yesterday I read Without Dogma. There is a very 
 delicate description of love of woman, — tenderly, much 
 more dehcately done than with the French, where it is sen- 
 sual, or with the English, where it is Pharisaical, or with 
 the Germans, where it is inflated ; and I thought I might 
 write a novel of chaste love, ... for which the transition 
 to sensuality is impossible, which forms the best defence 
 against sensuality. Yes, is this not the only salvation 
 from sensuality ? Yes, yes, it is. It is for this that man 
 was created as man and woman. Only with woman can 
 one lose his chastity, and only with her can one keep it. 
 It is good to make a note of it. . . . 
 
 Man, like any animal, submits to the law of the struggle 
 and to the sexual instinct for the strengthening of the 
 species ; as a rational, loving, divine being, he submits 
 to the reverse law, not that of the struggle with his rivals 
 and enemies, but that of meekness, endurance of insults, 
 and of love for them, and not that of the sexual instinct, 
 but that of chastity.
 
 498 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 
 
 One of the most important works of humanity consists 
 in the education of a chaste woman. 
 
 Woman, so a legend tells, is the instrument of the 
 devil. She is in general stupid, but the devil gives her 
 his intellect for her support, when she is working for him. 
 You behold, she has done wonders of the mind, of far- 
 sightedness, or constancy, in order to do abominable 
 things ; but the moment it is not a question of an abomi- 
 nation, she is unable to understand the simplest thing, 
 does not reflect beyond the present moment, and has no 
 endurance, no patience (except in childbirth and the 
 bringing up of children). 
 
 All this has reference to the non-Christian, the unchaste 
 woman, . . . Oh, how I should hke to show to woman the 
 whole meaning of the chaste woman. The chaste woman 
 (the legend about Mary is not given without good reason) 
 will save the world. 
 
 Woman's destiny is above all else and preeminently 
 man's destiny, of which I have spoken before. Marriage 
 and children in comparison with cehbacy is the same as 
 the conditions of village life as compared with the luxu- 
 rious life of the city : the conditions of life, celibacy or 
 the family, cannot in themselves influence man. There 
 may be a holy and a sinful celibacy, and there may be a 
 sinful and a holy family. 
 
 Every girl, and you in particular, the same as a man 
 in whom an inner spiritual life is beginning, I advise as 
 much as possible to keep away from everything which in 
 our society supports in the girl the idea of the necessity, 
 the desirability, of marriage, and predisposes to it, — 
 novels, music, idle prattle, dances, games, cards, even 
 attire. Truly, it is more pleasant to wash one's own 
 shirt (and for the soul it is so much more useful) than to 
 play secretary all evening, even with the most clever of
 
 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 499 
 
 men. Above all else, that conception, so universal in the 
 world, that it is shameful not to marry and to remain 
 an old maid, is just as contrary to truth as all worldly 
 opinions in regard to questions of life. Celibate life, 
 filled with good works, celibate, because the works which 
 fill this life are all above marriage (and such works are all 
 works of love for your neighbour, of giving a cup of 
 water to drink), are an infinite number of times higher 
 than all domestic life. (Matt. xix. 11.) All men can- 
 not receive this saying, save they to whom it is given. 
 Thus all men of all nations and of all ages have always 
 looked with the greatest repect and emotion upon the 
 men and women who remained celibate, not from com- 
 pulsion, but for the sake of God. But in our society they 
 are the most ridiculous of people. Indeed, they are just 
 like those who are poor for the sake of God, and those 
 who did not know how to make money. 
 
 But to every girl, and to you, I give the advice to set 
 before you as an ideal the service of God, that is, the 
 keeping and increasing in yourself of the divine spark, 
 and so — celibacy, if marriage hinders this ministration ; 
 but if it should happen that, submitting to your selfish 
 feeling for one man, you should get married, do not rejoice 
 and become proud, as generally happens, of your position 
 as wife and mother, but, without losing sight of the chief 
 aim of life, the service of God, see to it with all your 
 strength that your exclusive and egoistical attachment for 
 the family does not interfere with your serving God. 
 
 I have always thought that one of the surest signs of 
 the seriousness of relations to moral questions is strictness 
 to oneself in the sexual question. . . . 
 
 The offence into which N has fallen is very intel- 
 ligible and peculiar to precisely such honest and truthful 
 natures as I imagine him to be. The relations were estab- 
 lished, and he wanted not to conceal anything, but openly
 
 500 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 
 
 and frankly to confess them, by giving them a character 
 of spirituality. 
 
 1 fully understand his idea : to utilize that spiritual 
 elation which enamourment gives, in order to use this 
 elation for God's work. That is possible, and I think 
 that the energy of men who are in this state may be con- 
 siderably raised, and may give what to us seems to be 
 unexpectedly great results. I have more than once seen 
 this, and I have known such cases ; but what is terrible 
 here is this, that with the destruction of enamourment 
 (which is very possible and very probable) not only this 
 access of energy may fall, but also every interest in God's 
 work, of which, too, I have seen examples. And that 
 this happens and can happen proves that God's work, the 
 service of Him, cannot and must not lean on anything, 
 and everything else must be based on the consciousness 
 of the necessity and the joy of this service. 
 
 Thus it is possible (and this is often done) to increase 
 the energy of serving God with human glory, and again 
 there is the danger of growing indifferent to God's 
 work the moment the approval of men is destroyed. 
 
 All this you know and have given utterance to, but 
 I wanted to add just one thing to what I wrote to you in 
 
 my last letter as to my agreeing with N that the 
 
 union of a man and a woman is good when it has for its 
 aim the conjoined service of God and men, — namely, 
 that the conjugal, the bodily, tie does not exactly add 
 strength in the service, but that for certain people, who 
 are swayed by the restlessness of the necessity of enam- 
 ourment, it removes this unrest, which interferes with tlie 
 application of one's whole force to the service ; and so, 
 although chastity, if it is full, is a most advantageous 
 condition for the service, — for some people marriage, by 
 quieting them and removing the obstacle, strengthens the 
 possibility of their service. But with it, — and this is 
 the main thing I wanted to say, — it is necessary that
 
 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 501 
 
 men should understand and recognize, outside of mar- 
 riage, and in marriage, that the quahty of amorousness 
 and of that spiritual elation which talces place at this 
 time are intended, not as an amusement, not as an enjoy- 
 ment, not for artistic creations (many think so), not for 
 
 the increase of energy in the service of God, as N 
 
 thinks, but only for a sexual, marital union with one hus- 
 band and one wife for the production of children and the 
 mutual emancipation from lust. But every direction of 
 this ability to something else can only make the path 
 of man's life harder, and not easier and pleasanter. 
 
 And so I fully agree with you that this is a most 
 dangerous offence against which one cauuot be sufticieutly 
 cautious. " Well," they say, " why not be friendly with 
 persons of the opposite sex as with those of the same 
 sex ? " There is no reason why we should not, and the 
 more we love, the better it is. But a sincere man, who 
 is serious in matters of morality, wiU immediately notice, 
 as N has, that such relatious with women will be dif- 
 ferent. If a man is not going to deceive himself, he 
 will always observe that the approximation takes place 
 faster than usual ; that the bicycle rides easily and fast, 
 and that there is no need of the same efforts as usual ; and 
 that, therefore, there must be a cause for it. And as soon 
 as a man, who is serious in matters of morality, notices 
 this and does not wish to ride down-hill, knowing that the 
 motion will be increasing all the time and will lead to 
 marriage or to an exclusive feeling, he will come to a stop. 
 
 Marriage, of course, is good and indispensable for the 
 continuation of the race, but if so, it is necessary that 
 the parents should feel in themselves the strength to 
 educate their children, not as drones, but as servants 
 of God and of men. And for this it is necessary to 
 he able to live, not by the labours of others, but by one's 
 own, giving more than receiving from men.
 
 502 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 
 
 But we have a bourgeois rule that a man may marry 
 only when he is pressing hard down on the backs of 
 others, that is, when he has means. Exactly the opposite 
 is needed : only he may marry who can live and bring 
 up a child, without having any means. Only such par- 
 ents will be able to educate their children well. 
 
 I have looked through the book. 
 
 It is impossible to write about it and reply to it, just 
 as it is impossible to reply to a man's proof that it is 
 agi'eeable and harmless to cohabit with corpses. A man 
 who does not feel what the elephants feel, that cohabitation 
 is, in general, an act which lowers oneself and one's mate, 
 and so is abominable, an act in which a man involuntarily 
 pays his tribute to his animality, and which is redeemed 
 only by the fact that it fulfils that purpose (childbirth) 
 for which the necessity of this disgusting, debasing act, 
 invincible though it is at a certain time, is inherent in 
 his nature, — to such a man, in spite of his ability to 
 reason, since he is standing on the level of an animal, 
 it is impossible to exyjlain or prove this. I do not even 
 speak of the fallacy of Malthusianism, which places 
 objective considerations (and false ones at that) at the 
 base of the business of morality, which is always sub- 
 jective, — nor even of the fact that between murder, 
 abortion, and this method there is no material differ- 
 ence. 
 
 Pardon me : it is a shame and an abomination to speak 
 seriously of this. It is necessary to speak and to think 
 rather of what distortion or dulness of the moral feehng 
 could have brought men to this. It is not for us to 
 quarrel with them, but to cure them. Eeally, an igno- 
 rant, drunken Eussian peasant, who believes in " Friday," 
 who would look with horror upon such an act, and who 
 always looks upon the act of cohabitation as upon a sin, 
 stands immeasurably above the people who write well
 
 ON" THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 503 
 
 and have the boldness to quote philosophy in confirma- 
 tion of their savagery. 
 
 No kind of human crimes against the moral law do 
 people conceal from one another with such caution as 
 those which are called sexual lust ; and there is no crime 
 against the moral law which is so common to all men, 
 embracing them in the most varied and most terrible 
 forms ; there is no crime against the moral law upon 
 which men look with such disagreement, — some regard- 
 ing a certain act as a terrible sin, and others looking 
 upon the same act as upon a customary cbnvenience or 
 pleasure ; there is no crime in respect to which so many 
 Pharisaical utterances have been made ; there is no crime 
 the relation to which so correctly indicates man's level ; 
 and there is no crime more pernicious for separate in- 
 dividuals and for the progress of all humanity. 
 
 These thoughts are very simple and very clear for him 
 who thinks in order to know the truth. These thoughts 
 appear strange, paradoxical, and even incorrect to him 
 who reasons, not in order to find the truth, but in order 
 to consider true his life with all its vices and aberrations. 
 
 There is never any end to this matter. I even now 
 think of the same (of the sexual question), and it still 
 appears to me that there is much left to be explained and 
 added. And this is comprehensible because the matter 
 is of such enormous importance and novelty, and the 
 strength, to speak without any false modesty, is so weak 
 and so httle in keeping with the importance of the 
 subject. 
 
 For this reason I think that all must work who are 
 sincerely interested in the matter, — all must work out 
 this subject according to their strength. If each man 
 will sincerely say from his personal point of view what
 
 504 ON THE RELATION BETWEEN THE SEXES 
 
 he thinks aud feels about this subject, many obscure 
 points will be made clear, what is usually and falsely 
 hidden will be revealed, what seems strange from uri- 
 wontedness to see it will cease seeming such, and many 
 things which seem natural from the habit of living badly 
 will cease seeming such. Through a happy chance I have 
 been able, more than others, to turn the aitention of soci- 
 ety to this subject. Others must continue the work from 
 various sides. 
 
 THE END.
 
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