{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_3630/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_3630","id":"gutenberg_3630","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3630","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Russian Literature","Category: Sociology","Moscow (Russia) -- Social conditions","Social problems"],"text":"Transcribed from the 1887 Tomas Y. Crowell edition by David Price, email\nccx074@pglaf.org\n\n\n\n\n\nWHAT TO DO?\nTHOUGHTS EVOKED BY THE CENSUS\nOF MOSCOW\n\n\nBY\nCOUNT LYOF N. TOLSTOI\n\n_TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN_\nBY ISABEL F. HAPGOOD\n\nNEW YORK\nTHOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO.\n13 ASTOR PLACE\n1887\n\nCOPYRIGHT, 1887,\nBY THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO.\n\nELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED\nBY RAND AVERY COMPANY,\nBOSTON.\n\n\n\n\nTRANSLATOR'S NOTE.\n\n\nBooks which are prohibited by the Russian Censor are not always\ninaccessible.  An enterprising publishing-house in Geneva makes a\nspecialty of supplying the natural craving of man for forbidden fruit,\nunder which heading some of Count L. N. Tolstoi's essays belong.  These\nessays circulate in Russia in manuscript; and it is from one of these\nmanuscripts, which fell into the hands of the Geneva firm, that the first\nhalf of the present translation has been made.  It is thus that the\nCensor's omissions have been noted, even in cases where such omissions\nare in no way indicated in the twelfth volume of Count Tolstoi's\ncollected works, published in Moscow.  As an interesting detail in this\nconnection, I may mention that this twelfth volume contains all that the\ncensor allows of \"My Religion,\" amounting to a very much abridged scrap\nof Chapter X. in the last-named volume as known to the public outside of\nRussia.  The last half of the present book has not been published by the\nGeneva house, and omissions cannot be marked.\n\nISABEL F. HAPGOOD\n\nBOSTON, Sept. 1, 1887\n\n\n\n\nARTICLE ON THE CENSUS IN MOSCOW. [1882.]\n\n\nThe object of a census is scientific.  A census is a sociological\ninvestigation.  And the object of the science of sociology is the\nhappiness of the people.  This science and its methods differ sharply\nfrom all other sciences.\n\nIts peculiarity lies in this, that sociological investigations are not\nconducted by learned men in their cabinets, observatories and\nlaboratories, but by two thousand people from the community.  A second\npeculiarity is this, that the investigations of other sciences are not\nconducted on living people, but here living people are the subjects.  A\nthird peculiarity is, that the aim of every other science is simply\nknowledge, while here it is the good of the people.  One man may\ninvestigate a nebula, but for the investigation of Moscow, two thousand\npersons are necessary.  The object of the study of nebulae is merely that\nwe may know about nebulae; the object of the study of inhabitants is that\nsociological laws may be deduced, and that, on the foundation of these\nlaws, a better life for the people may be established.  It makes no\ndifference to the nebula whether it is studied or not, and it has waited\nlong, and is ready to wait a great while longer; but it is not a matter\nof indifference to the inhabitants of Moscow, especially to those\nunfortunates who constitute the most interesting subjects of the science\nof sociology.\n\nThe census-taker enters a night lodging-house; in the basement he finds a\nman dying of hunger, and he politely inquires his profession, his name,\nhis native place, the character of his occupation, and after a little\nhesitation as to whether he is to be entered in the list as alive, he\nwrites him in and goes his way.\n\nAnd thus will the two thousand young men proceed.  This is not as it\nshould be.\n\nScience does its work, and the community, summoned in the persons of\nthese two thousand young men to aid science, must do its work.  A\nstatistician drawing his deductions from figures may feel indifferent\ntowards people, but we census-takers, who see these people and who have\nno scientific prepossessions, cannot conduct ourselves towards them in an\ninhuman manner.  Science fulfils its task, and its work is for its\nobjects and in the distant future, both useful and necessary to us.  For\nmen of science, we can calmly say, that in 1882 there were so many\nbeggars, so many prostitutes, and so many uncared-for children.  Science\nmay say this with composure and with pride, because it knows that the\nconfirmation of this fact conduces to the elucidation of the laws of\nsociology, and that the elucidation of the laws of sociology leads to a\nbetter constitution of society.  But what if we, the unscientific people,\nsay: \"You are perishing in vice, you are dying of hunger, you are pining\naway, and killing each other; so do not grieve about this; when you shall\nhave all perished, and hundreds of thousands more like you, then,\npossibly, science may be able to arrange everything in an excellent\nmanner.\"  For men of science, the census has its interest; and for us\nalso, it possesses an interest of a wholly different significance.  The\ninterest and significance of the census for the community lie in this,\nthat it furnishes it with a mirror into which, willy nilly, the whole\ncommunity, and each one of us, gaze.\n\nThe figures and deductions will be the mirror.  It is possible to refrain\nfrom reading them, as it is possible to turn away from the looking-glass.\nIt is possible to glance cursorily at both figures and mirror, and it is\nalso possible to scrutinize them narrowly.  To go about in connection\nwith the census as thousands of people are now about to do, is to\nscrutinize one's self closely in the mirror.\n\nWhat does this census, that is about to be made, mean for us people of\nMoscow, who are not men of science?  It means two things.  In the first\nplace, this, that we may learn with certainty, that among us tens of\nthousands who live in ease, there dwell tens of thousands of people who\nlack bread, clothing and shelter; in the second place, this, that our\nbrothers and sons will go and view this and will calmly set down\naccording to the schedules, how many have died of hunger and cold.\n\nAnd both these things are very bad.\n\nAll cry out upon the instability of our social organization, about the\nexceptional situation, about revolutionary tendencies.  Where lies the\nroot of all this?  To what do the revolutionists point?  To poverty, to\ninequality in the distribution of wealth.  To what do the conservatives\npoint?  To the decline in moral principle.  If the opinion of the\nrevolutionists is correct, what must be done?  Poverty and the inequality\nof wealth must be lessened.  How is this to be effected?  The rich must\nshare with the poor.  If the opinion of the conservatives is correct,\nthat the whole evil arises from the decline in moral principle, what can\nbe more immoral and vicious than the consciously indifferent survey of\npopular sufferings, with the sole object of cataloguing them?  What must\nbe done?  To the census we must add the work of affectionate intercourse\nof the idle and cultivated rich, with the oppressed and unenlightened\npoor.\n\nScience will do its work, let us perform ours also.  Let us do this.  In\nthe first place, let all of us who are occupied with the census,\nsuperintendents and census-takers, make it perfectly clear to ourselves\nwhat we are to investigate and why.  It is the people, and the object is\nthat they may be happy.  Whatever may be one's view of life, every one\nwill agree that there is nothing more important than human life, and that\nthere is no more weighty task than to remove the obstacles to the\ndevelopment of this life, and to assist it.\n\nThis idea, that the relations of men to poverty are at the foundation of\nall popular suffering, is expressed in the Gospels with striking\nharshness, but at the same time, with decision and clearness for all.\n\n\"He who has clothed the naked, fed the hungry, visited the prisoner, that\nman has clothed Me, fed Me, visited Me,\" that is, has done the deed for\nthat which is the most important thing in the world.\n\nHowever a man may look upon things, every one knows that this is more\nimportant than all else on earth.\n\nAnd this must not be forgotten, and we must not permit any other\nconsideration to veil from us the most weighty fact of our existence.  Let\nus inscribe, and reckon, but let us not forget that if we encounter a man\nwho is hungry and without clothes, it is of more moment to succor him\nthan to make all possible investigations, than to discover all possible\nsciences.  Perish the whole census if we may but feed an old woman.  The\ncensus will be longer and more difficult, but we cannot pass by people in\nthe poorer quarters and merely note them down without taking any heed of\nthem and without endeavoring, according to the measure of our strength\nand moral sensitiveness, to aid them.  This in the first place.  In the\nsecond, this is what must be done: All of us, who are to take part in the\ncensus, must refrain from irritation because we are annoyed; let us\nunderstand that this census is very useful for us; that if this is not\ncure, it is at least an effort to study the disease, for which we should\nbe thankful; that we must seize this occasion, and, in connection with\nit, we must seek to recover our health, in some small degree.  Let all of\nus, then, who are connected with the census, endeavor to take advantage\nof this solitary opportunity in ten years to purify ourselves somewhat;\nlet us not strive against, but assist the census, and assist it\nespecially in this sense, that it may not have merely the harsh character\nof the investigation of a hopelessly sick person, but may have the\ncharacter of healing and restoration to health.  For the occasion is\nunique: eighty energetic, cultivated men, having under their orders two\nthousand young men of the same stamp, are to make their way over the\nwhole of Moscow, and not leave a single man in Moscow with whom they have\nnot entered into personal relations.  All the wounds of society, the\nwounds of poverty, of vice, of ignorance--all will be laid bare.  Is\nthere not something re-assuring in this?  The census-takers will go about\nMoscow, they will set down in their lists, without distinction, those\ninsolent with prosperity, the satisfied, the calm, those who are on the\nway to ruin, and those who are ruined, and the curtain will fall.  The\ncensus-takers, our sons and brothers, these young men will behold all\nthis.  They will say: \"Yes, our life is very terrible and incurable,\" and\nwith this admission they will live on like the rest of us, awaiting a\nremedy for the evil from this or that extraneous force.  But those who\nare perishing will go on dying, in their ruin, and those on the road to\nruin will continue in their course.  No, let us rather grasp the idea\nthat science has its task, and that we, on the occasion of this census,\nhave our task, and let us not allow the curtain once lifted to be\ndropped, but let us profit by the opportunity in order to remove the\nimmense evil of the separation existing between us and the poor, and to\nestablish intercourse and the work of redressing the evil of unhappiness\nand ignorance, and our still greater misfortune,--the indifference and\naimlessness of our life.\n\nI already hear the customary remark: \"All this is very fine, these are\nsounding phrases; but do you tell us what to do and how to do it?\"  Before\nI say what is to be done, it is indispensable that I should say what is\nnot to be done.  It is indispensable, first of all, in my opinion, in\norder that something practical may come of this activity, that no society\nshould be formed, that there should be no publicity, that there should be\nno collection of money by balls, bazaars or theatres; that there should\nbe no announcement that Prince A. has contributed one thousand rubles,\nand the honorable citizen B. three thousand; that there shall be no\ncollection, no calling to account, no writing up,--most of all, no\nwriting up, so that there may not be the least shadow of any institution,\neither governmental or philanthropic.\n\nBut in my opinion, this is what should be done instantly: Firstly, All\nthose who agree with me should go to the directors, and ask for their\nshares the poorest sections, the poorest dwellings; and in company with\nthe census-takers, twenty-three, twenty-four or twenty-five in number,\nthey should go to these quarters, enter into relations with the people\nwho are in need of assistance, and labor for them.\n\nSecondly: We should direct the attention of the superintendents and\ncensus-takers to the inhabitants in need of assistance, and work for them\npersonally, and point them out to those who wish to work over them.  But\nI am asked: What do you mean by _working over them_?  I reply; Doing good\nto people.  The words \"doing good\" are usually understood to mean, giving\nmoney.  But, in my opinion, doing good and giving money are not only not\nthe same thing, but two different and generally opposite things.  Money,\nin itself, is evil.  And therefore he who gives money gives evil.  This\nerror of thinking that the giving of money means doing good, arose from\nthe fact, that generally, when a man does good, he frees himself from\nevil, and from money among other evils.  And therefore, to give money is\nonly a sign that a man is beginning to rid himself of evil.  To do good,\nsignifies to do that which is good for man.  But, in order to know what\nis good for man, it is necessary to be on humane, i.e., on friendly terms\nwith him.  And therefore, in order to do good, it is not money that is\nnecessary, but, first of all, a capacity for detaching ourselves, for a\ntime at least, from the conditions of our own life.  It is necessary that\nwe should not be afraid to soil our boots and clothing, that we should\nnot fear lice and bedbugs, that we should not fear typhus fever,\ndiphtheria, and small-pox.  It is necessary that we should be in a\ncondition to seat ourselves by the bunk of a tatterdemalion and converse\nearnestly with him in such a manner, that he may feel that the man who is\ntalking with him respects and loves him, and is not putting on airs and\nadmiring himself.  And in order that this may be so, it is necessary that\na man should find the meaning of life outside himself.  This is what is\nrequisite in order that good should be done, and this is what it is\ndifficult to find.\n\nWhen the idea of assisting through the medium of the census occurred to\nme, I discussed the matter with divers of the wealthy, and I saw how glad\nthe rich were of this opportunity of decently getting rid of their money,\nthat extraneous sin which they cherish in their hearts.  \"Take three\nhundred--five hundred rubles, if you like,\" they said to me, \"but I\ncannot go into those dens myself.\"  There was no lack of money.  Remember\nZaccheus, the chief of the Publicans in the Gospel.  Remember how he,\nbecause he was small of stature, climbed into a tree to see Christ, and\nhow when Christ announced that he was going to his house, having\nunderstood but one thing, that the Master did not approve of riches, he\nleaped headlong from the tree, ran home and arranged his feast.  And how,\nas soon as Christ entered, Zaccheus instantly declared that he gave the\nhalf of his goods to the poor, and if he had wronged any man, to him he\nwould restore fourfold.  And remember how all of us, when we read the\nGospel, set but little store on this Zaccheus, and involuntarily look\nwith scorn on this half of his goods, and fourfold restitution.  And our\nfeeling is correct.  Zaccheus, according to his lights, performed a great\ndeed.  He had not even begun to do good.  He had only begun in some small\nmeasure to purify himself from evil, and so Christ told him.\n\nHe merely said to him: \"To-day is salvation come nigh unto this house.\"\n\nWhat if the Moscow Zaccheuses were to do the same that he did?  Assuredly,\nmore than one milliard could be collected.  Well, and what of that?\nNothing.  There would be still greater sin if we were to think of\ndistributing this money among the poor.  Money is not needed.  What is\nneeded is self-sacrificing action; what is needed are people who would\nlike to do good, not by giving extraneous sin-money, but by giving their\nown labor, themselves, their lives.  Where are such people to be found?\nHere they are, walking about Moscow.  They are the student enumerators.  I\nhave seen how they write out their charts.  The student writes in the\nnight lodging-house, by the bedside of a sick man.  \"What is your\ndisease?\"--\"Small-pox.\"  And the student does not make a wry face, but\nproceeds with his writing.  And this he does for the sake of some\ndoubtful science.  What would he do if he were doing it for the sake of\nhis own undoubted good and the good of others?\n\nWhen children, in merry mood, feel a desire to laugh, they never think of\ndevising some reason for laughter, but they laugh without any reason,\nbecause they are gay; and thus these charming youths sacrifice\nthemselves.  They have not, as yet, contrived to devise any means of\nsacrificing themselves, but they devote their attention, their labor,\ntheir lives, in order to write out a chart, from which something does or\ndoes not appear.  What would it be if this labor were something really\nworth their while?  There is and there always will be labor of this sort,\nwhich is worthy of the devotion of a whole life, whatever the man's life\nmay be.  This labor is the loving intercourse of man with man, and the\nbreaking-down of the barriers which men have erected between themselves,\nso that the enjoyment of the rich man may not be disturbed by the wild\nhowls of the men who are reverting to beasts, and by the groans of\nhelpless hunger, cold and disease.\n\nThis census will place before the eyes of us well-to-do and so-called\ncultivated people, all the poverty and oppression which is lurking in\nevery corner of Moscow.  Two thousand of our brothers, who stand on the\nhighest rung of the ladder, will come face to face with thousands of\npeople who stand on the lowest round of society.  Let us not miss this\nopportunity of communion.  Let us, through these two thousand men,\npreserve this communion, and let us make use of it to free ourselves from\nthe aimlessness and the deformity of our lives, and to free the condemned\nfrom that indigence and misery which do not allow the sensitive people in\nour ranks to enjoy our good fortune in peace.\n\nThis is what I propose: (1) That all our directors and enumerators should\njoin to their business of the census a task of assistance,--of work in\nthe interest of the good of these people, who, in our opinion, are in\nneed of assistance, and with whom we shall come in contact; (2) That all\nof us, directors and enumerators, not by appointment of the committee of\nthe City Council, but by the appointment of our own hearts, shall remain\nin our posts,--that is, in our relations to the inhabitants of the town\nwho are in need of assistance,--and that, at the conclusion of the work\nof the census, we shall continue our work of aid.  If I have succeeded in\nany degree in expressing what I feel, I am sure that the only\nimpossibility will be getting the directors and enumerators to abandon\nthis, and that others will present themselves in the places of those who\nleave; (3) That we should collect all those inhabitants of Moscow, who\nfeel themselves fit to work for the needy, into sections, and begin our\nactivity now, in accordance with the hints of the census-takers and\ndirectors, and afterwards carry it on; (4) That all who, on account of\nage, weakness, or other causes, cannot give their personal labor among\nthe needy, shall intrust the task to their young, strong, and willing\nrelatives.  (Good consists not in the giving of money, it consists in the\nloving intercourse of men.  This alone is needed.)\n\nWhatever may be the outcome of this, any thing will be better than the\npresent state of things.\n\nThen let the final act of our enumerators and directors be to distribute\na hundred twenty-kopek pieces to those who have no food; and this will be\nnot a little, not so much because the hungry will have food, but because\nthe directors and enumerators will conduct themselves in a humane manner\ntowards a hundred poor people.  How are we to compute the possible\nresults which will accrue to the balance of public morality from the fact\nthat, instead of the sentiments of irritation, anger, and envy which we\narouse by reckoning the hungry, we shall awaken in a hundred instances a\nsentiment of good, which will be communicated to a second and a third,\nand an endless wave which will thus be set in motion and flow between\nmen?  And this is a great deal.  Let those of the two thousand\nenumerators who have never comprehended this before, come to understand\nthat, when going about among the poor, it is impossible to say, \"This is\nvery interesting;\" that a man should not express himself with regard to\nanother man's wretchedness by interest only; and this will be a good\nthing.  Then let assistance be rendered to all those unfortunates, of\nwhom there are not so many as I at first supposed in Moscow, who can\neasily be helped by money alone to a great extent.  Then let those\nlaborers who have come to Moscow and have eaten their very clothing from\ntheir backs, and who cannot return to the country, be despatched to their\nhomes; let the abandoned orphans receive supervision; let feeble old men\nand indigent old women, who subsist on the charity of their companions,\nbe released from their half-famished and dying condition.  (And this is\nvery possible.  There are not very many of them.)  And this will also be\na very, very great deal accomplished.  But why not think and hope that\nmore and yet more will be done?  Why not expect that that real task will\nbe partially carried out, or at least begun, which is effected, not by\nmoney, but by labor; that weak drunkards who have lost their health,\nunlucky thieves, and prostitutes who are still capable of reformation,\nshould be saved?  All evil may not be exterminated, but there will arise\nsome understanding of it, and the contest with it will not be police\nmethods, but by inward modes,--by the brotherly intercourse of the men\nwho perceive the evil, with the men who do not perceive it because they\nare a part of it.\n\nNo matter what may be accomplished, it will be a great deal.  But why not\nhope that every thing will be accomplished?  Why not hope that we shall\naccomplish thus much, that there shall not exist in Moscow a single\nperson in want of clothing, a single hungry person, a single human being\nsold for money, nor a single individual oppressed by the judgment of man,\nwho shall not know that there is fraternal aid for him?  It is not\nsurprising that this should not be so, but it is surprising that this\nshould exist side by side with our superfluous leisure and wealth, and\nthat we can live on composedly, knowing that these things are so.  Let us\nforget that in great cities and in London, there is a proletariat, and\nlet us not say that so it must needs be.  It need not be this, and it\nshould not, for this is contrary to our reason and our heart, and it\ncannot be if we are living people.  Why not hope that we shall come to\nunderstand that there is not a single duty incumbent upon us, not to\nmention personal duty, for ourselves, nor our family, nor social, nor\ngovernmental, nor scientific, which is more weighty than this?  Why not\nthink that we shall at last come to apprehend this?  Only because to do\nso would be too great a happiness.  Why not hope that some the people\nwill wake up, and will comprehend that every thing else is a delusion,\nbut that this is the only work in life?  And why should not this \"some\ntime\" be now, and in Moscow?  Why not hope that the same thing may happen\nin society and humanity which suddenly takes place in a diseased\norganism, when the moment of convalescence suddenly sets in?  The\norganism is diseased this means, that the cells cease to perform their\nmysterious functions; some die, others become infected, others still\nremain in perfect condition, and work on by themselves.  But all of a\nsudden the moment comes when every living cell enters upon an independent\nand healthy activity: it crowds out the dead cells, encloses the infected\nones in a living wall, it communicates life to that which was lifeless;\nand the body is restored, and lives with new life.\n\nWhy should we not think and expect that the cells of our society will\nacquire fresh life and re-invigorate the organism?  We know not in what\nthe power of the cells consists, but we do know that our life is in our\nown power.  We can show forth the light that is in us, or we may\nextinguish it.\n\nLet one man approach the Lyapinsky house in the dusk, when a thousand\npersons, naked and hungry, are waiting in the bitter cold for admission,\nand let that one man attempt to help, and his heart will ache till it\nbleeds, and he will flee thence with despair and anger against men; but\nlet a thousand men approach that other thousand with a desire to help,\nand the task will prove easy and delightful.  Let the mechanicians invent\na machine for lifting the weight that is crushing us--that is a good\nthing; but until they shall have invented it, let us bear down upon the\npeople, like fools, like _muzhiki_, like peasants, like Christians, and\nsee whether we cannot raise them.\n\nAnd now, brothers, all together, and away it goes!\n\n\n\n\nTHOUGHTS EVOKED BY THE CENSUS OF MOSCOW.  [1884-1885.]\n\n\n   And the people asked him, saying, What shall we do then?\n\n   He answereth and saith unto them, He that hath two coats, let him\n   impart to him that hath none; and he that hath meat, let him do\n   likewise--LUKE iii. 10. 11.\n\n   Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust\n   doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal:\n\n   But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor\n   rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal:\n\n   For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.\n\n   The light of the body is the eye: if therefore thine eye be single,\n   thy whole body shall be full of light.\n\n   But if thine eye be evil, thy whole body shall be full of darkness.  If\n   therefore the light that is in thee be darkness, how great is that\n   darkness!\n\n   No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and\n   love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the\n   other.  Ye cannot serve God and mammon.\n\n   Therefore I say unto you, Take no thought for your life, what ye shall\n   eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put\n   on.  Is not the life more than meat, and the body than raiment?--MATT.\n   vi. 19-25.\n\n   Therefore take no thought, saying, What shall we eat? or, What shall\n   we drink?  Or, Wherewithal shall we be clothed?\n\n   (For after all these things do the Gentiles seek:) for your heavenly\n   Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things.\n\n   But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all\n   these things shall be added unto you.\n\n   Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take\n   thought for the things of itself.  Sufficient unto the day is the evil\n   thereof.--MATT. vi. 31-34.\n\n   For it is easier for a camel to go through a needle's eye, than for a\n   rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.--MATT. xix. 24; MARK x. 25;\n   LUKE xviii. 25.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n\nI had lived all my life out of town.  When, in 1881, I went to live in\nMoscow, the poverty of the town greatly surprised me.  I am familiar with\npoverty in the country; but city poverty was new and incomprehensible to\nme.  In Moscow it was impossible to pass along the street without\nencountering beggars, and especially beggars who are unlike those in the\ncountry.  These beggars do not go about with their pouches in the name of\nChrist, as country beggars are accustomed to do, but these beggars are\nwithout the pouch and the name of Christ.  The Moscow beggars carry no\npouches, and do not ask for alms.  Generally, when they meet or pass you,\nthey merely try to catch your eye; and, according to your look, they beg\nor refrain from it.  I know one such beggar who belongs to the gentry.\nThe old man walks slowly along, bending forward every time he sets his\nfoot down.  When he meets you, he rests on one foot and makes you a kind\nof salute.  If you stop, he pulls off his hat with its cockade, and bows\nand begs: if you do not halt, he pretends that that is merely his way of\nwalking, and he passes on, bending forward in like manner on the other\nfoot.  He is a real Moscow beggar, a cultivated man.  At first I did not\nknow why the Moscow beggars do not ask alms directly; afterwards I came\nto understand why they do not beg, but still I did not understand their\nposition.\n\nOnce, as I was passing through Afanasievskaya Lane, I saw a policeman\nputting a ragged peasant, all swollen with dropsy, into a cab.  I\ninquired: \"What is that for?\"\n\nThe policeman answered: \"For asking alms.\"\n\n\"Is that forbidden?\"\n\n\"Of course it is forbidden,\" replied the policeman.\n\nThe sufferer from dropsy was driven off.  I took another cab, and\nfollowed him.  I wanted to know whether it was true that begging alms was\nprohibited and how it was prohibited.  I could in no wise understand how\none man could be forbidden to ask alms of any other man; and besides, I\ndid not believe that it was prohibited, when Moscow is full of beggars.  I\nwent to the station-house whither the beggar had been taken.  At a table\nin the station-house sat a man with a sword and a pistol.  I inquired:\n\n\"For what was this peasant arrested?\"\n\nThe man with the sword and pistol gazed sternly at me, and said:\n\n\"What business is it of yours?\"\n\nBut feeling conscious that it was necessary to offer me some explanation,\nhe added:\n\n\"The authorities have ordered that all such persons are to be arrested;\nof course it had to be done.\"\n\nI went out.  The policeman who had brought the beggar was seated on the\nwindow-sill in the ante-chamber, staring gloomily at a note-book.  I\nasked him:\n\n\"Is it true that the poor are forbidden to ask alms in Christ's name?\"\n\nThe policeman came to himself, stared at me, then did not exactly frown,\nbut apparently fell into a doze again, and said, as he sat on the window-\nsill:--\n\n\"The authorities have so ordered, which shows that it is necessary,\" and\nbetook himself once more to his note-book.  I went out on the porch, to\nthe cab.\n\n\"Well, how did it turn out?  Have they arrested him?\" asked the cabman.\nThe man was evidently interested in this affair also.\n\n\"Yes,\" I answered.  The cabman shook his head.  \"Why is it forbidden here\nin Moscow to ask alms in Christ's name?\" I inquired.\n\n\"Who knows?\" said the cabman.\n\n\"How is this?\" said I, \"he is Christ's poor, and he is taken to the\nstation-house.\"\n\n\"A stop has been put to that now, it is not allowed,\" said the\ncab-driver.\n\nOn several occasions afterwards, I saw policemen conducting beggars to\nthe station house, and then to the Yusupoff house of correction.  Once I\nencountered on the Myasnitzkaya a company of these beggars, about thirty\nin number.  In front of them and behind them marched policemen.  I\ninquired: \"What for?\"--\"For asking alms.\"\n\nIt turned out that all these beggars, several of whom you meet with in\nevery street in Moscow, and who stand in files near every church during\nservices, and especially during funeral services, are forbidden to ask\nalms.\n\nBut why are some of them caught and locked up somewhere, while others are\nleft alone?\n\nThis I could not understand.  Either there are among them legal and\nillegal beggars, or there are so many of them that it is impossible to\napprehend them all; or do others assemble afresh when some are removed?\n\nThere are many varieties of beggars in Moscow: there are some who live by\nthis profession; there are also genuine poor people, who have chanced\nupon Moscow in some manner or other, and who are really in want.\n\nAmong these poor people, there are many simple, common peasants, and\nwomen in their peasant costume.  I often met such people.  Some of them\nhave fallen ill here, and on leaving the hospital they can neither\nsupport themselves here, nor get away from Moscow.  Some of them,\nmoreover, have indulged in dissipation (such was probably the case of the\ndropsical man); some have not been ill, but are people who have been\nburnt out of their houses, or old people, or women with children; some,\ntoo, were perfectly healthy and able to work.  These perfectly healthy\npeasants who were engaged in begging, particularly interested me.  These\nhealthy, peasant beggars, who were fit for work, also interested me,\nbecause, from the date of my arrival in Moscow, I had been in the habit\nof going to the Sparrow Hills with two peasants, and sawing wood there\nfor the sake of exercise.  These two peasants were just as poor as those\nwhom I encountered on the streets.  One was Piotr, a soldier from Kaluga;\nthe other Semyon, a peasant from Vladimir.  They possessed nothing except\nthe wages of their body and hands.  And with these hands they earned, by\ndint of very hard labor, from forty to forty-five kopeks a day, out of\nwhich each of them was laying by savings, the Kaluga man for a fur coat,\nthe Vladimir man in order to get enough to return to his village.\nTherefore, on meeting precisely such men in the streets, I took an\nespecial interest in them.\n\nWhy did these men toil, while those others begged?\n\nOn encountering a peasant of this stamp, I usually asked him how he had\ncome to that situation.  Once I met a peasant with some gray in his\nbeard, but healthy.  He begs.  I ask him who is he, whence comes he?  He\nsays that he came from Kaluga to get work.  At first he found employment\nchopping up old wood for use in stoves.  He and his comrade finished all\nthe chopping which one householder had; then they sought other work, but\nfound none; his comrade had parted from him, and for two weeks he himself\nhad been struggling along; he had spent all his money, he had no saw, and\nno axe, and no money to buy anything.  I gave him money for a saw, and\ntold him of a place where he could find work.  I had already made\narrangements with Piotr and Semyon, that they should take an assistant,\nand they looked up a mate for him.\n\n\"See that you come.  There is a great deal of work there.\"\n\n\"I will come; why should I not come?  Do you suppose I like to beg?  I\ncan work.\"\n\nThe peasant declares that he will come, and it seems to me that he is not\ndeceiving me, and that he intents to come.\n\nOn the following day I go to my peasants, and inquire whether that man\nhas arrived.  He has not been there; and in this way several men deceived\nme.  And those also deceived me who said that they only required money\nfor a ticket in order to return home, and who chanced upon me again in\nthe street a week later.  Many of these I recognized, and they recognized\nme, and sometimes, having forgotten me, they repeated the same trick on\nme; and others, on catching sight of me, beat a retreat.  Thus I\nperceived, that in the ranks of this class also deceivers existed.  But\nthese cheats were very pitiable creatures: all of them were but\nhalf-clad, poverty-stricken, gaunt, sickly men; they were the very people\nwho really freeze to death, or hang themselves, as we learn from the\nnewspapers.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n\nWhen I mentioned this poverty of the town to inhabitants of the town,\nthey always said to me: \"Oh, all that you have seen is nothing.  You\nought to see the Khitroff market-place, and the lodging-houses for the\nnight there.  There you would see a regular 'golden company.'\" {21a}  One\njester told me that this was no longer a company, but a _golden\nregiment_: so greatly had their numbers increased.  The jester was right,\nbut he would have been still more accurate if he had said that these\npeople now form in Moscow neither a company nor a regiment, but an entire\narmy, almost fifty thousand in number, I think.  [The old inhabitants,\nwhen they spoke to me about the poverty in town, always referred to it\nwith a certain satisfaction, as though pluming themselves over me,\nbecause they knew it.  I remember that when I was in London, the old\ninhabitants there also rather boasted when they spoke of the poverty of\nLondon.  The case is the same with us.] {21b}\n\nAnd I wanted to have a sight of this poverty of which I had been told.\nSeveral times I set out in the direction of the Khitroff market-place,\nbut on every occasion I began to feel uncomfortable and ashamed.  \"Why am\nI going to gaze on the sufferings of people whom I cannot help?\" said one\nvoice.  \"No, if you live here, and see all the charms of city life, go\nand view this also,\" said another voice.  In December three years ago,\ntherefore, on a cold and windy day, I betook myself to that centre of\npoverty, the Khitroff market-place.  This was at four o'clock in the\nafternoon of a week-day.  As I passed through the Solyanka, I already\nbegan to see more and more people in old garments which had not\noriginally belonged to them, and in still stranger foot-gear, people with\na peculiar, unhealthy hue of countenance, and especially with a singular\nindifference to every thing around them, which was peculiar to them all.\nA man in the strangest of all possible attire, which was utterly unlike\nany thing else, walked along with perfect unconcern, evidently without a\nthought of the appearance which he must present to the eyes of others.\nAll these people were making their way towards a single point.  Without\ninquiring the way, with which I was not acquainted, I followed them, and\ncame out on the Khitroff market-place.  On the market-place, women both\nold and young, of the same description, in tattered cloaks and jackets of\nvarious shapes, in ragged shoes and overshoes, and equally unconcerned,\nnotwithstanding the hideousness of their attire, sat, bargained for\nsomething, strolled about, and scolded.  There were not many people in\nthe market itself.  Evidently market-hours were over, and the majority of\nthe people were ascending the rise beyond the market and through the\nplace, all still proceeding in one direction.  I followed them.  The\nfarther I advanced, the greater in numbers were the people of this sort\nwho flowed together on one road.  Passing through the market-place and\nproceeding along the street, I overtook two women; one was old, the other\nyoung.  Both wore something ragged and gray.  As they walked they were\ndiscussing some matter.  After every necessary word, they uttered one or\ntwo unnecessary ones, of the most improper character.  They were not\nintoxicated, but merely troubled about something; and neither the men who\nmet them, nor those who walked in front of them and behind them, paid any\nattention to the language which was so strange to me.  In these quarters,\nevidently, people always talked so.  Ascending the rise, we reached a\nlarge house on a corner.  The greater part of the people who were walking\nalong with me halted at this house.  They stood all over the sidewalk of\nthis house, and sat on the curbstone, and even the snow in the street was\nthronged with the same kind of people.  On the right side of the entrance\ndoor were the women, on the left the men.  I walked past the women, past\nthe men (there were several hundred of them in all) and halted where the\nline came to an end.  The house before which these people were waiting\nwas the Lyapinsky free lodging-house for the night.  The throng of people\nconsisted of night lodgers, who were waiting to be let in.  At five\no'clock in the afternoon, the house is opened, and the people permitted\nto enter.  Hither had come nearly all the people whom I had passed on my\nway.\n\nI halted where the line of men ended.  Those nearest me began to stare at\nme, and attracted my attention to them by their glances.  The fragments\nof garments which covered these bodies were of the most varied sorts.  But\nthe expression of all the glances directed towards me by these people was\nidentical.  In all eyes the question was expressed: \"Why have you, a man\nfrom another world, halted here beside us?  Who are you?  Are you a self-\nsatisfied rich man who wants to enjoy our wretchedness, to get rid of his\ntedium, and to torment us still more? or are you that thing which does\nnot and can not exist,--a man who pities us?\"  This query was on every\nface.  You glance about, encounter some one's eye, and turn away.  I\nwished to talk with some one of them, but for a long time I could not\nmake up my mind to it.  But our glances had drawn us together already\nwhile our tongues remained silent.  Greatly as our lives had separated\nus, after the interchange of two or three glances we felt that we were\nboth men, and we ceased to fear each other.  The nearest of all to me was\na peasant with a swollen face and a red beard, in a tattered caftan, and\npatched overshoes on his bare feet.  And the weather was eight degrees\nbelow zero. {24a}  For the third or fourth time I encountered his eyes,\nand I felt so near to him that I was no longer ashamed to accost him, but\nashamed not to say something to him.  I inquired where he came from? he\nanswered readily, and we began to talk; others approached.  He was from\nSmolensk, and had come to seek employment that he might earn his bread\nand taxes.  \"There is no work,\" said he: \"the soldiers have taken it all\naway.  So now I am loafing about; as true as I believe in God, I have had\nnothing to eat for two days.\"  He spoke modestly, with an effort at a\nsmile.  A _sbiten_{24b}-seller, an old soldier, stood near by.  I called\nhim up.  He poured out his _sbiten_.  The peasant took a boiling-hot\nglassful in his hands, and as he tried before drinking not to let any of\nthe heat escape in vain, and warmed his hands over it, he related his\nadventures to me.  These adventures, or the histories of them, are almost\nalways identical: the man has been a laborer, then he has changed his\nresidence, then his purse containing his money and ticket has been stolen\nfrom him in the night lodging-house; now it is impossible to get away\nfrom Moscow.  He told me that he kept himself warm by day in the dram-\nshops; that he nourished himself on the bits of bread in these drinking\nplaces, when they were given to him; and when he was driven out of them,\nhe came hither to the Lyapinsky house for a free lodging.  He was only\nwaiting for the police to make their rounds, when, as he had no passport,\nhe would be taken to jail, and then despatched by stages to his place of\nsettlement.  \"They say that the inspection will be made on Friday,\" said\nhe, \"then they will arrest me.  If I can only get along until Friday.\"\n(The jail, and the journey by stages, represent the Promised Land to\nhim.)\n\nAs he told his story, three men from among the throng corroborated his\nstatements, and said that they were in the same predicament.  A gaunt,\npale, long-nosed youth, with merely a shirt on the upper portion of his\nbody, and that torn on the shoulders, and a cap without a visor, forced\nhis way sidelong through the crowd.  He shivered violently and\nincessantly, but tried to smile disdainfully at the peasants' remarks,\nthinking by this means to adopt the proper tone with me, and he stared at\nme.  I offered him some _sbiten_; he also, on taking the glass, warmed\nhis hands over it; but no sooner had he begun to speak, than he was\nthrust aside by a big, black, hook-nosed individual, in a chintz shirt\nand waistcoat, without a hat.  The hook-nosed man asked for some _sbiten_\nalso.  Then came a tall old man, with a mass of beard, clad in a great-\ncoat girded with a rope, and in bast shoes, who was drunk.  Then a small\nman with a swollen face and tearful eyes, in a brown nankeen\nround-jacket, with his bare knees protruding from the holes in his summer\ntrousers, and knocking together with cold.  He shivered so that he could\nnot hold his glass, and spilled it over himself.  The men began to\nreproach him.  He only smiled in a woe-begone way, and went on shivering.\nThen came a crooked monster in rags, with pattens on his bare feet; then\nsome sort of an officer; then something in the ecclesiastical line; then\nsomething strange and nose-less,--all hungry and cold, beseeching and\nsubmissive, thronged round me, and pressed close to the _sbiten_.  They\ndrank up all the _sbiten_.  One asked for money, and I gave it.  Then\nanother asked, then a third, and the whole crowd besieged me.  Confusion\nand a press resulted.  The porter of the adjoining house shouted to the\ncrowd to clear the sidewalk in front of his house, and the crowd\nsubmissively obeyed his orders.  Some managers stepped out of the throng,\nand took me under their protection, and wanted to lead me forth out of\nthe press; but the crowd, which had at first been scattered over the\nsidewalk, now became disorderly, and hustled me.  All stared at me and\nbegged; and each face was more pitiful and suffering and humble than the\nlast.  I distributed all that I had with me.  I had not much money,\nsomething like twenty rubles; and in company with the crowd, I entered\nthe Lyapinsky lodging-house.  This house is huge.  It consists of four\nsections.  In the upper stories are the men's quarters; in the lower, the\nwomen's.  I first entered the women's place; a vast room all occupied\nwith bunks, resembling the third-class bunks on the railway.  These bunks\nwere arranged in two rows, one above the other.  The women, strange,\ntattered creatures, both old and young, wearing nothing over their\ndresses, entered and took their places, some below and some above.  Some\nof the old ones crossed themselves, and uttered a petition for the\nfounder of this refuge; some laughed and scolded.  I went up-stairs.\nThere the men had installed themselves; among them I espied one of those\nto whom I had given money.  [On catching sight of him, I all at once felt\nterribly abashed, and I made haste to leave the room.  And it was with a\nsense of absolute crime that I quitted that house and returned home.  At\nhome I entered over the carpeted stairs into the ante-room, whose floor\nwas covered with cloth; and having removed my fur coat, I sat down to a\ndinner of five courses, waited on by two lackeys in dress-coats, white\nneckties, and white gloves.\n\nThirty years ago I witnessed in Paris a man's head cut off by the\nguillotine in the presence of thousands of spectators.  I knew that the\nman was a horrible criminal.  I was acquainted with all the arguments\nwhich people have been devising for so many centuries, in order to\njustify this sort of deed.  I knew that they had done this expressly,\ndeliberately.  But at the moment when head and body were severed, and\nfell into the trough, I groaned, and apprehended, not with my mind, but\nwith my heart and my whole being, that all the arguments which I had\nheard anent the death-penalty were arrant nonsense; that, no matter how\nmany people might assemble in order to perpetrate a murder, no matter\nwhat they might call themselves, murder is murder, the vilest sin in the\nworld, and that that crime had been committed before my very eyes.  By my\npresence and non-interference, I had lent my approval to that crime, and\nhad taken part in it.  So now, at the sight of this hunger, cold, and\ndegradation of thousands of persons, I understood not with my mind, but\nwith my heart and my whole being, that the existence of tens of thousands\nof such people in Moscow, while I and other thousands dined on fillets\nand sturgeon, and covered my horses and my floors with cloth and rugs,--no\nmatter what the wise ones of this world might say to me about its being a\nnecessity,--was a crime, not perpetrated a single time, but one which was\nincessantly being perpetrated over and over again, and that I, in my\nluxury, was not only an accessory, but a direct accomplice in the matter.\nThe difference for me between these two impressions was this, that I\nmight have shouted to the assassins who stood around the guillotine, and\nperpetrated the murder, that they were committing a crime, and have tried\nwith all my might to prevent the murder.  But while so doing I should\nhave known that my action would not prevent the murder.  But here I might\nnot only have given _sbiten_ and the money which I had with me, but the\ncoat from my back, and every thing that was in my house.  But this I had\nnot done; and therefore I felt, I feel, and shall never cease to feel,\nmyself an accomplice in this constantly repeated crime, so long as I have\nsuperfluous food and any one else has none at all, so long as I have two\ngarments while any one else has not even one.] {28}\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n\nThat very evening, on my return from the Lyapinsky house, I related my\nimpressions to a friend.  The friend, an inhabitant of the city, began to\ntell me, not without satisfaction, that this was the most natural\nphenomenon of town life possible, that I only saw something extraordinary\nin it because of my provincialism, that it had always been so, and always\nwould be so, and that such must be and is the inevitable condition of\ncivilization.  In London it is even worse.  Of course there is nothing\nwrong about it, and it is impossible to be displeased with it.  I began\nto reply to my friend, but with so much heat and ill-temper, that my wife\nran in from the adjoining room to inquire what had happened.  It appears\nthat, without being conscious of it myself, I had been shouting, with\ntears in my voice, and flourishing my hands at my friend.  I shouted:\n\"It's impossible to live thus, impossible to live thus, impossible!\"  They\nmade me feel ashamed of my unnecessary warmth; they told me that I could\nnot talk quietly about any thing, that I got disagreeably excited; and\nthey proved to me, especially, that the existence of such unfortunates\ncould not possibly furnish any excuse for imbittering the lives of those\nabout me.\n\nI felt that this was perfectly just, and held my peace; but in the depths\nof my soul I was conscious that I was in the right, and I could not\nregain my composure.\n\nAnd the life of the city, which had, even before this, been so strange\nand repellent to me, now disgusted me to such a degree, that all the\npleasures of a life of luxury, which had hitherto appeared to me as\npleasures, become tortures to me.  And try as I would, to discover in my\nown soul any justification whatever for our life, I could not, without\nirritation, behold either my own or other people's drawing-rooms, nor our\ntables spread in the lordly style, nor our equipages and horses, nor\nshops, theatres, and assemblies.  I could not behold alongside these the\nhungry, cold, and down-trodden inhabitants of the Lyapinsky house.  And I\ncould not rid myself of the thought that these two things were bound up\ntogether, that the one arose from the other.  I remember, that, as this\nfeeling of my own guilt presented itself to me at the first blush, so it\npersisted in me, but to this feeling a second was speedily added which\novershadowed it.\n\nWhen I mentioned my impressions of the Lyapinsky house to my nearest\nfriends and acquaintances, they all gave me the same answer as the first\nfriend at whom I had begun to shout; but, in addition to this, they\nexpressed their approbation of my kindness of heart and my sensibility,\nand gave me to understand that this sight had so especially worked upon\nme because I, Lyof Nikolaevitch, was very kind and good.  And I willingly\nbelieved this.  And before I had time to look about me, instead of the\nfeeling of self-reproach and regret, which I had at first experienced,\nthere came a sense of satisfaction with my own kindliness, and a desire\nto exhibit it to people.\n\n\"It really must be,\" I said to myself, \"that I am not especially\nresponsible for this by the luxury of my life, but that it is the\nindispensable conditions of existence that are to blame.  In truth, a\nchange in my mode of life cannot rectify the evil which I have seen: by\naltering my manner of life, I shall only make myself and those about me\nunhappy, and the other miseries will remain the same as ever.  And\ntherefore my problem lies not in a change of my own life, as it had first\nseemed to me, but in aiding, so far as in me lies, in the amelioration of\nthe situation of those unfortunate beings who have called forth my\ncompassion.  The whole point lies here,--that I am a very kind, amiable\nman, and that I wish to do good to my neighbors.\"  And I began to think\nout a plan of beneficent activity, in which I might exhibit my\nbenevolence.  I must confess, however, that while devising this plan of\nbeneficent activity, I felt all the time, in the depths of my soul, that\nthat was not the thing; but, as often happens, activity of judgment and\nimagination drowned that voice of conscience within me.  At that\njuncture, the census came up.  This struck me as a means for instituting\nthat benevolence in which I proposed to exhibit my charitable\ndisposition.  I knew of many charitable institutions and societies which\nwere in existence in Moscow, but all their activity seemed to me both\nwrongly directed and insignificant in comparison with what I intended to\ndo.  And I devised the following scheme: to arouse the sympathy of the\nwealthy for the poverty of the city, to collect money, to get people\ntogether who were desirous of assisting in this matter, and to visit all\nthe refuges of poverty in company with the census, and, in addition to\nthe work of the census, to enter into communion with the unfortunate, to\nlearn the particulars of their necessities, and to assist them with\nmoney, with work, by sending them away from Moscow, by placing their\nchildren in school, and the old people in hospitals and asylums.  And not\nonly that, I thought, but these people who undertake this can be formed\ninto a permanent society, which, by dividing the quarters of Moscow among\nits members, will be able to see to it that this poverty and beggary\nshall not be bred; they will incessantly annihilate it at its very\ninception; then they will fulfil their duty, not so much by healing as by\na course of hygiene for the wretchedness of the city.  I fancied that\nthere would be no more simply needy, not to mention abjectly poor\npersons, in the town, and that all of us wealthy individuals would\nthereafter be able to sit in our drawing-rooms, and eat our five-course\ndinners, and ride in our carriages to theatres and assemblies, and be no\nlonger annoyed with such sights as I had seen at the Lyapinsky house.\n\nHaving concocted this plan, I wrote an article on the subject; and before\nsending it to the printer, I went to some acquaintances, from whom I\nhoped for sympathy.  I said the same thing to every one whom I met that\nday (and I applied chiefly to the rich), and nearly the same that I\nafterwards printed in my memoir; proposed to take advantage of the census\nto inquire into the wretchedness of Moscow, and to succor it, both by\ndeeds and money, and to do it in such a manner that there should be no\npoor people in Moscow, and so that we rich ones might be able, with a\nquiet conscience, to enjoy the blessings of life to which we were\naccustomed.  All listened to me attentively and seriously, but\nnevertheless the same identical thing happened with every one of them\nwithout exception.  No sooner did my hearers comprehend the question,\nthan they seemed to feel awkward and somewhat mortified.  They seemed to\nbe ashamed, and principally on my account, because I was talking\nnonsense, and nonsense which it was impossible to openly characterize as\nsuch.  Some external cause appeared to compel my hearers to be forbearing\nwith this nonsense of mine.\n\n\"Ah, yes! of course.  That would be very good,\" they said to me.  \"It is\na self-understood thing that it is impossible not to sympathize with\nthis.  Yes, your idea is a capital one.  I have thought of that myself,\nbut . . . we are so indifferent, as a rule, that you can hardly count on\nmuch success . . . however, so far as I am concerned, I am, of course,\nready to assist.\"\n\nThey all said something of this sort to me.  They all agreed, but agreed,\nso it seemed to me, not in consequence of my convictions, and not in\nconsequence of their own wish, but as the result of some outward cause,\nwhich did not permit them not to agree.  I had already noticed this, and,\nsince not one of them stated the sum which he was willing to contribute,\nI was obliged to fix it myself, and to ask: \"So I may count on you for\nthree hundred, or two hundred, or one hundred, or twenty-five rubles?\"\nAnd not one of them gave me any money.  I mention this because, when\npeople give money for that which they themselves desire, they generally\nmake haste to give it.  For a box to see Sarah Bernhardt, they will\ninstantly place the money in your hand, to clinch the bargain.  Here,\nhowever, out of all those who agreed to contribute, and who expressed\ntheir sympathy, not one of them proposed to give me the money on the\nspot, but they merely assented in silence to the sum which I suggested.\nIn the last house which I visited on that day, in the evening, I\naccidentally came upon a large company.  The mistress of the house had\nbusied herself with charity for several years.  Numerous carriages stood\nat the door, several lackeys in rich liveries were sitting in the ante-\nchamber.  In the vast drawing-room, around two tables and lamps, sat\nladies and young girls, in costly garments, dressing small dolls; and\nthere were several young men there also, hovering about the ladies.  The\ndolls prepared by these ladies were to be drawn in a lottery for the\npoor.\n\nThe sight of this drawing-room, and of the people assembled in it, struck\nme very unpleasantly.  Not to mention the fact that the property of the\npersons there congregated amounted to many millions, not to mention the\nfact that the mere income from the capital here expended on dresses,\nlaces, bronzes, brooches, carriages, horses, liveries, and lackeys, was a\nhundred-fold greater than all that these ladies could earn; not to\nmention the outlay, the trip hither of all these ladies and gentlemen;\nthe gloves, linen, extra time, the candles, the tea, the sugar, and the\ncakes had cost the hostess a hundred times more than what they were\nengaged in making here.  I saw all this, and therefore I could\nunderstand, that precisely here I should find no sympathy with my\nmission: but I had come in order to make my proposition, and, difficult\nas this was for me, I said what I intended.  (I said very nearly the same\nthing that is contained in my printed article.)\n\nOut of all the persons there present, one individual offered me money,\nsaying that she did not feel equal to going among the poor herself on\naccount of her sensibility, but that she would give money; how much money\nshe would give, and when, she did not say.  Another individual and a\nyoung man offered their services in going about among the poor, but I did\nnot avail myself of their offer.  The principal person to whom I\nappealed, told me that it would be impossible to do much because means\nwere lacking.  Means were lacking because all the rich people in Moscow\nwere already on the lists, and all of them were asked for all that they\ncould possibly give; because on all these benefactors rank, medals, and\nother dignities were bestowed; because in order to secure financial\nsuccess, some new dignities must be secured from the authorities, and\nthat this was the only practical means, but this was extremely difficult.\n\nOn my return home that night, I lay down to sleep not only with a\npresentment that my idea would come to nothing, but with shame and a\nconsciousness that all day long I had been engaged in a very repulsive\nand disgraceful business.  But I did not give up this undertaking.  In\nthe first place, the matter had been begun, and false shame would have\nprevented my abandoning it; in the second place, not only the success of\nthis scheme, but the very fact that I was busying myself with it,\nafforded me the possibility of continuing to live in the conditions under\nwhich I was then living; failure entailed upon me the necessity of\nrenouncing my present existence and of seeking new paths of life.  And\nthis I unconsciously dreaded, and I could not believe the inward voice,\nand I went on with what I had begun.\n\nHaving sent my article to the printer, I read the proof of it to the City\nCouncil (_Dum_).  I read it, stumbling, and blushing even to tears, I\nfelt so awkward.  And I saw that it was equally awkward for all my\nhearers.  In answer to my question at the conclusion of my reading, as to\nwhether the superintendents of the census would accept my proposition to\nretain their places with the object of becoming mediators between society\nand the needy, an awkward silence ensued.  Then two orators made\nspeeches.  These speeches in some measure corrected the awkwardness of my\nproposal; sympathy for me was expressed, but the impracticability of my\nproposition, which all had approved, was demonstrated.  Everybody\nbreathed more freely.  But when, still desirous of gaining my object, I\nafterwards asked the superintendents separately: Were they willing, while\ntaking the census, to inquire into the needs of the poor, and to retain\ntheir posts, in order to serve as go-betweens between the poor and the\nrich? they all grew uneasy again.  They seemed to say to me with their\nglances: \"Why, we have just condoned your folly out of respect to you,\nand here you are beginning it again!\"  Such was the expression of their\nfaces, but they assured me in words that they agreed; and two of them\nsaid in the very same words, as though they had entered into a compact\ntogether: \"We consider ourselves _morally bound_ to do this.\"  The same\nimpression was produced by my communication to the student-census-takers,\nwhen I said to them, that while taking our statistics, we should follow\nup, in addition to the objects of the census, the object of benevolence.\nWhen we discussed this, I observed that they were ashamed to look the\nkind-hearted man, who was talking nonsense, in the eye.  My article\nproduced the same impression on the editor of the newspaper, when I\nhanded it to him; on my son, on my wife, on the most widely different\npersons.  All felt awkward, for some reason or other; but all regarded it\nas indispensable to applaud the idea itself, and all, immediately after\nthis expression of approbation, began to express their doubts as to its\nsuccess, and began for some reason (and all of them, too, without\nexception) to condemn the indifference and coldness of our society and of\nevery one, apparently, except themselves.\n\nIn the depths of my own soul, I still continued to feel that all this was\nnot at all what was needed, and that nothing would come of it; but the\narticle was printed, and I prepared to take part in the census; I had\ncontrived the matter, and now it was already carrying me a way with it.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n\nAt my request, there had been assigned to me for the census, a portion of\nthe Khamovnitchesky quarter, at the Smolensk market, along the Prototchny\ncross-street, between Beregovoy Passage and Nikolsky Alley.  In this\nquarter are situated the houses generally called the Rzhanoff Houses, or\nthe Rzhanoff fortress.  These houses once belonged to a merchant named\nRzhanoff, but now belong to the Zimins.  I had long before heard of this\nplace as a haunt of the most terrible poverty and vice, and I had\naccordingly requested the directors of the census to assign me to this\nquarter.  My desire was granted.\n\nOn receiving the instructions of the City Council, I went alone, a few\ndays previous to the beginning of the census, to reconnoitre my section.\nI found the Rzhanoff fortress at once, from the plan with which I had\nbeen furnished.\n\nI approached from Nikolsky Alley.  Nikolsky Alley ends on the left in a\ngloomy house, without any gates on that side; I divined from its\nappearance that this was the Rzhanoff fortress.\n\nPassing down Nikolsky Street, I overtook some lads of from ten to\nfourteen years of age, clad in little caftans and great-coats, who were\nsliding down hill, some on their feet, and some on one skate, along the\nicy slope beside this house.  The boys were ragged, and, like all city\nlads, bold and impudent.  I stopped to watch them.  A ragged old woman,\nwith yellow, pendent cheeks, came round the corner.  She was going to\ntown, to the Smolensk market, and she groaned terribly at every step,\nlike a foundered horse.  As she came alongside me, she halted and drew a\nhoarse sigh.  In any other locality, this old woman would have asked\nmoney of me, but here she merely addressed me.\n\n\"Look there,\" said she, pointing at the boys who were sliding, \"all they\ndo is to play their pranks!  They'll turn out just such Rzhanoff fellows\nas their fathers.\"\n\nOne of the boys clad in a great-coat and a visorless cap, heard her words\nand halted: \"What are you scolding about?\" he shouted to the old woman.\n\"You're an old Rzhanoff nanny-goat yourself!\"\n\nI asked the boy:\n\n\"And do you live here?\"\n\n\"Yes, and so does she.  She stole boot-legs,\" shouted the boy; and\nraising his foot in front, he slid away.\n\nThe old woman burst forth into injurious words, interrupted by a cough.\nAt that moment, an old man, all clad in rags, and as white as snow, came\ndown the hill in the middle of the street, flourishing his hands [in one\nof them he held a bundle with one little _kalatch_ and _baranki_\" {39}].\nThis old man bore the appearance of a person who had just strengthened\nhimself with a dram.  He had evidently heard the old woman's insulting\nwords, and he took her part.\n\n\"I'll give it to you, you imps, that I will!\" he screamed at the boys,\nseeming to direct his course towards them, and taking a circuit round me,\nhe stepped on to the sidewalk.  This old man creates surprise on the\nArbata by his great age, his weakness, and his indigence.  Here he was a\ncheery laboring-man returning from his daily toil.\n\nI followed the old man.  He turned the corner to the left, into\nPrototchny Alley, and passing by the whole length of the house and the\ngate, he disappeared through the door of the tavern.\n\nTwo gates and several doors open on Prototchny Alley: those belonging to\na tavern, a dram-shop, and several eating and other shops.  This is the\nRzhanoff fortress itself.  Every thing here is gray, dirty, and\nmalodorous--both buildings and locality, and court-yards and people.  The\nmajority of the people whom I met here were ragged and half-clad.  Some\nwere passing through, others were running from door to door.  Two were\nhaggling over some rags.  I made the circuit of the entire building from\nPrototchny Alley and Beregovoy Passage, and returning I halted at the\ngate of one of these houses.  I wished to enter, and see what was going\non inside, but I felt that it would be awkward.  What should I say when I\nwas asked what I wanted there?  I hesitated, but went in nevertheless.  As\nsoon as I entered the court-yard, I became conscious of a disgusting\nodor.  The yard was frightfully dirty.  I turned a corner, and at the\nsame instant I heard to my left and overhead, on the wooden balcony, the\ntramp of footsteps of people running, at first along the planks of the\nbalcony, and then on the steps of the staircase.  There emerged, first a\ngaunt woman, with her sleeves rolled up, in a faded pink gown, and little\nboots on her stockingless feet.  After her came a tattered man in a red\nshirt and very full trousers, like a petticoat, and with overshoes.  The\nman caught the woman at the bottom of the steps.\n\n\"You shall not escape,\" he said laughing.\n\n\"See here, you cock-eyed devil,\" began the woman, evidently flattered by\nthis pursuit; but catching sight of me, she shrieked viciously, \"What do\nyou want?\"\n\nAs I wanted nothing, I became confused and beat a retreat.  There was\nnothing remarkable about the place; but this incident, after what I had\nwitnessed on the other side of the yard, the cursing old woman, the jolly\nold man, and the lads sliding, suddenly presented the business which I\nhad concocted from a totally different point of view.  I then\ncomprehended for the first time, that all these unfortunates to whom I\nwas desirous of playing the part of benefactor, besides the time, when,\nsuffering from cold and hunger, they awaited admission into the house,\nhad still other time, which they employed to some other purpose, that\nthere were four and twenty hours in every day, that there was a whole\nlife of which I had never thought, up to that moment.  Here, for the\nfirst time, I understood, that all those people, in addition to their\ndesire to shelter themselves from the cold and to obtain a good meal,\nmust still, in some way, live out those four and twenty hours each day,\nwhich they must pass as well as everybody else.  I comprehended that\nthese people must lose their tempers, and get bored, show courage, and\ngrieve and be merry.  Strange as this may seem, when put into words, I\nunderstood clearly for the first time, that the business which I had\nundertaken could not consist alone in feeding and clothing thousands of\npeople, as one would feed and drive under cover a thousand sheep, but\nthat it must consist in doing good to them.\n\nAnd then I understood that each one of those thousand people was exactly\nsuch a man,--with precisely the same past, with the same passions,\ntemptations, failings, with the same thoughts, the same\nperplexities,--exactly such a man as myself, and then the thing that I\nhad undertaken suddenly presented itself to me as so difficult that I\nfelt my powerlessness; but the thing had been begun, and I went on with\nit.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n\nOn the first appointed day, the student enumerators arrived in the\nmorning, and I, the benefactor, joined them at twelve o'clock.  I could\nnot go earlier, because I had risen at ten o'clock, then I had drunk my\ncoffee and smoked, while waiting on digestion.  At twelve o'clock I\nreached the gates of the Rzhanoff house.  A policeman pointed out to me\nthe tavern with a side entrance on Beregovoy Passage, where the census-\ntakers had ordered every one who asked for them to be directed.  I\nentered the tavern.  It was very dark, ill-smelling, and dirty.  Directly\nopposite the entrance was the counter, on the left was a room with\ntables, covered with soiled cloths, on the right a large apartment with\npillars, and the same sort of little tables at the windows and along the\nwalls.  Here and there at the tables sat men both ragged and decently\nclad, like laboring-men or petty tradesmen, and a few women drinking tea.\nThe tavern was very filthy, but it was instantly apparent that it had a\ngood trade.\n\nThere was a business-like expression on the face of the clerk behind the\ncounter, and a clever readiness about the waiters.  No sooner had I\nentered, than one waiter prepared to remove my coat and bring me whatever\nI should order.  It was evident that they had been trained to brisk and\naccurate service.  I inquired for the enumerators.\n\n\"Vanya!\" shouted a small man, dressed in German fashion, who was engaged\nin placing something in a cupboard behind the counter; this was the\nlandlord of the tavern, a Kaluga peasant, Ivan Fedotitch, who hired one-\nhalf of the Zimins' houses and sublet them to lodgers.  The waiter, a\nthin, hooked-nosed young fellow of eighteen, with a yellow complexion,\nhastened up.\n\n\"Conduct this gentleman to the census-takers; they went into the main\nbuilding over the well.\"  The young fellow threw down his napkin, and\ndonned a coat over his white jacket and white trousers, and a cap with a\nlarge visor, and, tripping quickly along with his white feet, he led me\nthrough the swinging door in the rear.  In the dirty, malodorous kitchen,\nin the out-building, we encountered an old woman who was carefully\ncarrying some very bad-smelling tripe, wrapped in a rag, off somewhere.\nFrom the out-building we descended into a sloping court-yard, all\nencumbered with small wooden buildings on lower stories of stone.  The\nodor in this whole yard was extremely powerful.  The centre of this odor\nwas an out-house, round which people were thronging whenever I passed it.\nIt merely indicated the spot, but was not altogether used itself.  It was\nimpossible, when passing through the yard, not to take note of this spot;\none always felt oppressed when one entered the penetrating atmosphere\nwhich was emitted by this foul smell.\n\nThe waiter, carefully guarding his white trousers, led me cautiously past\nthis place of frozen and unfrozen uncleanness to one of the buildings.\nThe people who were passing through the yard and along the balconies all\nstopped to stare at me.  It was evident that a respectably dressed man\nwas a curiosity in these localities.\n\nThe young man asked a woman \"whether she had seen the census-takers?\"  And\nthree men simultaneously answered his question: some said that they were\nover the well, but others said that they had been there, but had come out\nand gone to Nikita Ivanovitch.  An old man dressed only in his shirt, who\nwas wandering about the centre of the yard, said that they were in No.\n30.  The young man decided that this was the most probable report, and\nconducted me to No. 30 through the basement entrance, and darkness and\nbad smells, different from that which existed outside.  We went\ndown-stairs, and proceeded along the earthen floor of a dark corridor.  As\nwe were passing along the corridor, a door flew open abruptly, and an old\ndrunken man, in his shirt, probably not of the peasant class, thrust\nhimself out.  A washerwoman, wringing her soapy hands, was pursuing and\nhustling the old man with piercing screams.  Vanya, my guide, pushed the\nold man aside, and reproved him.\n\n\"It's not proper to make such a row,\" said me, \"and you an officer, too!\"\nand we went on to the door of No. 30.\n\nVanya gave it a little pull.  The door gave way with a smack, opened, and\nwe smelled soapy steam, and a sharp odor of spoilt food and tobacco, and\nwe entered into total darkness.  The windows were on the opposite side;\nbut the corridors ran to right and left between board partitions, and\nsmall doors opened, at various angles, into the rooms made of uneven\nwhitewashed boards.  In a dark room, on the left, a woman could be seen\nwashing in a tub.  An old woman was peeping from one of these small doors\non the right.  Through another open door we could see a red-faced, hairy\npeasant, in bast shoes, sitting on his wooden bunk; his hands rested on\nhis knees, and he was swinging his feet, shod in bast shoes, and gazing\ngloomily at them.\n\nAt the end of the corridor was a little door leading to the apartment\nwhere the census-takers were.  This was the chamber of the mistress of\nthe whole of No. 30; she rented the entire apartment from Ivan\nFeodovitch, and let it out again to lodgers and as night-quarters.  In\nher tiny room, under the tinsel images, sat the student census-taker with\nhis charts; and, in his quality of investigator, he had just thoroughly\ninterrogated a peasant wearing a shirt and a vest.  This latter was a\nfriend of the landlady, and had been answering questions for her.  The\nlandlady herself, an elderly woman, was there also, and two of her\ncurious tenants.  When I entered, the room was already packed full.  I\npushed my way to the table.  I exchanged greetings with the student, and\nhe proceeded with his inquiries.  And I began to look about me, and to\ninterrogate the inhabitants of these quarters for my own purpose.\n\nIt turned out, that in this first set of lodgings, I found not a single\nperson upon whom I could pour out my benevolence.  The landlady, in spite\nof the fact that the poverty, smallness and dirt of these quarters struck\nme after the palatial house in which I dwell, lived in comfort, compared\nwith many of the poor inhabitants of the city, and in comparison with the\npoverty in the country, with which I was thoroughly familiar, she lived\nluxuriously.  She had a feather-bed, a quilted coverlet, a samovar, a fur\ncloak, and a dresser with crockery.  The landlady's friend had the same\ncomfortable appearance.  He had a watch and a chain.  Her lodgers were\nnot so well off, but there was not one of them who was in need of\nimmediate assistance: the woman who was washing linen in a tub, and who\nhad been abandoned by her husband and had children, an aged widow without\nany means of livelihood, as she said, and that peasant in bast shoes, who\ntold me that he had nothing to eat that day.  But on questioning them, it\nappeared that none of these people were in special want, and that, in\norder to help them, it would be necessary to become well acquainted with\nthem.\n\nWhen I proposed to the woman whose husband had abandoned her, to place\nher children in an asylum, she became confused, fell into thought,\nthanked me effusively, but evidently did not wish to do so; she would\nhave preferred pecuniary assistance.  The eldest girl helped her in her\nwashing, and the younger took care of the little boy.  The old woman\nbegged earnestly to be taken to the hospital, but on examining her nook I\nfound that the old woman was not particularly poor.  She had a chest full\nof effects, a teapot with a tin spout, two cups, and caramel boxes filled\nwith tea and sugar.  She knitted stockings and gloves, and received\nmonthly aid from some benevolent lady.  And it was evident that what the\npeasant needed was not so much food as drink, and that whatever might be\ngiven him would find its way to the dram-shop.  In these quarters,\ntherefore, there were none of the sort of people whom I could render\nhappy by a present of money.  But there were poor people who appeared to\nme to be of a doubtful character.  I noted down the old woman, the woman\nwith the children, and the peasant, and decided that they must be seen\nto; but later on, as I was occupied with the peculiarly unfortunate whom\nI expected to find in this house, I made up my mind that there must be\nsome order in the aid which we should bestow; first came the most\nwretched, and then this kind.  But in the next quarters, and in the next\nafter that, it was the same story, all the people had to be narrowly\ninvestigated before they could be helped.  But unfortunates of the sort\nwhom a gift of money would convert from unfortunate into fortunate\npeople, there were none.  Mortifying as it is to me to avow this, I began\nto get disenchanted, because I did not find among these people any thing\nof the sort which I had expected.  I had expected to find peculiar people\nhere; but, after making the round of all the apartments, I was convinced\nthat the inhabitants of these houses were not peculiar people at all, but\nprecisely such persons as those among whom I lived.  As there are among\nus, just so among them; there were here those who were more or less good,\nmore or less stupid, happy and unhappy.  The unhappy were exactly such\nunhappy beings as exist among us, that is, unhappy people whose\nunhappiness lies not in their external conditions, but in themselves, a\nsort of unhappiness which it is impossible to right by any sort of bank-\nnote whatever.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n\nThe inhabitants of these houses constitute the lower class of the city,\nwhich numbers in Moscow, probably, one hundred thousand.  There, in that\nhouse, are representatives of every description of this class.  There are\npetty employers, and master-artisans, bootmakers, brush-makers, cabinet-\nmakers, turners, shoemakers, tailors, blacksmiths; there are cab-drivers,\nyoung women living alone, and female pedlers, laundresses, old-clothes\ndealers, money-lenders, day-laborers, and people without any definite\nemployment; and also beggars and dissolute women.\n\nHere were many of the very people whom I had seen at the entrance to the\nLyapinsky house; but here these people were scattered about among the\nworking-people.  And moreover, I had seen these people at their most\nunfortunate time, when they had eaten and drunk up every thing, and when,\ncold, hungry, and driven forth from the taverns, they were awaiting\nadmission into the free night lodging-house, and thence into the promised\nprison for despatch to their places of residence, like heavenly manna;\nbut here I beheld them and a majority of workers, and at a time, when by\none means or another, they had procured three or five kopeks for a\nlodging for the night, and sometimes a ruble for food and drink.\n\nAnd strange as the statement may seem, I here experienced nothing\nresembling that sensation which I had felt in the Lyapinsky house; but,\non the contrary, during the first round, both I and the students\nexperienced an almost agreeable feeling,--yes, but why do I say \"almost\nagreeable\"?  This is not true; the feeling called forth by intercourse\nwith these people, strange as it may sound, was a distinctly agreeable\none.\n\nOur first impression was, that the greater part of the dwellers here were\nworking people and very good people at that.\n\nWe found more than half the inhabitants at work: laundresses bending over\ntheir tubs, cabinet-makers at their lathes, cobblers on their benches.\nThe narrow rooms were full of people, and cheerful and energetic labor\nwas in progress.  There was an odor of toilsome sweat and leather at the\ncobbler's, of shavings at the cabinet-maker's; songs were often to be\nheard, and glimpses could be had of brawny arms with sleeves roiled high,\nquickly and skilfully making their accustomed movements.  Everywhere we\nwere received cheerfully and politely: hardly anywhere did our intrusion\ninto the every-day life of these people call forth that ambition, and\ndesire to exhibit their importance and to put us down, which the\nappearance of the enumerators in the quarters of well-to-do people\nevoked.  It not only did not arouse this, but, on the contrary, they\nanswered all other questions properly, and without attributing any\nspecial significance to them.  Our questions merely served them as a\nsubject of mirth and jesting as to how such and such a one was to be set\ndown in the list, when he was to be reckoned as two, and when two were to\nbe reckoned as one, and so forth.\n\nWe found many of them at dinner, or tea; and on every occasion to our\ngreeting: \"bread and salt,\" or \"tea and sugar,\" they replied: \"we beg\nthat you will partake,\" and even stepped aside to make room for us.\nInstead of the den with a constantly changing population, which we had\nexpected to find here, it turned out, that there were a great many\napartments in the house where people had been living for a long time.  One\ncabinet-maker with his men, and a boot-maker with his journeymen, had\nlived there for ten years.  The boot-maker's quarters were very dirty and\nconfined, but all the people at work were very cheerful.  I tried to\nenter into conversation with one of the workmen, being desirous of\ninquiring into the wretchedness of his situation and his debt to his\nmaster, but the man did not understand me and spoke of his master and his\nlife from the best point of view.\n\nIn one apartment lived an old man and his old woman.  They peddled\napples.  Their little chamber was warm, clean, and full of goods.  On the\nfloor were spread straw mats: they had got them at the apple-warehouse.\nThey had chests, a cupboard, a samovar, and crockery.  In the corner\nthere were numerous images, and two lamps were burning before them; on\nthe wall hung fur coats covered with sheets.  The old woman, who had star-\nshaped wrinkles, and who was polite and talkative, evidently delighted in\nher quiet, comfortable, existence.\n\nIvan Fedotitch, the landlord of the tavern and of these quarters, left\nhis establishment and came with us.  He jested in a friendly manner with\nmany of the landlords of apartments, addressing them all by their\nChristian names and patronymics, and he gave us brief sketches of them.\nAll were ordinary people, like everybody else,--Martin Semyonovitches,\nPiotr Piotrovitches, Marya Ivanovnas,--people who did not consider\nthemselves unhappy, but who regarded themselves, and who actually were,\njust like the rest of mankind.\n\nWe had been prepared to witness nothing except what was terrible.  And,\nall of a sudden, there was presented to us, not only nothing that was\nterrible, but what was good,--things which involuntarily compelled our\nrespect.  And there were so many of these good people, that the tattered,\ncorrupt, idle people whom we came across now and then among them, did not\ndestroy the principal impression.\n\nThis was not so much of a surprise to the students as to me.  They simply\nwent to fulfil a useful task, as they thought, in the interests of\nscience, and, at the same time, they made their own chance observations;\nbut I was a benefactor, I went for the purpose of aiding the unfortunate,\nthe corrupt, vicious people, whom I supposed that I should meet with in\nthis house.  And, behold, instead of unfortunate, corrupt, and vicious\npeople, I saw that the majority were laborious, industrious, peaceable,\nsatisfied, contented, cheerful, polite, and very good folk indeed.\n\nI felt particularly conscious of this when, in these quarters, I\nencountered that same crying want which I had undertaken to alleviate.\n\nWhen I encountered this want, I always found that it had already been\nrelieved, that the assistance which I had intended to render had already\nbeen given.  This assistance had been rendered before my advent, and\nrendered by whom?  By the very unfortunate, depraved creatures whom I had\nundertaken to reclaim, and rendered in such a manner as I could not\ncompass.\n\nIn one basement lay a solitary old man, ill with the typhus fever.  There\nwas no one with the old man.  A widow and her little daughter, strangers\nto him, but his neighbors round the corner, looked after him, gave him\ntea and purchased medicine for him out of their own means.  In another\nlodging lay a woman in puerperal fever.  A woman who lived by vice was\nrocking the baby, and giving her her bottle; and for two days, she had\nbeen unremitting in her attention.  The baby girl, on being left an\norphan, was adopted into the family of a tailor, who had three children\nof his own.  So there remained those unfortunate idle people, officials,\nclerks, lackeys out of place, beggars, drunkards, dissolute women, and\nchildren, who cannot be helped on the spot with money, but whom it is\nnecessary to know thoroughly, to be planned and arranged for.  I had\nsimply sought unfortunate people, the unfortunates of poverty, those who\ncould be helped by sharing with them our superfluity, and, as it seemed\nto me, through some signal ill-luck, none such were to be found; but I\nhit upon unfortunates to whom I should be obliged to devote my time and\ncare.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n\nThe unfortunates whom I noted down, divided themselves, according to my\nideas, into three sections, namely: people who had lost their former\nadvantageous position, and who were awaiting a return to it (there were\npeople of this sort from both the lower and the higher class); next,\ndissolute women, of whom there are a great many in these houses; and a\nthird division, children.  More than all the rest, I found and noted down\npeople of the first division, who had forfeited their former advantageous\nposition, and who hoped to regain it.  Of such persons, especially from\nthe governmental and official world, there are a very great number in\nthese houses.  In almost all the lodgings which we entered, with the\nlandlord, Ivan Fedotitch, he said to us: \"Here you need not write down\nthe lodger's card yourself; there is a man here who can do it, if he only\nhappens not to be intoxicated to-day.\"\n\nAnd Ivan Fedotitch called by name and patronymic this man, who was always\none of those persons who had fallen from a lofty position.  At Ivan\nFedotitch's call, there crawled forth from some dark corner, a former\nwealthy member of the noble or official class, generally intoxicated and\nalways undressed.  If he was not drunk, he always readily acceded to the\ntask proposed to him, nodded significantly, frowned, set down his remarks\nin learned phraseology, held the card neatly printed on red paper in his\ndirty, trembling hands, and glanced round at his fellow-lodgers with\npride and contempt, as though now triumphing in his education over those\nwho had so often humiliated him.  He evidently enjoyed intercourse with\nthat world in which cards are printed on red paper, and with that world\nof which he had once formed a part.  Nearly always, in answer to my\ninquiries about his life, the man began, not only willingly, but eagerly,\nto relate the story of the misfortunes which he had undergone,--which he\nhad learned by rote like a prayer,--and particularly of his former\nposition, in which he ought still to be by right of his education.\n\nA great many such people were scattered over all the corners of the\nRzhanoff house.  But one lodging was densely occupied by them alone--both\nmen and women.  After we had already entered, Ivan Fedotitch said to us:\n\"Now, here are some of the nobility.\"  The lodging was perfectly crammed;\nnearly all of the people, forty in number, were at home.  More\ndemoralized countenances, unhappy, aged, and swollen, young, pallid, and\ndistracted, were not to be seen in the whole building.  I conversed with\nseveral of them.  The story was nearly identical in all cases, only in\nvarious stages of development.  Every one of them had been rich, or his\nfather, his brother or his uncle was still wealthy, or his father or he\nhimself had had a very fine position.  Then misfortune had overtaken him,\nthe blame for which rested either on envious people, or on his own kind-\nheartedness, or some special chance, and so he had lost every thing, and\nhad been forced to condescend to these surroundings to which he was not\naccustomed, and which were hateful to him--among lice, rags, among\ndrunkards and corrupt persons, and to nourish himself on bread and liver,\nand to extend his hand in beggary.  All the thoughts, desires, memories\nof these people were directed exclusively to the past.  The present\nappeared to them something unreal, repulsive, and not worthy of\nattention.  Not one of them had any present.  They had only memories of\nthe past, and expectations from the future, which might be realized at\nany moment, and for the realization of which only a very little was\nrequired; but this little they did not possess, it was nowhere to be\nobtained, and this had been ruining their whole future life in vain, in\nthe case of one man, for a year, of a second for five years, and of a\nthird for thirty years.  All one needed was merely to dress respectably,\nso that he could present himself to a certain personage, who was well-\ndisposed towards him another only needed to be able to dress, pay off his\ndebts, and get to Orel; a third required to redeem a small property which\nwas mortgaged, for the continuation of a law-suit, which must be decided\nin his favor, and then all would be well once more.  They all declare\nthat they merely require something external, in order to stand once more\nin the position which they regard as natural and happy in their own case.\n\nHad my mind not been obscured by my pride as a benefactor, a glance at\ntheir faces, both old and young, which were mostly weak and sensitive,\nbut amiable, would have given me to understand that their misfortunes\nwere irreparable by any external means, that they could not be happy in\nany position whatever, if their views of life were to remain unchanged,\nthat they were in no wise remarkable people, in remarkably unfortunate\ncircumstances, but that they were the same people who surround us on all\nsides, and just like ourselves.  I remember that intercourse with this\nsort of unfortunates was peculiarly difficult for me.  I now understand\nwhy this was so; in them I beheld myself, as in a mirror.  If I had\nreflected on my own life and on the life of the people in our circle, I\nshould have seen that no real difference existed between them.\n\nIf those about me dwell in spacious quarters, and in their own houses on\nthe Sivtzevy Vrazhok and on the Dimitrovka, and not in the Rzhanoff\nhouse, and still eat and drink dainties, and not liver and herrings with\nbread, that does not prevent them from being exactly as unhappy.  They\nare just as dissatisfied with their own positions, they mourn over the\npast, and pine for better things, and the improved position for which\nthey long is precisely the same as that which the inhabitants of the\nRzhanoff house long for; that is to say, one in which they may do as\nlittle work as possible themselves, and derive the utmost advantage from\nthe labors of others.  The difference is merely one of degrees and time.\nIf I had reflected at that time, I should have understood this; but I did\nnot reflect, and I questioned these people, and wrote them down,\nsupposing, that, having learned all the particulars of their various\nconditions and necessities, I could aid them _later on_.  I did not\nunderstand that such a man can only be helped by changing his views of\nthe world.  But in order to change the views of another, one must needs\nhave better views himself, and live in conformity with them; but mine\nwere precisely the same as theirs, and I lived in accordance with those\nviews, which must undergo a change, in order that these people might\ncease to be unhappy.\n\nI did not see that these people were unhappy, not because they had not,\nso to speak, nourishing food, but because their stomachs had been\nspoiled, and because their appetites demanded not nourishing but\nirritating viands; and I did not perceive that, in order to help them, it\nwas not necessary to give them food, but that it was necessary to heal\ntheir disordered stomachs.  Although I am anticipating by so doing, I\nwill mention here, that, out of all these persons whom I noted down, I\nreally did not help a single one, in spite of the fact that for some of\nthem, that was done which they desired, and that which, apparently, might\nhave raised them.  Three of their number were particularly well known to\nme.  All three, after repeated rises and falls, are now in precisely the\nsame situation in which they were three years ago.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n\nThe second class of unfortunates whom I also expected to assist later on,\nwere the dissolute women; there were a very great many of them, of all\nsorts, in the Rzhanoff house--from those who were young and who resembled\nwomen, to old ones, who were frightful and horrible, and who had lost\nevery semblance of humanity.  The hope of being of assistance to these\nwomen, which I had not at first entertained, occurred to me later.  This\nwas in the middle of our rounds.  We had already worked out several\nmechanical tricks of procedure.\n\nWhen we entered a new establishment, we immediately questioned the\nlandlady of the apartment; one of us sat down, clearing some sort of a\nplace for himself where he could write, and another penetrated the\ncorners, and questioned each man in all the nooks of the apartment\nseparately, and reported the facts to the one who did the writing.\n\nOn entering a set of rooms in the basement, a student went to hunt up the\nlandlady, while I began to interrogate all who remained in the place.  The\napartment was thus arranged: in the centre was a room six _arshins_\nsquare, {59} and a small oven.  From the oven radiated four partitions,\nforming four tiny compartments.  In the first, the entrance slip, which\nhad four bunks, there were two persons--an old man and a woman.\nImmediately adjoining this, was a rather long slip of a room; in it was\nthe landlord, a young fellow, dressed in a sleeveless gray woollen\njacket, a good-looking, very pale citizen. {60}  On the left of the first\ncorner, was a third tiny chamber; there was one person asleep there,\nprobably a drunken peasant, and a woman in a pink blouse which was loose\nin front and close-fitting behind.  The fourth chamber was behind the\npartition; the entrance to it was from the landlord's compartment.\n\nThe student went into the landlord's room, and I remained in the entrance\ncompartment, and questioned the old man and woman.  The old man had been\na master-printer, but now had no means of livelihood.  The woman was the\nwife of a cook.  I went to the third compartment, and questioned the\nwoman in the blouse about the sleeping man.  She said that he was a\nvisitor.  I asked the woman who she was.  She replied that she was a\nMoscow peasant.  \"What is your business?\"  She burst into a laugh, and\ndid not answer me.  \"What do you live on?\" I repeated, thinking that she\nhad not understood my question.  \"I sit in the taverns,\" she said.  I did\nnot comprehend, and again I inquired: \"What is your means of livelihood?\"\nShe made no reply and laughed.  Women's voices in the fourth compartment\nwhich we had not yet entered, joined in the laugh.  The landlord emerged\nfrom his cabin and stepped up to us.  He had evidently heard my questions\nand the woman's replies.  He cast a stern glance at the woman and turned\nto me: \"She is a prostitute,\" said he, apparently pleased that he knew\nthe word in use in the language of the authorities, and that he could\npronounce it correctly.  And having said this, with a respectful and\nbarely perceptible smile of satisfaction addressed to me, he turned to\nthe woman.  And no sooner had he turned to her, than his whole face\naltered.  He said, in a peculiar, scornful, hasty tone, such as is\nemployed towards dogs: \"What do you jabber in that careless way for?  'I\nsit in the taverns.'  You do sit in the taverns, and that means, to talk\nbusiness, that you are a prostitute,\" and again he uttered the word.  \"She\ndoes not know the name for herself.\"  This tone offended me.  \"It is not\nour place to abuse her,\" said I.  \"If all of us lived according to the\nlaws of God, there would be none of these women.\"\n\n\"That's the very point,\" said the landlord, with an awkward smile.\n\n\"Therefore, we should not reproach but pity them.  Are they to blame?\"\n\nI do not recollect just what I said, but I do remember that I was vexed\nby the scornful tone of the landlord of these quarters which were filled\nwith women, whom he called prostitutes, and that I felt compassion for\nthis woman, and that I gave expression to both feelings.  No sooner had I\nspoken thus, than the boards of the bed in the next compartment, whence\nthe laugh had proceeded, began to creak, and above the partition, which\ndid not reach to the ceiling, there appeared a woman's curly and\ndishevelled head, with small, swollen eyes, and a shining, red face,\nfollowed by a second, and then by a third.  They were evidently standing\non their beds, and all three were craning their necks, and holding their\nbreath with strained attention, and gazing silently at us.\n\nA troubled pause ensued.  The student, who had been smiling up to this\ntime, became serious; the landlord grew confused and dropped his eyes.\nAll the women held their breath, stared at me, and waited.  I was more\nembarrassed than any of them.  I had not, in the least, anticipated that\na chance remark would produce such an effect.  Like Ezekiel's field of\ndeath, strewn with dead men's bones, there was a quiver at the touch of\nthe spirit, and the dead bones stirred.  I had uttered an unpremeditated\nword of love and sympathy, and this word had acted on all as though they\nhad only been waiting for this very remark, in order that they might\ncease to be corpses and might live.  They all stared at me, and waited\nfor what would come next.  They waited for me to utter those words, and\nto perform those actions by reason of which these bones might draw\ntogether, clothe themselves with flesh, and spring into life.  But I felt\nthat I had no such words, no such actions, by means of which I could\ncontinue what I had begun; I was conscious, in the depths of my soul,\nthat I had lied [that I was just like them], {62} and there was nothing\nfurther for me to say; and I began to inscribe on the cards the names and\ncallings of all the persons in this set of apartments.\n\nThis incident led me into a fresh dilemma, to the thought of how these\nunfortunates also might be helped.  In my self-delusion, I fancied that\nthis would be very easy.  I said to myself: \"Here, we will make a note of\nall these women also, and _later on_ when we [I did not specify to myself\nwho \"we\" were] write every thing out, we will attend to these persons\ntoo.\"  I imagined that we, the very ones who have brought and have been\nbringing these women to this condition for several generations, would\ntake thought some fine day and reform all this.  But, in the mean time,\nif I had only recalled my conversation with the disreputable woman who\nhad been rocking the baby of the fever-stricken patient, I might have\ncomprehended the full extent of the folly of such a supposition.\n\nWhen we saw this woman with the baby, we thought that it was her child.\nTo the question, \"Who was she?\" she had replied in a straightforward way\nthat she was unmarried.  She did not say--a prostitute.  Only the master\nof the apartment made use of that frightful word.  The supposition that\nshe had a child suggested to me the idea of removing her from her\nposition.  I inquired:\n\n\"Is this your child?\"\n\n\"No, it belongs to that woman yonder.\"\n\n\"Why are you taking care of it?\"\n\n\"Because she asked me; she is dying.\"\n\nAlthough my supposition proved to be erroneous, I continued my\nconversation with her in the same spirit.  I began to question her as to\nwho she was, and how she had come to such a state.  She related her\nhistory very readily and simply.  She was a Moscow _myeshchanka_, the\ndaughter of a factory hand.  She had been left an orphan, and had been\nadopted by an aunt.  From her aunt's she had begun to frequent the\ntaverns.  The aunt was now dead.  When I asked her whether she did not\nwish to alter her mode of life, my question, evidently, did not even\narouse her interest.  How can one take an interest in the proposition of\na man, in regard to something absolutely impossible?  She laughed, and\nsaid: \"And who would take me in with my yellow ticket?\"\n\n\"Well, but if a place could be found somewhere as cook?\" said I.\n\nThis thought occurred to me because she was a stout, ruddy woman, with a\nkindly, round, and rather stupid face.  Cooks are often like that.  My\nwords evidently did not please her.  She repeated:\n\n\"A cook--but I don't know how to make bread,\" said she, and she laughed.\nShe said that she did not know how; but I saw from the expression of her\ncountenance that she did not wish to become a cook, that she regarded the\nposition and calling of a cook as low.\n\nThis woman, who in the simplest possible manner was sacrificing every\nthing that she had for the sick woman, like the widow in the Gospels, at\nthe same time, like many of her companions, regarded the position of a\nperson who works as low and deserving of scorn.  She had been brought up\nto live not by work, but by this life which was considered the natural\none for her by those about her.  In that lay her misfortune.  And she\nfell in with this misfortune and clung to her position.  This led her to\nfrequent the taverns.  Which of us--man or woman--will correct her false\nview of life?  Where among us are the people to be found who are\nconvinced that every laborious life is more worthy of respect than an\nidle life,--who are convinced of this, and who live in conformity with\nthis belief, and who in conformity with this conviction value and respect\npeople?  If I had thought of this, I might have understood that neither\nI, nor any other person among my acquaintances, could heal this\ncomplaint.\n\nI might have understood that these amazed and affected heads thrust over\nthe partition indicated only surprise at the sympathy expressed for them,\nbut not in the least a hope of reclamation from their dissolute life.\nThey do not perceive the immorality of their life.  They see that they\nare despised and cursed, but for what they are thus despised they cannot\ncomprehend.  Their life, from childhood, has been spent among just such\nwomen, who, as they very well know, always have existed, and are\nindispensable to society, and so indispensable that there are\ngovernmental officials to attend to their legal existence.  Moreover,\nthey know that they have power over men, and can bring them into\nsubjection, and rule them often more than other women.  They see that\ntheir position in society is recognized by women and men and the\nauthorities, in spite of their continual curses, and therefore, they\ncannot understand why they should reform.\n\nIn the course of one of the tours, one of the students told me that in a\ncertain lodging, there was a woman who was bargaining for her thirteen-\nyear-old daughter.  Being desirous of rescuing this girl, I made a trip\nto that lodging expressly.  Mother and daughter were living in the\ngreatest poverty.  The mother, a small, dark-complexioned, dissolute\nwoman of forty, was not only homely, but repulsively homely.  The\ndaughter was equally disagreeable.  To all my pointed questions about\ntheir life, the mother responded curtly, suspiciously, and in a hostile\nway, evidently feeling that I was an enemy, with evil intentions; the\ndaughter made no reply, did not look at her mother, and evidently trusted\nthe latter fully.  They inspired me with no sincere pity, but rather with\ndisgust.  But I made up my mind that the daughter must be rescued, and\nthat I would interest ladies who pitied the sad condition of these women,\nand send them hither.  But if I had reflected on the mother's long life\nin the past, of how she had given birth to, nursed and reared this\ndaughter in her situation, assuredly without the slightest assistance\nfrom outsiders, and with heavy sacrifices--if I had reflected on the view\nof life which this woman had formed, I should have understood that there\nwas, decidedly, nothing bad or immoral in the mother's act: she had done\nand was doing for her daughter all that she could, that is to say, what\nshe considered the best for herself.  This daughter could be forcibly\nremoved from her mother; but it would be impossible to convince the\nmother that she was doing wrong, in selling her daughter.  If any one was\nto be saved, then it must be this woman--the mother ought to have been\nsaved; [and that long before, from that view of life which is approved by\nevery one, according to which a woman may live unmarried, that is,\nwithout bearing children and without work, and simply for the\nsatisfaction of the passions.  If I had thought of this, I should have\nunderstood that the majority of the ladies whom I intended to send\nthither for the salvation of that little girl, not only live without\nbearing children and without working, and serving only passion, but that\nthey deliberately rear their daughters for the same life; one mother\ntakes her daughter to the taverns, another takes hers to balls.  But both\nmothers hold the same view of the world, namely, that a woman must\nsatisfy man's passions, and that for this she must be fed, dressed, and\ncared for.  Then how are our ladies to reform this woman and her\ndaughter? {66} ]\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\n\nStill more remarkable were my relations to the children.  In my _role_ of\nbenefactor, I turned my attention to the children also, being desirous to\nsave these innocent beings from perishing in that lair of vice, and\nnoting them down in order to attend to them _afterwards_.\n\nAmong the children, I was especially struck with a twelve-year-old lad\nnamed Serozha.  I was heartily sorry for this bold, intelligent lad, who\nhad lived with a cobbler, and who had been left without a shelter because\nhis master had been put in jail, and I wanted to do good to him.\n\nI will here relate the upshot of my benevolence in his case, because my\nexperience with this child is best adapted to show my false position in\nthe _role_ of benefactor.  I took the boy home with me and put him in the\nkitchen.  It was impossible, was it not, to take a child who had lived in\na den of iniquity in among my own children?  And I considered myself very\nkind and good, because he was a care, not to me, but to the servants in\nthe kitchen, and because not I but the cook fed him, and because I gave\nhim some cast-off clothing to wear.  The boy staid a week.  During that\nweek I said a few words to him as I passed on two occasions and in the\ncourse of my strolls, I went to a shoemaker of my acquaintance, and\nproposed that he should take the lad as an apprentice.  A peasant who was\nvisiting me, invited him to go to the country, into his family, as a\nlaborer; the boy refused, and at the end of the week he disappeared.  I\nwent to the Rzhanoff house to inquire after him.  He had returned there,\nbut was not at home when I went thither.  For two days already, he had\nbeen going to the Pryesnensky ponds, where he had hired himself out at\nthirty kopeks a day in some procession of savages in costume, who led\nabout elephants.  Something was being presented to the public there.  I\nwent a second time, but he was so ungrateful that he evidently avoided\nme.  Had I then reflected on the life of that boy and on my own, I should\nhave understood that this boy was spoiled because he had discovered the\npossibility of a merry life without labor, and that he had grown unused\nto work.  And I, with the object of benefiting and reclaiming him, had\ntaken him to my house, where he saw--what?  My children,--both older and\nyounger than himself, and of the same age,--who not only never did any\nwork for themselves, but who made work for others by every means in their\npower, who soiled and spoiled every thing about them, who ate rich,\ndainty, and sweet viands, broke china, and flung to the dogs food which\nwould have been a tidbit to this lad.  If I had rescued him from the\n_abyss_, and had taken him to that nice place, then he must acquire those\nviews which prevailed in the life of that nice place; but by these views,\nhe understood that in that fine place he must so live that he should not\ntoil, but eat and drink luxuriously, and lead a joyous life.  It is true\nthat he did not know that my children bore heavy burdens in the\nacquisition of the declensions of Latin and Greek grammar, and that he\ncould not have understood the object of these labors.  But it is\nimpossible not to see that if he had understood this, the influence of my\nchildren's example on him would have been even stronger.  He would then\nhave comprehended that my children were being educated in this manner, so\nthat, while doing no work now, they might be in a position hereafter,\nalso profiting by their diplomas, to work as little as possible, and to\nenjoy the pleasures of life to as great an extent as possible.  He did\nunderstand this, and he would not go with the peasant to tend cattle, and\nto eat potatoes and _kvas_ with him, but he went to the zoological garden\nin the costume of a savage, to lead the elephant at thirty kopeks a day.\n\nI might have understood how clumsy I was, when I was rearing my children\nin the most utter idleness and luxury, to reform other people and their\nchildren, who were perishing from idleness in what I called the den of\nthe Rzhanoff house, where, nevertheless, three-fourths of the people toil\nfor themselves and for others.  But I understood nothing of this.\n\nThere were a great many children in the Rzhanoff house, who were in the\nsame pitiable plight; there were the children of dissolute women, there\nwere orphans, there were children who had been picked up in the streets\nby beggars.  They were all very wretched.  But my experience with Serozha\nshowed me that I, living the life I did, was not in a position to help\nthem.\n\nWhile Serozha was living with us, I noticed in myself an effort to hide\nour life from him, in particular the life of our children.  I felt that\nall my efforts to direct him towards a good, industrious life, were\ncounteracted by the examples of our lives and by that of our children.  It\nis very easy to take a child away from a disreputable woman, or from a\nbeggar.  It is very easy, when one has the money, to wash, clean and\ndress him in neat clothing, to support him, and even to teach him various\nsciences; but it is not only difficult for us, who do not earn our own\nbread, but quite the reverse, to teach him to work for his bread, but it\nis impossible, because we, by our example, and even by those material and\nvalueless improvements of his life, inculcate the contrary.  A puppy can\nbe taken, tended, fed, and taught to fetch and carry, and one may take\npleasure in him: but it is not enough to tend a man, to feed and teach\nhim Greek; we must teach the man how to live,--that is, to take as little\nas possible from others, and to give as much as possible; and we cannot\nhelp teaching him to do the contrary, if we take him into our houses, or\ninto an institution founded for this purpose.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\n\nThis feeling of compassion for people, and of disgust with myself, which\nI had experienced in the Lyapinsky house, I experienced no longer.  I was\ncompletely absorbed in the desire to carry out the scheme which I had\nconcocted,--to do good to those people whom I should meet here.  And,\nstrange to say, it would appear, that, to do good--to give money to the\nneedy--is a very good deed, and one that should dispose me to love for\nthe people, but it turned out the reverse: this act produced in me ill-\nwill and an inclination to condemn people.  But during our first evening\ntour, a scene occurred exactly like that in the Lyapinsky house, and it\ncalled forth a wholly different sentiment.\n\nIt began by my finding in one set of apartments an unfortunate\nindividual, of precisely the sort who require immediate aid.  I found a\nhungry woman who had had nothing to eat for two days.\n\nIt came about thus: in one very large and almost empty night-lodging, I\nasked an old woman whether there were many poor people who had nothing to\neat?  The old woman reflected, and then told me of two; and then, as\nthough she had just recollected, \"Why, here is one of them,\" said she,\nglancing at one of the occupied bunks.  \"I think that woman has had no\nfood.\"\n\n\"Really?  Who is she?\"\n\n\"She was a dissolute woman: no one wants any thing to do with her now, so\nshe has no way of getting any thing.  The landlady has had compassion on\nher, but now she means to turn her out . . . Agafya, hey there, Agafya!\"\ncried the woman.\n\nWe approached, and something rose up in the bunk.  It was a woman haggard\nand dishevelled, whose hair was half gray, and who was as thin as a\nskeleton, dressed in a ragged and dirty chemise, and with particularly\nbrilliant and staring eyes.  She looked past us with her staring eyes,\nclutched at her jacket with one thin hand, in order to cover her bony\nbreast which was disclosed by her tattered chemise, and oppressed, she\ncried, \"What is it? what is it?\"  I asked her about her means of\nlivelihood.  For a long time she did not understand, and said, \"I don't\nknow myself; they persecute me.\"  I asked her,--it puts me to shame, my\nhand refuses to write it,--I asked her whether it was true that she had\nnothing to eat?  She answered in the same hurried, feverish tone, staring\nat me the while,--\"No, I had nothing yesterday, and I have had nothing to-\nday.\"\n\nThe sight of this woman touched me, but not at all as had been the case\nin the Lyapinsky house; there, my pity for these people made me instantly\nfeel ashamed of myself: but here, I rejoiced because I had at last found\nwhat I had been seeking,--a hungry person.\n\nI gave her a ruble, and I recollect being very glad that others saw it.\nThe old woman, on seeing this, immediately begged money of me also.  It\nafforded me such pleasure to give, that, without finding out whether it\nwas necessary to give or not, I gave something to the old woman too.  The\nold woman accompanied me to the door, and the people standing in the\ncorridor heard her blessing me.  Probably the questions which I had put\nwith regard to poverty, had aroused expectation, and several persons\nfollowed us.  In the corridor also, they began to ask me for money.  Among\nthose who begged were some drunken men, who aroused an unpleasant feeling\nin me; but, having once given to the old woman, I had no might to refuse\nthese people, and I began to give.  As long as I continued to give,\npeople kept coming up; and excitement ran through all the lodgings.\nPeople made them appearance on the stairs and galleries, and followed me.\nAs I emerged into the court-yard, a little boy ran swiftly down one of\nthe staircases thrusting the people aside.  He did not see me, and\nexclaimed hastily: \"He gave Agashka a ruble!\"  When he reached the\nground, the boy joined the crowd which was following me.  I went out into\nthe street: various descriptions of people followed me, and asked for\nmoney.  I distributed all my small change, and entered an open shop with\nthe request that the shopkeeper would change a ten-ruble bill for me.  And\nthen the same thing happened as at the Lyapinsky house.  A terrible\nconfusion ensued.  Old women, noblemen, peasants, and children crowded\ninto the shop with outstretched hands; I gave, and interrogated some of\nthem as to their lives, and took notes.  The shopkeeper, turning up the\nfurred points of the collar of his coat, sat like a stuffed creature,\nglancing at the crowd occasionally, and then fixing his eyes beyond them\nagain.  He evidently, like every one else, felt that this was foolish,\nbut he could not say so.\n\nThe poverty and beggary in the Lyapinsky house had horrified me, and I\nfelt myself guilty of it; I felt the desire and the possibility of\nimprovement.  But now, precisely the same scene produced on me an\nentirely different effect; I experienced, in the first place, a\nmalevolent feeling towards many of those who were besieging me; and in\nthe second place, uneasiness as to what the shopkeepers and porters would\nthink of me.\n\nOn my return home that day, I was troubled in my soul.  I felt that what\nI had done was foolish and immoral.  But, as is always the result of\ninward confusion, I talked a great deal about the plan which I had\nundertaken, as though I entertained not the slightest doubt of my\nsuccess.\n\nOn the following day, I went to such of the people whom I had inscribed\non my list, as seemed to me the most wretched of all, and those who, as\nit seemed to me, would be the easiest to help.  As I have already said, I\ndid not help any of these people.  It proved to be more difficult to help\nthem than I had thought.  And either because I did not know how, or\nbecause it was impossible, I merely imitated these people, and did not\nhelp any one.  I visited the Rzhanoff house several times before the\nfinal tour, and on every occasion the very same thing occurred: I was\nbeset by a throng of beggars in whose mass I was completely lost.  I felt\nthe impossibility of doing any thing, because there were too many of\nthem, and because I felt ill-disposed towards them because there were so\nmany of them; and in addition to this, each one separately did not\nincline me in his favor.  I was conscious that every one of them was\ntelling me an untruth, or less than the whole truth, and that he saw in\nme merely a purse from which money might be drawn.  And it very\nfrequently seemed to me, that the very money which they squeezed out of\nme, rendered their condition worse instead of improving it.  The oftener\nI went to that house, the more I entered into intercourse with the people\nthere, the more apparent became to me the impossibility of doing any\nthing; but still I did not give up any scheme until the last night tour.\n\nThe remembrance of that last tour is particularly mortifying to me.  On\nother occasions I had gone thither alone, but twenty of us went there on\nthis occasion.  At seven o'clock, all who wished to take part in this\nfinal night round, began to assemble at my house.  Nearly all of them\nwere strangers to me,--students, one officer, and two of my society\nacquaintances, who, uttering the usual, \"_C'est tres interessant_!\" had\nasked me to include them in the number of the census-takers.\n\nMy worldly acquaintances had dressed up especially for this, in some sort\nof hunting-jacket, and tall, travelling boots, in a costume in which they\nrode and went hunting, and which, in their opinion, was appropriate for\nan excursion to a night-lodging-house.  They took with them special note-\nbooks and remarkable pencils.  They were in that peculiarly excited state\nof mind in which men set off on a hunt, to a duel, or to the wars.  The\nmost apparent thing about them was their folly and the falseness of our\nposition, but all the rest of us were in the same false position.  Before\nwe set out, we held a consultation, after the fashion of a council of\nwar, as to how we should begin, how divide our party, and so on.\n\nThis consultation was exactly such as takes place in councils,\nassemblages, committees; that is to say, each person spoke, not because\nhe had any thing to say or to ask, but because each one cudgelled his\nbrain for something that he could say, so that he might not fall short of\nthe rest.  But, among all these discussions, no one alluded to that\nbeneficence of which I had so often spoken to them all.  Mortifying as\nthis was to me, I felt that it was indispensable that I should once more\nremind them of benevolence, that is, of the point, that we were to\nobserve and take notes of all those in destitute circumstances whom we\nshould encounter in the course of our rounds.  I had always felt ashamed\nto speak of this; but now, in the midst of all our excited preparations\nfor our expedition, I could hardly utter the words.  All listened to me,\nas it seemed to me, with sorrow, and, at the same time, all agreed in\nwords; but it was evident that they all knew that it was folly, and that\nnothing would come of it, and all immediately began again to talk about\nsomething else.  This went on until the time arrived for us to set out,\nand we started.\n\nWe reached the tavern, roused the waiters, and began to sort our papers.\nWhen we were informed that the people had heard about this round, and\nwere leaving their quarters, we asked the landlord to lock the gates; and\nwe went ourselves into the yard to reason with the fleeing people,\nassuring them that no one would demand their tickets.  I remember the\nstrange and painful impression produced on me by these alarmed\nnight-lodgers: ragged, half-dressed, they all seemed tall to me by the\nlight of the lantern and the gloom of the court-yard.  Frightened and\nterrifying in their alarm, they stood in a group around the foul-smelling\nout-house, and listened to our assurances, but they did not believe us,\nand were evidently prepared for any thing, like hunted wild beasts,\nprovided only that they could escape from us.  Gentlemen in divers\nshapes--as policemen, both city and rural, and as examining judges, and\njudges--hunt them all their lives, in town and country, on the highway\nand in the streets, and in the taverns, and in night-lodging houses; and\nnow, all of a sudden, these gentlemen had come and locked the gates,\nmerely in order to count them: it was as difficult for them to believe\nthis, as for hares to believe that dogs have come, not to chase but to\ncount them.  But the gates were locked, and the startled lodgers\nreturned: and we, breaking up into groups, entered also.  With me were\nthe two society men and two students.  In front of us, in the dark, went\nVanya, in his coat and white trousers, with a lantern, and we followed.\nWe went to quarters with which I was familiar.  I knew all the\nestablishments, and some of the people; but the majority of the people\nwere new, and the spectacle was new, and more dreadful than the one which\nI had witnessed in the Lyapinsky house.  All the lodgings were full, all\nthe bunks were occupied, not by one person only, but often by two.  The\nsight was terrible in that narrow space into which the people were\nhuddled, and men and women were mixed together.  All the women who were\nnot dead drunk slept with men; and women with two children did the same.\nThe sight was terrible, on account of the poverty, dirt, rags, and terror\nof the people.  And it was chiefly dreadful on account of the vast\nnumbers of people who were in this situation.  One lodging, and then a\nsecond like it, and a third, and a tenth, and a twentieth, and still\nthere was no end to them.  And everywhere there was the same foul odor,\nthe same close atmosphere, the same crowding, the same mingling of the\nsexes, the same men and women intoxicated to stupidity, and the same\nterror, submission and guilt on all faces; and again I was overwhelmed\nwith shame and pain, as in the Lyapinsky house, and I understood that\nwhat I had undertaken was abominable and foolish and therefore\nimpracticable.  And I no longer took notes of anybody, and I asked no\nquestions, knowing that nothing would come of this.\n\nI was deeply pained.  In the Lyapinsky house I had been like a man who\nhas seen a fearful wound, by chance, on the body of another man.  He is\nsorry for the other man, he is ashamed that he has not pitied the man\nbefore, and he can still rise to the succor of the sufferer.  But now I\nwas like a physician, who has come with his medicine to the sick man, has\nuncovered his sore, and examined it, and who must confess to himself that\nevery thing that he has done has been in vain, and that his remedy is\ngood for nothing.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\n\nThis visit dealt the final blow to my self-delusion.  It now appeared\nindisputable to me, that what I had undertaken was not only foolish but\nloathsome.\n\nBut, in spite of the fact that I was aware of this, it seemed to me that\nI could not abandon the whole thing on the spot.  It seemed to me that I\nwas bound to carry out this enterprise, in the first place, because by my\narticle, by my visits and promises, I had aroused the expectations of the\npoor; in the second, because by my article also, and by my talk, I had\naroused the sympathies of benevolent persons, many of whom had promised\nme their co-operation both in personal labor and in money.  And I\nexpected that both sets of people would turn to me for an answer to this.\n\nWhat happened to me, so far as the appeal of the needy to me is\nconcerned, was as follows: By letter and personal application I received\nmore than a hundred; these applications were all from the wealthy-poor,\nif I may so express myself.  I went to see some of them, and some of them\nreceived no answer.  Nowhere did I succeed in doing any thing.  All\napplications to me were from persons who had once occupied privileged\npositions (I thus designate those in which people receive more from\nothers than they give), who had lost them, and who wished to occupy them\nagain.  To one, two hundred rubles were indispensable, in order that he\nmight prop up a failing business, and complete the education of his\nchildren which had been begun; another wanted a photographic outfit; a\nthird wanted his debts paid, and respectable clothing purchased for him;\na fourth needed a piano, in order to perfect himself and support his\nfamily by giving lessons.  But the majority did not stipulate for any\ngiven sum of money, and simply asked for assistance; and when I came to\nexamine into what was required, it turned out that their demands grew in\nproportion to the aid, and that there was not and could not be any way of\nsatisfying them.  I repeat, that it is very possible that this arose from\nthe fact that I did not understand how; but I did not help any one,\nalthough I sometimes endeavored to do so.\n\nA very strange and unexpected thing happened to me as regards the\nco-operation of the benevolently disposed.  Out of all the persons who\nhad promised me financial aid, and who had even stated the number of\nrubles, not a single one handed to me for distribution among the poor one\nsolitary ruble.  But according to the pledges which had been given me, I\ncould reckon on about three thousand rubles; and out of all these people,\nnot one remembered our former discussions, or gave me a single kopek.\nOnly the students gave the money which had been assigned to them for\ntheir work on the census, twelve rubles, I think.  So my whole scheme,\nwhich was to have been expressed by tens of thousands of rubles\ncontributed by the wealthy, for hundreds and thousands of poor people who\nwere to be rescued from poverty and vice, dwindled down to this, that I\ngave away, haphazard, a few scores of rubles to those people who asked me\nfor them, and that there remained in my hands twelve rubies contributed\nby the students, and twenty-five sent to me by the City Council for my\nlabor as a superintendent, and I absolutely did not know to whom to give\nthem.\n\nThe whole matter came to an end.  And then, before my departure for the\ncountry, on the Sunday before carnival, I went to the Rzhanoff house in\nthe morning, in order to get rid of those thirty-seven rubles before I\nshould leave Moscow, and to distribute them to the poor.  I made the\nround of the quarters with which I was familiar, and in them found only\none sick man, to whom I gave five rubles.  There was no one else there to\ngive any to.  Of course many began to beg of me.  But as I had not known\nthem at first, so I did not know them now, and I made up my mind to take\ncounsel with Ivan Fedotitch, the landlord of the tavern, as to the\npersons upon whom it would be proper to bestow the remaining thirty-two\nrubies.\n\nIt was the first day of the carnival.  Everybody was dressed up, and\neverybody was full-fed, and many were already intoxicated.  In the court-\nyard, close to the house, stood an old man, a rag-picker, in a tattered\nsmock and bast shoes, sorting over the booty in his basket, tossing out\nleather, iron, and other stuff in piles, and breaking into a merry song,\nwith a fine, powerful voice.  I entered into conversation with him.  He\nwas seventy years old, he was alone in the world, and supported himself\nby his calling of a rag-picker; and not only did he utter no complaints,\nbut he said that he had plenty to eat and drink.  I inquired of him as to\nespecially needy persons.  He flew into a rage, and said plainly that\nthere were no needy people, except drunkards and lazy men; but, on\nlearning my object, he asked me for a five-kopek piece to buy a drink,\nand ran off to the tavern.  I too entered the tavern to see Ivan\nFedotitch, and commission him to distribute the money which I had left.\nThe tavern was full; gayly-dressed, intoxicated girls were flitting in\nand out; all the tables were occupied; there were already a great many\ndrunken people, and in the small room the harmonium was being played, and\ntwo persons were dancing.  Out of respect to me, Ivan Fedotitch ordered\nthat the dance should be stopped, and seated himself with me at a vacant\ntable.  I said to him, that, as he knew his tenants, would not he point\nout to me the most needy among them; that I had been entrusted with the\ndistribution of a little money, and, therefore, would he indicate the\nproper persons?  Good-natured Ivan Fedotitch (he died a year later),\nalthough he was pressed with business, broke away from it for a time, in\norder to serve me.  He meditated, and was evidently undecided.  An\nelderly waiter heard us, and joined the conference.\n\nThey began to discuss the claims of persons, some of whom I knew, but\nstill they could not come to any agreement.  \"The Paramonovna,\" suggested\nthe waiter.  \"Yes, that would do.  Sometimes she has nothing to eat.  Yes,\nbut then she tipples.\"--\"Well, what of that?  That makes no\ndifference.\"--\"Well, Sidoron Ivanovitch has children.  He would do.\"  But\nIvan Fedotitch had his doubts about Sidoron Ivanovitch also.  \"Akulina\nshall have some.  There, now, give something to the blind.\"  To this I\nresponded.  I saw him at once.  He was a blind old man of eighty years,\nwithout kith or kin.  It seemed as though no condition could be more\npainful, and I went immediately to see him.  He was lying on a feather-\nbed, on a high bedstead, drunk; and, as he did not see me, he was\nscolding his comparatively youthful female companion in a frightful bass\nvoice, and in the very worst kind of language.  They also summoned an\narmless boy and his mother.  I saw that Ivan Fedotitch was in great\nstraits, on account of his conscientiousness, for me knew that whatever\nwas given would immediately pass to his tavern.  But I had to get rid of\nmy thirty-two rubles, so I insisted; and in one way and another, and half\nwrongfully to boot, we assigned and distributed them.  Those who received\nthem were mostly well dressed, and we had not far to go to find them, as\nthey were there in the tavern.  The armless boy appeared in wrinkled\nboots, and a red shirt and vest.  With this my charitable career came to\nan end, and I went off to the country; irritated at others, as is always\nthe case, because I myself had done a stupid and a bad thing.  My\nbenevolence had ended in nothing, and it ceased altogether, but the\ncurrent of thoughts and feelings which it had called up with me not only\ndid not come to an end, but the inward work went on with redoubled force.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\n\nWhat was its nature?\n\nI had lived in the country, and there I was connected with the rustic\npoor.  Not out of humility, which is worse than pride, but for the sake\nof telling the truth, which is indispensable for the understanding of the\nwhole course of my thoughts and sentiments, I will say that in the\ncountry I did very little for the poor, but the demands which were made\nupon me were so modest that even this little was of use to the people,\nand formed around me an atmosphere of affection and union with the\npeople, in which it was possible to soothe the gnawing sensation of\nremorse at the independence of my life.  On going to the city, I had\nhoped to be able to live in the same manner.  But here I encountered want\nof an entirely different sort.  City want was both less real, and more\nexacting and cruel, than country poverty.  But the principal point was,\nthat there was so much of it in one spot, that it produced on me a\nfrightful impression.  The impression which I experienced in the\nLyapinsky house had, at the very first, made me conscious of the\ndeformity of my own life.  This feeling was genuine and very powerful.\nBut, notwithstanding its genuineness and power, I was, at that time, so\nweak that I feared the alteration in my life to which this feeling\ncommended me, and I resorted to a compromise.  I believed what everybody\ntold me, and everybody has said, ever since the world was made,--that\nthere is nothing evil in wealth and luxury, that they are given by God,\nthat one may continue to live as a rich man, and yet help the needy.  I\nbelieved this, and I tried to do it.  I wrote an essay, in which I\nsummoned all rich people to my assistance.  The rich people all\nacknowledged themselves morally bound to agree with me, but evidently\nthey either did not wish to do any thing, or they could not do any thing\nor give any thing to the poor.  I began to visit the poor, and I beheld\nwhat I had not in the least expected.  On the one hand, I beheld in those\ndens, as I called them, people whom it was not conceivable that I should\nhelp, because they were working people, accustomed to labor and\nprivation, and therefore standing much higher and having a much firmer\nfoothold in life than myself; on the other hand, I saw unfortunate people\nwhom I could not aid because they were exactly like myself.  The majority\nof the unfortunates whom I saw were unhappy only because they had lost\nthe capacity, desire, and habit of earning their own bread; that is to\nsay, their unhappiness consisted in the fact that they were precisely\nsuch persons as myself.\n\nI found no unfortunates who were sick, hungry, or cold, to whom I could\nrender immediate assistance, with the solitary exception of hungry\nAgafya.  And I became convinced, that, on account of my remoteness from\nthe lives of those people whom I desired to help, it would be almost\nimpossible to find any such unfortunates, because all actual wants had\nalready been supplied by the very people among whom these unfortunates\nlive; and, most of all, I was convinced that money cannot effect any\nchange in the life led by these unhappy people.\n\nI was convinced of all this, but out of false shame at abandoning what I\nhad once undertaken, because of my self-delusion as a benefactor, I went\non with this matter for a tolerably long time,--and would have gone on\nwith it until it came to nothing of itself,--so that it was with the\ngreatest difficulty that, with the help of Ivan Fedotitch, I got rid,\nafter a fashion, as well as I could, in the tavern of the Rzhanoff house,\nof the thirty-seven rubles which I did not regard as belonging to me.\n\nOf course I might have gone on with this business, and have made out of\nit a semblance of benevolence; by urging the people who had promised me\nmoney, I might have collected more, I might have distributed this money,\nand consoled myself with my charity; but I perceived, on the one hand,\nthat we rich people neither wish nor are able to share a portion of our a\nsuperfluity with the poor (we have so many wants of our own), and that\nmoney should not be given to any one, if the object really be to do good\nand not to give money itself at haphazard, as I had done in the Rzhanoff\ntavern.  And I gave up the whole thing, and went off to the country with\ndespair in my heart.\n\nIn the country I tried to write an essay about all this that I had\nexperienced, and to tell why my undertaking had not succeeded.  I wanted\nto justify myself against the reproaches which had been made to me on the\nscore of my article on the census; I wanted to convict society of its in\ndifference, and to state the causes in which this city poverty has its\nbirth, and the necessity of combating it, and the means of doing so which\nI saw.\n\nI began this essay at once, and it seemed to me that in it I was saying a\nvery great deal that was important.  But toil as I would over it, and in\nspite of the abundance of materials, in spite of the superfluity of them\neven, I could not get though that essay; and so I did not finish it until\nthe present year, because of the irritation under the influence of which\nI wrote, because I had not gone through all that was requisite in order\nto bear myself properly in relation to this essay, because I did not\nsimply and clearly acknowledge the cause of all this,--a very simple\ncause, which had its root in myself.\n\nIn the domain of morals, one very remarkable and too little noted\nphenomenon presents itself.\n\nIf I tell a man who knows nothing about it, what I know about geology,\nastronomy, history, physics, and mathematics, that man receives entirely\nnew information, and he never says to me: \"Well, what is there new in\nthat?  Everybody knows that, and I have known it this long while.\"  But\ntell that same man the most lofty truth, expressed in the clearest, most\nconcise manner, as it has never before been expressed, and every ordinary\nindividual, especially one who takes no particular interest in moral\nquestions, or, even more, one to whom the moral truth stated by you is\ndispleasing, will infallibly say to you: \"Well, who does not know that?\nThat was known and said long ago.\"  It really seems to him that this has\nbeen said long ago and in just this way.  Only those to whom moral truths\nare dear and important know how important and precious they are, and with\nwhat prolonged labor the elucidation, the simplification, of moral\ntruths, their transit from the state of a misty, indefinitely recognized\nsupposition, and desire, from indistinct, incoherent expressions, to a\nfirm and definite expression, unavoidably demanding corresponding\nconcessions, are attained.\n\nWe have all become accustomed to think that moral instruction is a most\nabsurd and tiresome thing, in which there can be nothing new or\ninteresting; and yet all human life, together with all the varied and\ncomplicated activities, apparently independent, of morality, both\ngovernmental and scientific, and artistic and commercial, has no other\naim than the greater and greater elucidation, confirmation,\nsimplification, and accessibility of moral truth.\n\nI remember that I was once walking along the street in Moscow, and in\nfront of me I saw a man come out and gaze attentively at the stones of\nthe sidewalk, after which he selected one stone, seated himself on it,\nand began to plane (as it seemed to me) or to rub it with the greatest\ndiligence and force.  \"What is he doing to the sidewalk?\" I said to\nmyself.  On going close to him, I saw what the man was doing.  He was a\nyoung fellow from a meat-shop; he was whetting his knife on the stone of\nthe pavement.  He was not thinking at all of the stones when he\nscrutinized them, still less was he thinking of them when he was\naccomplishing his task: he was whetting his knife.  He was obliged to\nwhet his knife so that he could cut the meat; but to me it seemed as\nthough he were doing something to the stones of the sidewalk.  Just so it\nappears as though humanity were occupied with commerce, conventions,\nwars, sciences, arts; but only one business is of importance to it, and\nwith only one business is it occupied: it is elucidating to itself those\nmoral laws by which it lives.  The moral laws are already in existence;\nhumanity is only elucidating them, and this elucidation seems unimportant\nand imperceptible for any one who has no need of moral laws, who does not\nwish to live by them.  But this elucidation of the moral law is not only\nweighty, but the only real business of all humanity.  This elucidation is\nimperceptible just as the difference between the dull and the sharp knife\nis imperceptible.  The knife is a knife all the same, and for a person\nwho is not obliged to cut any thing with this knife, the difference\nbetween the dull and the sharp one is imperceptible.  For the man who has\ncome to an understanding that his whole life depends on the greater or\nless degree of sharpness in the knife,--for such a man, every whetting of\nit is weighty, and that man knows that the knife is a knife only when it\nis sharp, when it cuts that which needs cutting.\n\nThis is what happened to me, when I began to write my essay.  It seemed\nto me that I knew all about it, that I understood every thing connected\nwith those questions which had produced on me the impressions of the\nLyapinsky house, and the census; but when I attempted to take account of\nthem and to demonstrate them, it turned out that the knife would not cut,\nand that it must be whetted.  And it is only now, after the lapse of\nthree years, that I have felt that my knife is sufficiently sharp, so\nthat I can cut what I choose.  I have learned very little that is new.  My\nthoughts are all exactly the same, but they were duller then, and they\nall scattered and would not unite on any thing; there was no edge to\nthem; they would not concentrate on one point, on the simplest and\nclearest decision, as they have now concentrated themselves.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\n\nI remember that during the entire period of my unsuccessful efforts at\nhelping the inhabitants of the city, I presented to myself the aspect of\na man who should attempt to drag another man out of a swamp while he\nhimself was standing on the same unstable ground.  Every attempt of mine\nhad made me conscious of the untrustworthy character of the soil on which\nI stood.  I felt that I was in the swamp myself, but this consciousness\ndid not cause me to look more narrowly at my own feet, in order to learn\nupon what I was standing; I kept on seeking some external means, outside\nmyself, of helping the existing evil.\n\nI then felt that my life was bad, and that it was impossible to live in\nthat manner.  But from the fact that my life was bad, and that it was\nimpossible to live in that manner, I did not draw the very simple and\nclear deduction that it was necessary to amend my life and to live\nbetter, but I knew the terrible deduction that in order to live well\nmyself, I must needs reform the lives of others; and so I began to reform\nthe lives of others.  I lived in the city, and I wished to reform the\nlives of those who lived in the city; but I soon became convinced that\nthis I could not by any possibility accomplish, and I began to meditate\non the inherent characteristics of city life and city poverty.\n\n\"What are city life and city poverty?  Why, when I am living in the city,\ncannot I help the city poor?\"\n\nI asked myself.  I answered myself that I could not do any thing for\nthem, in the first place, because there were too many of them here in one\nspot; in the second place, because all the poor people here were entirely\ndifferent from the country poor.  Why were there so many of them here?\nand in what did their peculiarity, as opposed to the country poor,\nconsist?  There was one and the same answer to both questions.  There\nwere a great many of them here, because here all those people who have no\nmeans of subsistence in the country collect around the rich; and their\npeculiarity lies in this, that they are not people who have come from the\ncountry to support themselves in the city (if there are any city paupers,\nthose who have been born here, and whose fathers and grandfathers were\nborn here, then those fathers and grandfathers came hither for the\npurpose of earning their livelihood).  What is the meaning of this: _to\nearn one's livelihood in the city_?  In the words \"to earn one's\nlivelihood in the city,\" there is something strange, resembling a jest,\nwhen you reflect on their significance.  How is it that people go from\nthe country,--that is to say, from the places where there are forests,\nmeadows, grain, and cattle, where all the wealth of the earth lies,--to\nearn their livelihood in a place where there are neither trees, nor\ngrass, nor even land, and only stones and dust?  What is the significance\nof the words \"to earn a livelihood in the city,\" which are in such\nconstant use, both by those who earn the livelihood, and by those who\nfurnish it, as though it were something perfectly clear and\ncomprehensible?\n\nI recall the hundreds and thousands of city people, both those who live\nwell and the needy, with whom I have conversed on the reason why they\ncame hither: and all without exception said, that they had come from the\ncountry to earn their living; that in Moscow, where people neither sow\nnor reap,--that in Moscow there is plenty of every thing, and that,\ntherefore, it is only in Moscow that they can earn the money which they\nrequire in the country for bread and a cottage and a horse, and articles\nof prime necessity.  But assuredly, in the country lies the source of all\nriches; there only is real wealth,--bread, and forests, and horses, and\nevery thing.  And why, above all, take away from the country that which\ndwellers in the country need,--flour, oats, horses, and cattle?\n\nHundreds of times did I discuss this matter with peasants living in town;\nand from my discussions with them, and from my observations, it has been\nmade apparent to me, that the congregation of country people in the city\nis partly indispensable because they cannot otherwise support themselves,\npartly voluntary, and that they are attracted to the city by the\ntemptations of the city.\n\nIt is true, that the position of the peasant is such that, for the\nsatisfaction of his demands made on him in the country, he cannot\nextricate himself otherwise than by selling the grain and the cattle\nwhich he knows will be indispensable to him; and he is forced, whether he\nwill or no, to go to the city in order there to win back his bread.  But\nit is also true, that the luxury of city life, and the comparative ease\nwith which money is there to be earned, attract him thither; and under\nthe pretext of gaining his living in the town, he betakes himself thither\nin order that he may have lighter work, better food, and drink tea three\ntimes a day, and dress well, and even lead a drunken and dissolute life.\nThe cause of both is identical,--the transfer of the riches of the\nproducers into the hands of non-producers, and the accumulation of wealth\nin the cities.  And, in point of fact, when autumn has come, all wealth\nis collected in the country.  And instantly there arise demands for\ntaxes, recruits, the temptations of vodka, weddings, festivals; petty\npedlers make their rounds through the villages, and all sorts of other\ntemptations crop up; and by this road, or, if not, by some other, wealth\nof the most varied description--vegetables, calves, cows, horses, pigs,\nchickens, eggs, butter, hemp, flax, rye, oats, buckwheat, pease,\nhempseed, and flaxseed--all passes into the hands of strangers, is\ncarried off to the towns, and thence to the capitals.  The countryman is\nobliged to surrender all this to satisfy the demands that are made upon\nhim, and temptations; and, having parted with his wealth, he is left with\nan insufficiency, and he is forced to go whither his wealth has been\ncarried and there he tries, in part, to obtain the money which he\nrequires for his first needs in the country, and in part, being himself\nled away by the blandishments of the city, he enjoys, in company with\nothers, the wealth that has there accumulated.  Everywhere, throughout\nthe whole of Russia,--yes, and not in Russia alone, I think, but\nthroughout the whole world,--the same thing goes on.  The wealth of the\nrustic producers passes into the hands of traders, landed proprietors,\nofficials, and factory-owners; and the people who receive this wealth\nwish to enjoy it.  But it is only in the city that they can derive full\nenjoyment from this wealth.  In the country, in the first place, it is\ndifficult to satisfy all the requirements of rich people, on account of\nthe sparseness of the population; banks, shops, hotels, every sort of\nartisan, and all sorts of social diversions, do not exist there.  In the\nsecond place, one of the chief pleasures procured by wealth--vanity, the\ndesire to astonish and outshine other people--is difficult to satisfy in\nthe country; and this, again, on account of the lack of inhabitants.  In\nthe country, there is no one to appreciate elegance, no one to be\nastonished.  Whatever adornments in the way of pictures and bronzes the\ndweller in the country may procure for his house, whatever equipages and\ntoilets he may provide, there is no one to see them and envy them, and\nthe peasants cannot judge of them.  [And, in the third place, luxury is\neven disagreeable and dangerous in the country for the man possessed of a\nconscience and fear.  It is an awkward and delicate matter, in the\ncountry, to have baths of milk, or to feed your puppies on it, when\ndirectly beside you there are children who have no milk; it is an awkward\nand delicate matter to build pavilions and gardens in the midst of people\nwho live in cots banked up with dung, which they have no means of\nwarming.  In the country there is no one to keep the stupid peasants in\norder, and in their lack of cultivation they might disarrange all this.]\n{94}\n\nAnd accordingly rich people congregate, and join themselves to other rich\npeople with similar requirements, in the city, where the gratification of\nevery luxurious taste is carefully protected by a numerous police force.\nWell-rooted inhabitants of the city of this sort, are the governmental\nofficials; every description of artisan and professional man has sprung\nup around them, and with them the wealthy join their forces.  All that a\nrich man has to do there is to take a fancy to a thing, and he can get\nit.  It is also more agreeable for a rich man to live there, because\nthere he can gratify his vanity; there is some one with whom he can vie\nin luxury; there is some one to astonish, and there is some one to\noutshine.  But the principal reason why it is more comfortable in the\ncity for a rich man is that formerly, in the country, his luxury made him\nawkward and uneasy; while now, on the contrary, it would be awkward for\nhim not to live luxuriously, not to live like all his peers around him.\nThat which seemed dreadful and awkward in the country, here appears to be\njust as it should be.  [Rich people congregate in the city; and there,\nunder the protection of the authorities, they calmly demand every thing\nthat is brought thither from the country.  And the countryman is, in some\nmeasure, compelled to go thither, where this uninterrupted festival of\nthe wealthy which demands all that is taken from him is in progress, in\norder to feed upon the crumbs which fall from the tables of the rich; and\npartly, also, because, when he beholds the care-free, luxurious life,\napproved and protected by everybody, he himself becomes desirous of\nregulating his life in such a way as to work as little as possible, and\nto make as much use as possible of the labors of others.\n\nAnd so he betakes himself to the city, and finds employment about the\nwealthy, endeavoring, by every means in his power, to entice from them\nthat which he is in need of, and conforming to all those conditions which\nthe wealthy impose upon him, he assists in the gratification of all their\nwhims; he serves the rich man in the bath and in the inn, and as\ncab-driver and prostitute, and he makes for him equipages, toys, and\nfashions; and he gradually learns from the rich man to live in the same\nmanner as the latter, not by labor, but by divers tricks, getting away\nfrom others the wealth which they have heaped together; and he becomes\ncorrupt, and goes to destruction.  And this colony, demoralized by city\nwealth, constitutes that city pauperism which I desired to aid and could\nnot.\n\nAll that is necessary, in fact, is for us to reflect on the condition of\nthese inhabitants of the country, who have removed to the city in order\nto earn their bread or their taxes,--when they behold, everywhere around\nthem, thousands squandered madly, and hundreds won by the easiest\npossible means; when they themselves are forced by heavy toil to earn\nkopeks,--and we shall be amazed that all these people should remain\nworking people, and that they do not all of them take to an easier method\nof getting gain,--by trading, peddling, acting as middlemen, begging,\nvice, rascality, and even robbery.  Why, we, the participants in that\nnever-ceasing orgy which goes on in town, can become so accustomed to our\nlife, that it seems to us perfectly natural to dwell alone in five huge\napartments, heated by a quantity of beech logs sufficient to cook the\nfood for and to warm twenty families; to drive half a verst with two\ntrotters and two men-servants; to cover the polished wood floor with\nrugs; and to spend, I will not say, on a ball, five or ten thousand\nrubles, and twenty-five thousand on a Christmas-tree.  But a man who is\nin need of ten rubles to buy bread for his family, or whose last sheep\nhas been seized for a tax-debt of seven rubles, and who cannot raise\nthose rubles by hard labor, cannot grow accustomed to this.  We think\nthat all this appears natural to poor people there are even some\ningenuous persons who say in all seriousness, that the poor are very\ngrateful to us for supporting them by this luxury.] {96}\n\nBut poor people are not devoid of human understanding simply because they\nare poor, and they judge precisely as we do.  As the first thought that\noccurs to us on hearing that such and such a man has gambled away or\nsquandered ten or twenty thousand rubles, is: \"What a foolish and\nworthless fellow he is to uselessly squander so much money! and what a\ngood use I could have made of that money in a building which I have long\nbeen in need of, for the improvement of my estate, and so forth!\"--just\nso do the poor judge when they behold the wealth which they need, not for\ncaprices, but for the satisfaction of their actual necessities, of which\nthey are frequently deprived, flung madly away before their eyes.  We\nmake a very great mistake when we think that the poor can judge thus,\nreason thus, and look on indifferently at the luxury which surrounds\nthem.\n\nThey never have acknowledged, and they never will acknowledge, that it\ncan be just for some people to live always in idleness, and for other\npeople to fast and toil incessantly; but at first they are amazed and\ninsulted by this; then they scrutinize it more attentively, and, seeing\nthat these arrangements are recognized as legitimate, they endeavor to\nfree themselves from toil, and to take part in the idleness.  Some\nsucceed in this, and they become just such carousers themselves; others\ngradually prepare themselves for this state; others still fail, and do\nnot attain their goal, and, having lost the habit of work, they fill up\nthe disorderly houses and the night-lodging houses.\n\nTwo years ago, we took from the country a peasant boy to wait on table.\nFor some reason, he did not get on well with the footman, and he was sent\naway: he entered the service of a merchant, won the favor of his master,\nand now he goes about with a vest and a watch-chain, and dandified boots.\nIn his place, we took another peasant, a married man: he became a\ndrunkard, and lost money.  We took a third: he took to drunk, and, having\ndrank up every thing he had, he suffered for a long while from poverty in\nthe night-lodging house.  An old man, the cook, took to drink and fell\nsick.  Last year a footman who had formerly been a hard drinker, but who\nhad refrained from liquor for five years in the country, while living in\nMoscow without his wife who encouraged him, took to drink again, and\nruined his whole life.  A young lad from our village lives with my\nbrother as a table-servant.  His grandfather, a blind old man, came to me\nduring my sojourn in the country, and asked me to remind this grandson\nthat he was to send ten rubies for the taxes, otherwise it would be\nnecessary for him to sell his cow.  \"He keeps saying, I must dress\ndecently,\" said the old man: \"well, he has had some shoes made, and\nthat's all right; but what does he want to set up a watch for?\" said the\ngrandfather, expressing in these words the most senseless supposition\nthat it was possible to originate.  The supposition really was senseless,\nif we take into consideration that the old man throughout Lent had eaten\nno butter, and that he had no split wood because he could not possibly\npay one ruble and twenty kopeks for it; but it turned out that the old\nman's senseless jest was an actual fact.  The young fellow came to see me\nin a fine black coat, and shoes for which he had paid eight rubles.  He\nhad recently borrowed ten rubles from my brother, and had spent them on\nthese shoes.  And my children, who have known the lad from childhood,\ntold me that he really considers it indispensable to fit himself out with\na watch.  He is a very good boy, but he thinks that people will laugh at\nhim so long as he has no watch; and a watch is necessary.  During the\npresent year, a chambermaid, a girl of eighteen, entered into a\nconnection with the coachman in our house.  She was discharged.  An old\nwoman, the nurse, with whom I spoke in regard to the unfortunate girl,\nreminded me of a girl whom I had forgotten.  She too, ten yeans ago,\nduring a brief stay of ours in Moscow, had become connected with a\nfootman.  She too had been discharged, and she had ended in a disorderly\nhouse, and had died in the hospital before reaching the age of twenty.  It\nis only necessary to glance about one, to be struck with terror at the\npest which we disseminate directly by our luxurious life among the people\nwhom we afterwards wish to help, not to mention the factories and\nestablishments which serve our luxurious tastes.\n\n[And thus, having penetrated into the peculiar character of city poverty,\nwhich I was unable to remedy, I perceived that its prime cause is this,\nthat I take absolute necessaries from the dwellers in the country, and\ncarry them all to the city.  The second cause is this, that by making use\nhere, in the city, of what I have collected in the country, I tempt and\nlead astray, by my senseless luxury, those country people who come hither\nbecause of me, in order in some way to get back what they have been\ndeprived of in the country.] {99}\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\n\nI reached the same conclusion from a totally different point.  On\nrecalling all my relations with the city poor during that time, I saw\nthat one of the reasons why I could not help the city poor was, that the\npoor were disingenuous and untruthful with me.  They all looked upon me,\nnot as a man, but as means.  I could not get near them, and I thought\nthat perhaps I did not understand how to do it; but without uprightness,\nno help was possible.  How can one help a man who does not disclose his\nwhole condition?  At first I blamed them for this (it is so natural to\nblame some one else); but a remark from an observing man named Siutaeff,\nwho was visiting me at the time, explained this matter to me, and showed\nme where the cause of my want of success lay.  I remember that Siutaeff's\nremark struck me very forcibly at the time; but I only understood its\nfull significance later on.  It was at the height of my self-delusion.  I\nwas sitting with my sister, and Siutaeff was there also at her house; and\nmy sister was questioning me about my undertaking.  I told her about it,\nand, as always happens when you have no faith in your course, I talked to\nher with great enthusiasm and warmth, and at great length, of what I had\ndone, and of what might possibly come of it.  I told her every thing,--how\nwe were going to keep track of pauperism in Moscow, how we were going to\nkeep an eye on the orphans and old people, how we were going to send away\nall country people who had grown poor here, how we were going to smooth\nthe pathway to reform for the depraved; how, if only the matter could be\nmanaged, there would not be a man left in Moscow, who could not obtain\nassistance.  My sister sympathized with me, and we discussed it.  In the\nmiddle of our conversation, I glanced at Siutaeff.  As I was acquainted\nwith his Christian life, and with the significance which he attached to\ncharity, I expected his sympathy, and spoke so that he understood this; I\ntalked to my sister, but directed my remarks more at him.  He sat\nimmovable in his dark tanned sheepskin jacket,--which he wore, like all\npeasants, both out of doors and in the house,--and as though he did not\nhear us, but were thinking of his own affairs.  His small eyes did not\ntwinkle, and seemed to be turned inwards.  Having finished what I had to\nsay, I turned to him with a query as to what he thought of it.\n\n\"It's all a foolish business,\" said he.\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Your whole society is foolish, and nothing good can come out of it,\" he\nrepeated with conviction.\n\n\"Why not?  Why is it a stupid business to help thousands, at any rate\nhundreds, of unfortunate beings?  Is it a bad thing, according to the\nGospel, to clothe the naked, and feed the hungry?\"\n\n\"I know, I know, but that is not what you are doing.  Is it necessary to\nrender assistance in that way?  You are walking along, and a man asks you\nfor twenty kopeks.  You give them to him.  Is that alms?  Do you give\nspiritual alms,--teach him.  But what is it that you have given?  It was\nonly for the sake of getting rid of him.\"\n\n\"No; and, besides, that is not what we are talking about.  We want to\nknow about this need, and then to help by both money and deeds; and to\nfind work.\"\n\n\"You can do nothing with those people in that way.\"\n\n\"So they are to be allowed to die of hunger and cold?\"\n\n\"Why should they die?  Are there many of them there?\"\n\n\"What, many of them?\" said I, thinking that he looked at the matter so\nlightly because he was not aware how vast was the number of these people.\n\n\"Why, do you know,\" said I, \"I believe that there are twenty thousand of\nthese cold and hungry people in Moscow.  And how about Petersburg and the\nother cities?\"\n\nHe smiled.\n\n\"Twenty thousand!  And how many households are there in Russia alone, do\nyou think?  Are there a million?\"\n\n\"Well, what then?\"\n\n\"What then?\" and his eyes flashed, and he grew animated.  \"Come, let us\ndivide them among ourselves.  I am not rich, I will take two persons on\nthe spot.  There is the lad whom you took into your kitchen; I invited\nhim to come to my house, and he did not come.  Were there ten times as\nmany, let us divide them among us.  Do you take some, and I will take\nsome.  We will work together.  He will see how I work, and he will learn.\nHe will see how I live, and we will sit down at the same table together,\nand he will hear my words and yours.  This charity society of yours is\nnonsense.\"\n\nThese simple words impressed me.  I could not but admit their justice;\nbut it seemed to me at that time, that, in spite of their truth, still\nthat which I had planned might possibly prove of service.  But the\nfurther I carried this business, the more I associated with the poor, the\nmore frequently did this remark recur to my mind, and the greater was the\nsignificance which it acquired for me.\n\nI arrive in a costly fur coat, or with my horses; or the man who lacks\nshoes sees my two-thousand-ruble apartments.  He sees how, a little while\nago, I gave five rubles without begrudging them, merely because I took a\nwhim to do so.  He surely knows that if I give away rubles in that\nmanner, it is only because I have hoarded up so many of them, that I have\na great many superfluous ones, which I not only have not given away, but\nwhich I have easily taken from other people.  [What else could he see in\nme but one of those persons who have got possession of what belongs to\nhim?  And what other feeling can he cherish towards me, than a desire to\nobtain from me as many of those rubles, which have been stolen from him\nand from others, as possible?  I wish to get close to him, and I complain\nthat he is not frank; and here I am, afraid to sit down on his bed for\nfear of getting lice, or catching something infectious; and I am afraid\nto admit him to my room, and he, coming to me naked, waits, generally in\nthe vestibule, or, if very fortunate, in the ante-chamber.  And yet I\ndeclare that he is to blame because I cannot enter into intimate\nrelations with him, and because me is not frank.\n\nLet the sternest man try the experiment of eating a dinner of five\ncourses in the midst of people who have had very little or nothing but\nblack bread to eat.  Not a man will have the spirit to eat, and to watch\nhow the hungry lick their chops around him.  Hence, then, in order to eat\ndaintily amid the famishing, the first indispensable requisite is to hide\nfrom them, in order that they may not see it.  This is the very thing,\nand the first thing, that we do.\n\nAnd I took a simpler view of our life, and perceived that an approach to\nthe poor is not difficult to us through accidental causes, but that we\ndeliberately arrange our lives in such a fashion so that this approach\nmay be rendered difficult.\n\nNot only this; but, on taking a survey of our life, of the life of the\nwealthy, I saw that every thing which is considered desirable in that\nlife consists in, or is inseparably bound up with, the idea of getting as\nfar away from the poor as possible.  In fact, all the efforts of our well-\nendowed life, beginning with our food, dress, houses, our cleanliness,\nand even down to our education,--every thing has for its chief object,\nthe separation of ourselves from the poor.  In procuring this seclusion\nof ourselves by impassable barriers, we spend, to put it mildly, nine-\ntenths of our wealth.  The first thing that a man who was grown wealthy\ndoes is to stop eating out of one bowl, and he sets up crockery, and fits\nhimself out with a kitchen and servants.  And he feeds his servants high,\ntoo, so that their mouths may not water over his dainty viands; and he\neats alone; and as eating in solitude is wearisome, he plans how he may\nimprove his food and deck his table; and the very manner of taking his\nfood (dinner) becomes a matter for pride and vain glory with him, and his\nmanner of taking his food becomes for him a means of sequestering himself\nfrom other men.  A rich man cannot think of such a thing as inviting a\npoor man to his table.  A man must know how to conduct ladies to table,\nhow to bow, to sit down, to eat, to rinse out the mouth; and only rich\npeople know all these things.  The same thing occurs in the matter of\nclothing.  If a rich man were to wear ordinary clothing, simply for the\npurpose of protecting his body from the cold,--a short jacket, a coat,\nfelt and leather boots, an under-jacket, trousers, shirt,--he would\nrequire but very little, and he would not be unable, when he had two\ncoats, to give one of them to a man who had none.  But the rich man\nbegins by procuring for himself clothing which consists entirely of\nseparate pieces, and which is fit only for separate occasions, and which\nis, therefore, unsuited to the poor man.  He has frock-coats, vests, pea-\njackets, lacquered boots, cloaks, shoes with French heels, garments that\nare chopped up into bits to conform with the fashion, hunting-coats,\ntravelling-coats, and so on, which can only be used under conditions of\nexistence far removed from poverty.  And his clothing also furnishes him\nwith a means of keeping at a distance from the poor.  The same is the\ncase, and even more clearly, with his dwelling.  In order that one may\nlive alone in ten rooms, it is indispensable that those who live ten in\none room should not see it.  The richer a man is, the more difficult is\nhe of access; the more porters there are between him and people who are\nnot rich, the more impossible is it to conduct a poor man over rugs, and\nseat him in a satin chair.\n\nThe case is the same with the means of locomotion.  The peasant driving\nin a cart, or a sledge, must be a very ill-tempered man when he will not\ngive a pedestrian a lift; and there is both room for this and a\npossibility of doing it.  But the richer the equipage, the farther is a\nman from all possibility of giving a seat to any person whatsoever.  It\nis even said plainly, that the most stylish equipages are those meant to\nhold only one person.\n\nIt is precisely the same thing with the manner of life which is expressed\nby the word cleanliness.\n\nCleanliness!  Who is there that does not know people, especially women,\nwho reckon this cleanliness in themselves as a great virtue? and who is\nnot acquainted with the devices of this cleanliness, which know no\nbounds, when it can command the labor of others?  Which of the people who\nhave become rich has not experienced in his own case, with what\ndifficulty he carefully trained himself to this cleanliness, which only\nconfirms the proverb, \"Little white hands love other people's work\"?\n\nTo-day cleanliness consists in changing your shirt once a day; to-morrow,\nin changing it twice a day.  To-day it means washing the face, and neck,\nand hands daily; to-morrow, the feet; and day after to-morrow, washing\nthe whole body every day, and, in addition and in particular, a rubbing-\ndown.  To-day the table-cloth is to serve for two days, to-morrow there\nmust be one each day, then two a day.  To-day the footman's hands must be\nclean; to-morrow he must wear gloves, and in his clean gloves he must\npresent a letter on a clean salver.  And there are no limits to this\ncleanliness, which is useless to everybody, and objectless, except for\nthe purpose of separating oneself from others, and of rendering\nimpossible all intercourse with them, when this cleanliness is attained\nby the labors of others.\n\nMoreover, when I studied the subject, I because convinced that even that\nwhich is commonly called education is the very same thing.\n\nThe tongue does not deceive; it calls by its real name that which men\nunderstand under this name.  What the people call culture is fashionable\nclothing, political conversation, clean hands,--a certain sort of\ncleanliness.  Of such a man, it is said, in contradistinction to others,\nthat he is an educated man.  In a little higher circle, what they call\neducation means the same thing as with the people; only to the conditions\nof education are added playing on the pianoforte, a knowledge of French,\nthe writing of Russian without orthographical errors, and a still greater\ndegree of external cleanliness.  In a still more elevated sphere,\neducation means all this with the addition of the English language, and a\ndiploma from the highest educational institution.  But education is\nprecisely the same thing in the first, the second, and the third case.\nEducation consists of those forms and acquirements which are calculated\nto separate a man from his fellows.  And its object is identical with\nthat of cleanliness,--to seclude us from the herd of poor, in order that\nthey, the poor, may not see how we feast.  But it is impossible to hide\nourselves, and they do see us.\n\nAnd accordingly I have become convinced that the cause of the inability\nof us rich people to help the poor of the city lies in the impossibility\nof our establishing intercourse with them; and that this impossibility of\nintercourse is caused by ourselves, by the whole course of our lives, by\nall the uses which we make of our wealth.  I have become convinced that\nbetween us, the rich and the poor, there rises a wall, reared by\nourselves out of that very cleanliness and education, and constructed of\nour wealth; and that in order to be in a condition to help the poor, we\nmust needs, first of all, destroy this wall; and that in order to do\nthis, confrontation after Siutaeff's method should be rendered possible,\nand the poor distributed among us.  And from another starting-point also\nI came to the same conclusion to which the current of my discussions as\nto the causes of the poverty in towns had led me: the cause was our\nwealth.] {108}\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\n\nI began to examine the matter from a third and wholly personal point of\nview.  Among the phenomena which particularly impressed me, during the\nperiod of my charitable activity, there was yet another, and a very\nstrange one, for which I could for a long time find no explanation.  It\nwas this: every time that I chanced, either on the street on in the\nhouse, to give some small coin to a poor man, without saying any thing to\nhim, I saw, or thought that I saw, contentment and gratitude on the\ncountenance of the poor man, and I myself experienced in this form of\nbenevolence an agreeable sensation.  I saw that I had done what the man\nwished and expected from me.  But if I stopped the poor man, and\nsympathetically questioned him about his former and his present life, I\nfelt that it was no longer possible to give three or twenty kopeks, and I\nbegan to fumble in my purse for money, in doubt as to how much I ought to\ngive, and I always gave more; and I always noticed that the poor man left\nme dissatisfied.  But if I entered into still closer intercourse with the\npoor man, then my doubts as to how much to give increased also; and, no\nmatter how much I gave, the poor man grew ever more sullen and\ndiscontented.  As a general rule, it always turned out thus, that if I\ngave, after conversation with a poor man, three rubles or even more, I\nalmost always beheld gloom, displeasure, and even ill-will, on the\ncountenance of the poor man; and I have even known it to happen, that,\nhaving received ten rubles, he went off without so much as saying \"Thank\nyou,\" exactly as though I had insulted him.\n\nAnd thereupon I felt awkward and ashamed, and almost guilty.  But if I\nfollowed up a poor man for weeks and months and years, and assisted him,\nand explained my views to him, and associated with him, our relations\nbecame a torment, and I perceived that the man despised me.  And I felt\nthat he was in the right.\n\nIf I go out into the street, and he, standing in that street, begs of me\namong the number of the other passers-by, people who walk and ride past\nhim, and I give him money, I then am to him a passer-by, and a good, kind\npasser-by, who bestows on him that thread from which a shirt is made for\nthe naked man; he expects nothing more than the thread, and if I give it\nhe thanks me sincerely.  But if I stop him, and talk with him as man with\nman, I thereby show him that I desire to be something more than a mere\npasser-by.  If, as often happens, he weeps while relating to me his woes,\nthen he sees in me no longer a passer-by, but that which I desire that he\nshould see: a good man.  But if I am a good man, my goodness cannot pause\nat a twenty-kopek piece, nor at ten rubles, nor at ten thousand; it is\nimpossible to be a little bit of a good man.  Let us suppose that I have\ngiven him a great deal, that I have fitted him out, dressed him, set him\non his feet so that the can live without outside assistance; but for some\nreason or other, though misfortune or his own weakness or vices, he is\nagain without that coat, that linen, and that money which I have given\nhim; he is again cold and hungry, and he has come again to me,--how can I\nrefuse him?  [For if the cause of my action consisted in the attainment\nof a definite, material end, on giving him so many rubles or such and\nsuch a coat I might be at ease after having bestowed them.  But the cause\nof my action is not this: the cause is, that I want to be a good man,\nthat is to say, I want to see myself in every other man.  Every man\nunderstands goodness thus, and in no other manner.] {111}  And therefore,\nif he should drink away every thing that you had given him twenty times,\nand if he should again be cold and hungry, you cannot do otherwise than\ngive him more, if you are a good man; you can never cease giving to him,\nif you have more than he has.  And if you draw back, you will thereby\nshow that every thing that you have done, you have done not because you\nare a good man, but because you wished to appear a good man in his sight,\nand in the sight of men.\n\nAnd thus in the case with the men from whom I chanced to recede, to whom\nI ceased to give, and, by this action, denied good, I experienced a\ntorturing sense of shame.\n\nWhat sort of shame was this?  This shame I had experienced in the\nLyapinsky house, and both before and after that in the country, when I\nhappened to give money or any thing else to the poor, and in my\nexpeditions among the city poor.\n\nA mortifying incident that occurred to me not long ago vividly reminded\nme of that shame, and led me to an explanation of that shame which I had\nfelt when bestowing money on the poor.\n\n[This happened in the country.  I wanted twenty kopeks to give to a poor\npilgrim; I sent my son to borrow them from some one; he brought the\npilgrim a twenty-kopek piece, and told me that he had borrowed it from\nthe cook.  A few days afterwards some more pilgrims arrived, and again I\nwas in want of a twenty-kopek piece.  I had a ruble; I recollected that I\nwas in debt to the cook, and I went to the kitchen, hoping to get some\nmore small change from the cook.  I said: \"I borrowed a twenty-kopek\npiece from you, so here is a ruble.\"  I had not finished speaking, when\nthe cook called in his wife from another room: \"Take it, Parasha,\" said\nhe.  I, supposing that she understood what I wanted, handed her the\nruble.  I must state that the cook had only lived with me a week, and,\nthough I had seen his wife, I had never spoken to her.  I was just on the\npoint of saying to her that she was to give me some small coins, when she\nbent swiftly down to my hand, and tried to kiss it, evidently imaging\nthat I had given her the ruble.  I muttered something, and quitted the\nkitchen.  I was ashamed, ashamed to the verge of torture, as I had not\nbeen for a long time.  I shrank together; I was conscious that I was\nmaking grimaces, and I groaned with shame as I fled from the kitchen.\nThis utterly unexpected, and, as it seemed to me, utterly undeserved\nshame, made a special impression on me, because it was a long time since\nI had been mortified, and because I, as an old man, had so lived, it\nseemed to me, that I had not merited this shame.  I was forcibly struck\nby this.  I told the members of my household about it, I told my\nacquaintances, and they all agreed that they should have felt the same.\nAnd I began to reflect: why had this caused me such shame?  To this,\nsomething which had happened to me in Moscow furnished me with an answer.\n\nI meditated on that incident, and the shame which I had experienced in\nthe presence of the cook's wife was explained to me, and all those\nsensations of mortification which I had undergone during the course of my\nMoscow benevolence, and which I now feel incessantly when I have occasion\nto give any one any thing except that petty alms to the poor and to\npilgrims, which I have become accustomed to bestow, and which I consider\na deed not of charity but of courtesy.  If a man asks you for a light,\nyou must strike a match for him, if you have one.  If a man asks for\nthree or for twenty kopeks, or even for several rubles, you must give\nthem if you have them.  This is an act of courtesy and not of charity.]\n{113}\n\nThis was the case in question: I have already mentioned the two peasants\nwith whom I was in the habit of sawing wood three yeans ago.  One\nSaturday evening at dusk, I was returning to the city in their company.\nThey were going to their employer to receive their wages.  As we were\ncrossing the Dragomilovsky bridge, we met an old man.  He asked alms, and\nI gave him twenty kopeks.  I gave, and reflected on the good effect which\nmy charity would have on Semyon, with whom I had been conversing on\nreligious topics.  Semyon, the Vladimir peasant, who had a wife and two\nchildren in Moscow, halted also, pulled round the skirt of his kaftan,\nand got out his purse, and from this slender purse he extracted, after\nsome fumbling, three kopeks, handed it to the old man, and asked for two\nkopeks in change.  The old man exhibited in his hand two three-kopek\npieces and one kopek.  Semyon looked at them, was about to take the\nkopek, but thought better of it, pulled off his hat, crossed himself, and\nwalked on, leaving the old man the three-kopek piece.\n\nI was fully acquainted with Semyon's financial condition.  He had no\nproperty at home at all.  The money which he had laid by on the day when\nhe gave three kopeks amounted to six rubles and fifty kopeks.\nAccordingly, six rubles and twenty kopeks was the sum of his savings.  My\nreserve fund was in the neighborhood of six hundred thousand.  I had a\nwife and children, Semyon had a wife and children.  He was younger than\nI, and his children were fewer in number than mine; but his children were\nsmall, and two of mine were of an age to work, so that our position, with\nthe exception of the savings, was on an equality; mine was somewhat the\nmore favorable, if any thing.  He gave three kopeks, I gave twenty.  What\ndid he really give, and what did I really give?  What ought I to have\ngiven, in order to do what Semyon had done? he had six hundred kopeks;\nout of this he gave one, and afterwards two.  I had six hundred thousand\nrubles.  In order to give what Semyon had given, I should have been\nobliged to give three thousand rubles, and ask for two thousand in\nchange, and then leave the two thousand with the old man, cross myself,\nand go my way, calmly conversing about life in the factories, and the\ncost of liver in the Smolensk market.\n\nI thought of this at the time; but it was only long afterwards that I was\nin a condition to draw from this incident that deduction which inevitably\nresults from it.  This deduction is so uncommon and so singular,\napparently, that, in spite of its mathematical infallibility, one\nrequires time to grow used to it.  It does seem as though there must be\nsome mistake, but mistake there is none.  There is merely the fearful\nmist of error in which we live.\n\n[This deduction, when I arrived at it, and when I recognized its\nundoubted truth, furnished me with an explanation of my shame in the\npresence of the cook's wife, and of all the poor people to whom I had\ngiven and to whom I still give money.\n\nWhat, in point of fact, is that money which I give to the poor, and which\nthe cook's wife thought I was giving to her?  In the majority of cases,\nit is that portion of my substance which it is impossible even to express\nin figures to Semyon and the cook's wife,--it is generally one millionth\npart or about that.  I give so little that the bestowal of any money is\nnot and cannot be a deprivation to me; it is only a pleasure in which I\namuse myself when the whim seizes me.  And it was thus that the cook's\nwife understood it.  If I give to a man who steps in from the street one\nruble or twenty kopeks, why should not I give her a ruble also?  In the\nopinion of the cook's wife, such a bestowal of money is precisely the\nsame as the flinging of honey-cakes to the people by gentlemen; it\nfurnishes the people who have a great deal of superfluous cash with\namusement.  I was mortified because the mistake made by the cook's wife\ndemonstrated to me distinctly the view which she, and all people who are\nnot rich, must take of me: \"He is flinging away his folly, i.e., his\nunearned money.\"\n\nAs a matter of fact, what is my money, and whence did it come into my\npossession?  A portion of it I accumulated from the land which I received\nfrom my father.  A peasant sold his last sheep or cow in order to give\nthe money to me.  Another portion of my money is the money which I have\nreceived for my writings, for my books.  If my books are hurtful, I only\nlead astray those who purchase them, and the money which I receive for\nthem is ill-earned money; but if my books are useful to people, then the\nissue is still more disastrous.  I do not give them to people: I say,\n\"Give me seventeen rubles, and I will give them to you.\"  And as the\npeasant sells his last sheep, in this case the poor student or teacher,\nor any other poor man, deprives himself of necessaries in order to give\nme this money.  And so I have accumulated a great deal of money in that\nway, and what do I do with it?  I take that money to the city, and bestow\nit on the poor, only when they fulfil my caprices, and come hither to the\ncity to clean my sidewalk, lamps, and shoes; to work for me in factories.\nAnd in return for this money, I force from them every thing that I can;\nthat is to say, I try to give them as little as possible, and to receive\nas much as possible from them.  And all at once I begin, quite\nunexpectedly, to bestow this money as a simple gift, on these same poor\npersons, not on all, but on those to whom I take a fancy.  Why should not\nevery poor person expect that it is quite possible that the luck may fall\nto him of being one of those with whom I shall amuse myself by\ndistributing my superfluous money?  And so all look upon me as the cook's\nwife did.\n\nAnd I had gone so far astray that this taking of thousands from the poor\nwith one hand, and this flinging of kopeks with the other, to those to\nwhom the whim moved me to give, I called good.  No wonder that I felt\nashamed.] {116}\n\nYes, before doing good it was needful for me to stand outside of evil, in\nsuch conditions that I might cease to do evil.  But my whole life is\nevil.  I may give away a hundred thousand rubles, and still I shall not\nbe in a position to do good because I shall still have five hundred\nthousand left.  Only when I have nothing shall I be in a position to do\nthe least particle of good, even as much as the prostitute did which she\nnursed the sick women and her child for three days.  And that seemed so\nlittle to me!  And I dared to think of good myself!  That which, on the\nfirst occasion, told me, at the sight of the cold and hungry in the\nLyapinsky house, that I was to blame for this, and that to live as I live\nis impossible, and impossible, and impossible,--that alone was true.\n\nWhat, then, was I to do?\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\n\nIt was hard for me to come to this confession, but when I had come to it\nI was shocked at the error in which I had been living.  I stood up to my\nears in the mud, and yet I wanted to drag others out of this mud.\n\nWhat is it that I wish in reality?  I wish to do good to others.  I wish\nto do it so that other people may not be cold and hungry, so that others\nmay live as it is natural for people to live.\n\n[I wish this, and I see that in consequence of the violence, extortions,\nand various tricks in which I take part, people who toil are deprived of\nnecessaries, and people who do not toil, in whose ranks I also belong,\nenjoy in superabundance the toil of other people.\n\nI see that this enjoyment of the labors of others is so arranged, that\nthe more rascally and complicated the trickery which is employed by the\nman himself, or which has been employed by the person from whom he\nobtained his inheritance, the more does he enjoy of the labors of others,\nand the less does he contribute of his own labor.\n\nFirst come the Shtiglitzy, Dervizy, Morozovy, the Demidoffs, the\nYusapoffs; then great bankers, merchants, officials, landed proprietors,\namong whom I also belong; then the poor--very small traders, dramshop-\nkeepers, usurers, district judges, overseers, teachers, sacristans,\nclerks; then house-porters, lackeys, coachmen, watch-carriers,\ncab-drivers, peddlers; and last of all, the laboring\nclasses--factory-hands and peasants, whose numbers bear the relation to\nthe first named of ten to one.  I see that the life of nine-tenths of the\nworking classes demands, by reason of its nature, application and toil,\nas does every natural life; but that, in consequence of the sharp\npractices which take from these people what is indispensable, and place\nthem in such oppressive conditions, this life becomes more difficult\nevery year, and more filled with deprivations; but our life, the life of\nthe non-laboring classes, thanks to the co-operation of the arts and\nsciences which are directed to this object, becomes more filled with\nsuperfluities, more attractive and careful, with every year.  I see,\nthat, in our day, the life of the workingman, and, in particular, the\nlife of old men, of women, and of children of the working population, is\nperishing directly from their food, which is utterly inadequate to their\nfatiguing labor; and that this life of theirs is not free from care as to\nits very first requirements; and that, alongside of this, the life of the\nnon-laboring classes, to which I belong, is filled more and more, every\nyear, with superfluities and luxury, and becomes more and more free from\nanxiety, and has finally reached such a point of freedom from care, in\nthe case of its fortunate members, of whom I am one, as was only dreamed\nof in olden times in fairy-tales,--the state of the owner of the purse\nwith the inexhaustible ruble, that is, a condition in which a man is not\nonly utterly released from the law of labor, but in which he possesses\nthe possibility of enjoying, without toil, all the blessings of life, and\nof transferring to his children, or to any one whom he may see fit, this\npurse with the inexhaustible ruble.\n\nI see that the products of the people's toil are more and more\ntransformed from the mass of the working classes to those who do not\nwork; that the pyramid of the social edifice seems to be reconstructed in\nsuch fashion that the foundation stones are carried to the apex, and the\nswiftness of this transfer is increasing in a sort of geometrical ratio.\nI see that the result of this is something like that which would take\nplace in an ant-heap if the community of ants were to lose their sense of\nthe common law, if some ants were to begin to draw the products of labor\nfrom the bottom to the top of the heap, and should constantly contract\nthe foundations and broaden the apex, and should thereby also force the\nremaining ants to betake themselves from the bottom to the summit.\n\nI see that the ideal of the Fortunatus' purse has made its way among the\npeople, in the place of the ideal of a toilsome life.  Rich people,\nmyself among the number, get possession of the inexhaustible ruble by\nvarious devices, and for the purpose of enjoying it we go to the city, to\nthe place where nothing is produced and where every thing is swallowed\nup.\n\nThe industrious poor man, who is robbed in order that the rich may\npossess this inexhaustible ruble, yearns for the city in his train; and\nthere he also takes to sharp practices, and either acquires for himself a\nposition in which he can work little and receive much, thereby rendering\nstill more oppressive the situation of the laboring classes, or, not\nhaving attained to such a position, he goes to ruin, and falls into the\nranks of those cold and hungry inhabitants of the night-lodging houses,\nwhich are being swelled with such remarkable rapidity.\n\nI belong to the class of those people, who, by divers tricks, take from\nthe toiling masses the necessaries of life, and who have acquired for\nthemselves these inexhaustible rubles, and who lead these unfortunates\nastray.  I desire to aid people, and therefore it is clear that, first of\nall, I must cease to rob them as I am doing.  But I, by the most\ncomplicated, and cunning, and evil practices, which have been heaped up\nfor centuries, have acquired for myself the position of an owner of the\ninexhaustible ruble, that is to say, one in which, never working myself,\nI can make hundreds and thousands of people toil for me--which also I do;\nand I imagine that I pity people, and I wish to assist them.  I sit on a\nman's neck, I weigh him down, and I demand that he shall carry me; and\nwithout descending from his shoulders I assure myself and others that I\nam very sorry for him, and that I desire to ameliorate his condition by\nall possible means, only not by getting off of him.\n\nSurely this is simple enough.  If I want to help the poor, that is, to\nmake the poor no longer poor, I must not produce poor people.  And I\ngive, at my own selection, to poor men who have gone astray from the path\nof life, a ruble, or ten rubles, or a hundred; and I grasp hundreds from\npeople who have not yet left the path, and thereby I render them poor\nalso, and demoralize them to boot.\n\nThis is very simple; but it was horribly hard for me to understand this\nfully without compromises and reservations, which might serve to justify\nmy position; but it sufficed for me to confess my guilt, and every thing\nwhich had before seemed to me strange and complicated, and lacking in\ncleanness, became perfectly comprehensible and simple.  But the chief\npoint was, that my way of life, arising from this interpretation, became\nsimple, clear and pleasant, instead of perplexed, inexplicable and full\nof torture as before.] {122a}\n\nWho am I, that I should desire to help others?  I desire to help people;\nand I, rising at twelve o'clock after a game of _vint_ {122b} with four\ncandles, weak, exhausted, demanding the aid of hundreds of people,--I go\nto the aid of whom?  Of people who rise at five o'clock, who sleep on\nplanks, who nourish themselves on bread and cabbage, who know how to\nplough, to reap, to wield the axe, to chop, to harness, to sew,--of\npeople who in strength and endurance, and skill and abstemiousness, are a\nhundred times superior to me,--and I go to their succor!  What except\nshame could I feel, when I entered into communion with these people?  The\nvery weakest of them, a drunkard, an inhabitant of the Rzhanoff house,\nthe one whom they call \"the idler,\" is a hundred-fold more industrious\nthan I; [his balance, so to speak, that is to say, the relation of what\nhe takes from people and that which they give him, stands on a thousand\ntimes better footing than my balance, if I take into consideration what I\ntake from people and what I give to them.] {122a}\n\nAnd these are the people to whose assistance I go.  I go to help the\npoor.  But who is the poor man?  There is no one poorer than myself.  I\nam a thoroughly enervated, good-for-nothing parasite, who can only exist\nunder the most special conditions, who can only exist when thousands of\npeople toil at the preservation of this life which is utterly useless to\nevery one.  And I, that plant-louse, which devours the foliage of trees,\nwish to help the tree in its growth and health, and I wish to heal it.\n\nI have passed my whole life in this manner: I eat, I talk and I listen; I\neat, I write or read, that is to say, I talk and listen again; I eat, I\nplay, I eat, again I talk and listen, I eat, and again I go to bed; and\nso each day I can do nothing else, and I understand how to do nothing\nelse.  And in order that I may be able to do this, it is necessary that\nthe porter, the peasant, the cook, male or female, the footman, the\ncoachman, and the laundress, should toil from morning till night; I will\nnot refer to the labors of the people which are necessary in order that\ncoachman, cooks, male and female, footman, and the rest should have those\nimplements and articles with which, and over which, they toil for my\nsake; axes, tubs, brushes, household utensils, furniture, wax, blacking,\nkerosene, hay, wood, and beef.  And all these people work hard all day\nlong and every day, so that I may be able to talk and eat and sleep.  And\nI, this cripple of a man, have imagined that I could help others, and\nthose the very people who support me!\n\nIt is not remarkable that I could not help any one, and that I felt\nashamed; but the remarkable point is that such an absurd idea could have\noccurred to me.  The woman who served the sick old man, helped him; the\nmistress of the house, who cut a slice from the bread which she had won\nfrom the soil, helped the beggar; Semyon, who gave three kopeks which he\nhad earned, helped the beggar, because those three kopeks actually\nrepresented his labor: but I served no one, I toiled for no one, and I\nwas well aware that my money did not represent my labor.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII. {124}\n\n\nInto the delusion that I could help others I was led by the fact that I\nfancied that my money was of the same sort as Semyon's.  But this was not\nthe case.\n\nA general idea prevails, that money represents wealth; but wealth is the\nproduct of labor; and, therefore, money represents labor.  But this idea\nis as just as that every governmental regulation is the result of a\ncompact (_contrat social_).\n\nEvery one likes to think that money is only a medium of exchange for\nlabor.  I have made shoes, you have raised grain, he has reared sheep:\nhere, in order that we may the more readily effect an exchange, we will\ninstitute money, which represents a corresponding quantity of labor, and,\nby means of it, we will barter our shoes for a breast of lamb and ten\npounds of flour.  We will exchange our products through the medium of\nmoney, and the money of each one of us represents our labor.\n\nThis is perfectly true, but true only so long as, in the community where\nthis exchange is effected, the violence of one man over the rest has not\nmade its appearance; not only violence over the labors of others, as\nhappens in wars and slavery, but where he exercises no violence for the\nprotection of the products of their labor from others.  This will be true\nonly in a community whose members fully carry out the Christian law, in a\ncommunity where men give to him who asks, and where he who takes is not\nasked to make restitution.  But just so soon as any violence whatever is\nused in the community, the significance of money for its possessor loses\nits significance as a representative of labor, and acquires the\nsignificance of a right founded, not on labor, but on violence.\n\nAs soon as there is war, and one man has taken any thing from any other\nman, money can no longer be always the representative of labor; money\nreceived by a warrior for the spoils of war, which he sells, even if he\nis the commander of the warriors, is in no way a product of labor, and\npossesses an entirely different meaning from money received for work on\nshoes.  As soon as there are slave-owners and slaves, as there always\nhave been throughout the whole world, it is utterly impossible to say\nthat money represents labor.\n\nWomen have woven linen, sold it, and received money; serfs have woven for\ntheir master, and the master has sold them and received the money.  The\nmoney is identical in both cases; but in the one case it is the product\nof labor, in the other the product of violence.  In exactly the same way,\na stranger or my own father has given me money; and my father, when he\ngave me that money, knew, and I know, and everybody knows, that no one\ncan take this money away from me; but if it should occur to any one to\ntake it away from me, or even not to hand it over at the date when it was\npromised, the law would intervene on my behalf, and would compel the\ndelivery to me of the money; and, again, it is evident that this money\ncan in no wise be called the equivalent of labor, on a level with the\nmoney received by Semyon for chopping wood.  So that in any community\nwhere there is any thing that in any manner whatever controls the labor\nof others, or where violence hedges in, by means of money, its\npossessions from others, there money is no longer invariably the\nrepresentative of labor.  In such a community, it is sometimes the\nrepresentative of labor, and sometimes of violence.\n\nThus it would be where only one act of violence from one man against\nothers, in the midst of perfectly free relations, should have made its\nappearance; but now, when centuries of the most varied deeds of violence\nhave passed for accumulations of money, when these deeds of violence are\nincessant, and merely alter their forms; when, as every one admits, money\naccumulated itself represents violence; when money, as a representative\nof direct labor, forms but a very small portion of the money which is\nderived from every sort of violence,--to say nowadays that money\nrepresents the labor of the person who possesses it, is a self-evident\nerror or a deliberate lie.\n\nIt may be said, that thus it should be; it may be said, that this is\ndesirable; but by no means can it be said, that thus it is.\n\nMoney represents labor.  Yes.  Money does represent labor; but whose?  In\nour society only in the very rarest, rarest of instances, does money\nrepresent the labor of its possessor, but it nearly always represents the\nlabor of other people, the past or future labor of men; it is a\nrepresentative of the obligation of others to labor, which has been\nestablished by force.\n\nMoney, in its most accurate and at the same the simple application, is\nthe conventional stamp which confers a right, or, more correctly, a\npossibility, of taking advantage of the labors of other people.  In its\nideal significance, money should confer this right, or this possibility,\nonly when it serves as the equivalent of labor, and such money might be\nin a community in which no violence existed.  But just as soon as\nviolence, that is to say, the possibility of profiting by the labors of\nothers without toil of one's own, exists in a community, then that\nprofiting by the labors of other men is also expressed by money, without\nany distinction of the persons on whom that violence is exercised.\n\nThe landed proprietor has imposed upon his serfs natural debts, a certain\nquantity of linen, grain, and cattle, or a corresponding amount of money.\nOne household has procured the cattle, but has paid money in lieu of\nlinen.  The proprietor takes the money to a certain amount only, because\nhe knows that for that money they will make him the same quantity of\nlinen, (generally he takes a little more, in order to be sure that they\nwill make it for the same amount); and this money, evidently, represents\nfor the proprietor the obligation of other people to toil.\n\nThe peasant gives the money as an obligation, to he knows not whom, but\nto people, and there are many of them, who undertake for this money to\nmake so much linen.  But the people who undertake to make the linen, do\nso because they have not succeeded in raising sheep, and in place of the\nsheep, they must pay money; but the peasant who takes money for his sheep\ntakes it because he must pay for grain which did not bear well this year.\nThe same thing goes on throughout this realm, and throughout the whole\nworld.\n\nA man sells the product of his labor, past, present or to come, sometimes\nhis food, and generally not because money constitutes for him a\nconvenient means of exchange.  He could have effected the barter without\nmoney, but he does so because money is exacted from him by violence as a\nlien on his labor.\n\nWhen the sovereign of Egypt exacted labor from his slaves, the slaves\ngave all their labor, but only their past and present labor, their future\nlabor they could not give.  But with the dissemination of money tokens,\nand the credit which had its rise in them, it became possible to sell\none's future toil for money.  Money, with co-existent violence in the\ncommunity, only represents the possibility of a new form of impersonal\nslavery, which has taken the place of personal slavery.  The slave-owner\nhas a right to the labor of Piotr, Ivan, and Sidor.  But the owner of\nmoney, in a place where money is demanded from all, has a right to the\ntoil of all those nameless people who are in need of money.  Money has\nset aside all the oppressive features of slavery, under which an owner\nknows his right to Ivan, and with them it has set aside all humane\nrelations between the owner and the slave, which mitigated the burden of\npersonal thraldom.\n\nI will not allude to the fact, that such a condition of things is,\npossibly, necessary for the development of mankind, for progress, and so\nforth,--that I do not contest.  I have merely tried to elucidate to\nmyself the idea of money, and that universal error into which I fell when\nI accepted money as the representative of labor.  I became convinced,\nafter experience, that money is not the representative of labor, but, in\nthe majority of cases, the representative of violence, or of especially\ncomplicated sharp practices founded on violence.\n\nMoney, in our day, has completely lost that significance which it is very\ndesirable that it should possess, as the representative of one's own\nlabor; such a significance it has only as an exception, but, as a general\nrule, it has been converted into a right or a possibility of profiting by\nthe toil of others.\n\nThe dissemination of money, of credit, and of all sorts of money tokens,\nconfirms this significance of money ever more and more.  Money is a new\nform of slavery, which differs from the old form of slavery only in its\nimpersonality, its annihilation of all humane relations with the slave.\n\nMoney--money, is a value which is always equal to itself, and is always\nconsidered legal and righteous, and whose use is regarded as not immoral,\njust as the right of slavery was regarded.\n\nIn my young days, the game of loto was introduced into the clubs.\nEverybody rushed to play it, and, as it was said, many ruined themselves,\nrendered their families miserable, lost other people's money, and\ngovernment funds, and committed suicide; and the game was prohibited, and\nit remains prohibited to this day.\n\nI remember to have seen old and unsentimental gamblers, who told me that\nthis game was particularly pleasing because you did not see from whom you\nwere winning, as is the case in other games; a lackey brought, not money,\nbut chips; each man lost a little stake, and his disappointment was not\nvisible . . .  It is the same with roulette, which is everywhere\nprohibited, and not without reason.\n\nIt is the same with money.  I possess a magic, inexhaustible ruble; I cut\noff my coupons, and have retired from all the business of the world.  Whom\ndo I injure,--I, the most inoffensive and kindest of men?  But this is\nnothing more than playing at loto or roulette, where I do not see the man\nwho shoots himself, because of his losses, after procuring for me those\ncoupons which I cut off from the bonds so accurately with a strictly\nright-angled corner.\n\nI have done nothing, I do nothing, and I shall do nothing, except cut off\nthose coupons; and I firmly believe that money is the representative of\nlabor!  Surely, this is amazing!  And people talk of madmen, after that!\nWhy, what degree of lunacy can be more frightful than this?  A sensible,\neducated, in all other respects sane man lives in a senseless manner, and\nsoothes himself for not uttering the word which it is indispensably\nnecessary that he should utter, with the idea that there is some sense in\nhis conclusions, and he considers himself a just man.  Coupons--the\nrepresentatives of toil!  Toil!  Yes, but of whose toil?  Evidently not\nof the man who owns them, but of him who labors.\n\nSlavery is far from being suppressed.  It has been suppressed in Rome and\nin America, and among us: but only certain laws have been abrogated; only\nthe word, not the thing, has been put down.  Slavery is the freeing of\nourselves alone from the toil which is necessary for the satisfaction of\nour demands, by the transfer of this toil to others; and wherever there\nexists a man who does not work, not because others work lovingly for him,\nbut where he possesses the power of not working, and forces others to\nwork for him, there slavery exists.  There too, where, as in all European\nsocieties, there are people who make use of the labor of thousands of\nmen, and regard this as their right,--there slavery exists in its\nbroadest measure.\n\nAnd money is the same thing as slavery.  Its object and its consequences\nare the same.  Its object is--that one may rid one's self of the first\nborn of all laws, as a profoundly thoughtful writer from the ranks of the\npeople has expressed it; from the natural law of life, as we have called\nit; from the law of personal labor for the satisfaction of our own wants.\nAnd the results of money are the same as the results of slavery, for the\nproprietor; the creation, the invention of new and ever new and never-\nending demands, which can never be satisfied; the enervation of poverty,\nvice, and for the slaves, the persecution of man and their degradation to\nthe level of the beasts.\n\nMoney is a new and terrible form of slavery, and equally demoralizing\nwith the ancient form of slavery for both slave and slave-owner; only\nmuch worse, because it frees the slave and the slave-owner from their\npersonal, humane relations.]\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\n\nI am always surprised by the oft-repeated words: \"Yes, this is so in\ntheory, but how is it in practice?\"  Just as though theory were fine\nwords, requisite for conversation, but not for the purpose of having all\npractice, that is, all activity, indispensably founded on them.  There\nmust be a fearful number of stupid theories current in the world, that\nsuch an extraordinary idea should have become prevalent.  Theory is what\na man thinks on a subject, but its practice is what he does.  How can a\nman think it necessary to do so and so, and then do the contrary?  If the\ntheory of baking bread is, that it must first be mixed, and then set to\nrise, no one except a lunatic, knowing this theory, would do the reverse.\nBut it has become the fashion with us to say, that \"this is so in theory,\nbut how about the practice?\"\n\nIn the matter which interests me now, that has been confirmed which I\nhave always thought,--that practice infallibly flows from theory, and not\nthat it justifies it, but it cannot possibly be otherwise, for if I have\nunderstood the thing of which I have been thinking, then I cannot carry\nout this thing otherwise than as I have understood it.\n\nI wanted to help the unfortunate only because I had money, and I shared\nthe general belief that money was the representative of labor, or, on the\nwhole, something legal and good.  But, having begun to give away this\nmoney, I saw, when I gave the bills which I had accumulated from poor\npeople, that I was doing precisely that which was done by some landed\nproprietors who made some of their serfs wait on others.  I saw that\nevery use of money, whether for making purchases, or for giving away\nwithout an equivalent to another, is handing over a note for extortion\nfrom the poor, or its transfer to another man for extortion from the\npoor.  I saw that money in itself was not only not good, but evidently\nevil, and that it deprives us of our highest good,--labor, and thereby of\nthe enjoyment of our labor, and that that blessing I was not in a\nposition to confer on any one, because I was myself deprived of it: I do\nnot work, and I take no pleasure in making use of the labor of others.\n\nIt would appear that there is something peculiar in this abstract\nargument as to the nature of money.  But this argument which I have made\nnot for the sake of argument, but for the solution of the problem of my\nlife, of my sufferings, was for me an answer to my question: What is to\nbe done?\n\nAs soon as I grasped the meaning of riches, and of money, it not only\nbecame clear and indisputable to me, what I ought to do, but also clear\nand indisputable what others ought to do, because they would infallibly\ndo it.  I had only actually come to understand what I had known for a\nlong time previously, the theory which was given to men from the very\nearliest times, both by Buddha, and Isaiah, and Lao-Tze, and Socrates,\nand in a peculiarly clear and indisputable manner by Jesus Christ and his\nforerunner, John the Baptist.  John the Baptist, in answer to the\nquestion of the people,--What were they to do? replied simply, briefly,\nand clearly: \"He that hath two coats, let him impart to him that hath\nnone; and he that hath meat, let him do likewise\" (Luke iii. 10, 11).  In\na similar manner, but with even greater clearness, and on many occasions,\nChrist spoke.  He said: \"Blessed are the poor, and woe to the rich.\"  He\nsaid that it is impossible to serve God and mammon.  He forbade his\ndisciples to take not only money, but also two garments.  He said to the\nrich young man, that he could not enter into the kingdom of heaven\nbecause he was rich, and that it was easier for a camel to go through the\neye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.  He\nsaid that he who should not leave every thing, houses and children and\nlands, and follow him, could not be his disciple.  He told the parable of\nthe rich man who did nothing bad, like our own rich men, but who only\narrayed himself in costly garments, and ate and drank daintily, and who\nlost his soul thereby; and of poor Lazarus, who had done nothing good,\nbut who was saved merely because he was poor.\n\nThis theory was sufficiently familiar to me, but the false teachings of\nthe world had so obscured it that it had become for me a theory in the\nsense which people are fond of attributing to that term, that is to say,\nempty words.  But as soon as I had succeeded in destroying in my\nconsciousness the sophisms of worldly teaching, theory conformed to\npractice, and the truth with regard to my life and to the life of the\npeople about me became its conclusion.\n\nI understood that man, besides life for his own personal good, is\nunavoidably bound to serve the good of others also; that, if we take an\nillustration from the animal kingdom,--as some people are fond of doing,\ndefending violence and conflict by the conflict for existence in the\nanimal kingdom,--the illustration must be taken from gregarious animals,\nlike bees; that consequently man, not to mention the love to his neighbor\nincumbent on him, is called upon, both by reason and by his nature, to\nserve other people and the common good of humanity.  I comprehended that\nthe natural law of man is that according to which only he can fulfil\ndestiny, and therefore be happy.  I understood that this law has been and\nis broken hereby,--that people get rid of labor by force (like the robber\nbees), make use of the toil of others, directing this toil, not to the\ncommon weal, but to the private satisfaction of swift-growing desires;\nand, precisely as in the case of the robber bees, they perish in\nconsequence.  [I understood that the original form of this disinclination\nfor the law is the brutal violence against weaker individuals, against\nwomen, wars and imprisonments, whose sequel is slavery, and also the\npresent reign of money.  I understood that money is the impersonal and\nconcealed enslavement of the poor.  And, once having perceived the\nsignificance of money as slavery, I could not but hate it, nor refrain\nfrom doing all in my power to free myself from it.] {135}\n\nWhen I was a slave-owner, and comprehended the immorality of my position,\nI tried to escape from it.  My escape consisted in this, that I,\nregarding it as immoral, tried to exercise my rights as slave-owner as\nlittle as possible, but to live, and to allow other people to live, as\nthough that right did not exist.  And I cannot refrain from doing the\nsame thing now in reference to the present form of slavery,--exercising\nmy right to the labor of others as little as possible, i.e., hiring and\npurchasing as little as possible.\n\nThe root of every slavery is the use of the labor of others; and hence,\nthe compelling others to it is founded indifferently on my right to the\nslave, or on my possession of money which is indispensable to him.  If I\nreally do not approve, and if I regard as an evil, the employment of the\nlabor of others, then I shall use neither my right nor my money for that\npurpose; I shall not compel others to toil for me, but I shall endeavor\nto free them from the labor which they have performed for me, as far as\npossible, either by doing without this labor or by performing it for\nmyself.\n\nAnd this very simple and unavoidable deduction enters into all the\ndetails of my life, effects a total change in it, and at one blow\nreleases me from those moral sufferings which I have undergone at the\nsight of the sufferings and the vice of the people, and instantly\nannihilates all three causes of my inability to aid the poor, which I had\nencountered while seeking the cause of my lack of success.\n\nThe first cause was the herding of the people in towns, and the\nabsorption there of the wealth of the country.  All that a man needs is\nto understand how every hiring or purchase is a handle to extortion from\nthe poor, and that therefore he must abstain from them, and must try to\nfulfil his own requirements; and not a single man will then quit the\ncountry, where all wants can be satisfied without money, for the city,\nwhere it is necessary to buy every thing: and in the country he will be\nin a position to help the needy, as has been my own experience and the\nexperience of every one else.\n\nThe second cause is the estrangement of the rich from the poor.  A man\nneeds but to refrain from buying, from hiring, and, disdaining no sort of\nwork, to satisfy his requirements himself, and the former estrangement\nwill immediately be annihilated, and the man, having rejected luxury and\nthe services of others, will amalgamate with the mass of the working\npeople, and, standing shoulder to shoulder with the working people, he\ncan help them.\n\nThe third cause was shame, founded on a consciousness of immorality in my\nowning that money with which I desired to help people.  All that is\nrequired is: to understand the significance of money as impersonal\nslavery, which it has acquired among us, in order to escape for the\nfuture from falling into the error according to which money, though evil\nin itself, can be an instrument of good, and in order to refrain from\nacquiring money; and to rid one's self of it in order to be in a position\nto do good to people, that is, to bestow on them one's labor, and not the\nlabor of another.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\n\n[I saw that money is the cause of suffering and vice among the people,\nand that, if I desired to help people, the first thing that was required\nof me was not to create those unfortunates whom I wished to assist.\n\nI came to the conclusion that the man who does not love vice and the\nsuffering of the people should not make use of money, thus presenting an\ninducement to extortion from the poor, by forcing them to work for him;\nand that, in order not to make use of the toil of others, he must demand\nas little from others as possible, and work as much as possible himself.]\n{138}\n\nBy dint of a long course of reasoning, I came to this inevitable\nconclusion, which was drawn thousands of years ago by the Chinese in the\nsaying, \"If there is one idle man, there is another dying with hunger to\noffset him.\n\n[Then what are we to do?  John the Baptist gave the answer to this very\nquestion two thousand years ago.  And when the people asked him, \"What\nare we to do?\" he said, \"Let him that hath two garments impart to him\nthat hath none, and let him that hath meat do the same.\"  What is the\nmeaning of giving away one garment out of two, and half of one's food?  It\nmeans giving to others every superfluity, and thenceforth taking nothing\nsuperfluous from people.\n\nThis expedient, which furnishes such perfect satisfaction to the moral\nfeelings, kept my eyes fast bound, and binds all our eyes; and we do not\nsee it, but gaze aside.\n\nThis is precisely like a personage on the stage, who had entered a long\ntime since, and all the spectators see him, and it is obvious that the\nactors cannot help seeing him, but the point on the stage lies in the\nacting characters pretending not to see him, and in suffering from his\nabsence.] {139}\n\nThus we, in our efforts to recover from our social diseases, search in\nall quarters, governmental and anti-governmental, and in scientific and\nin philanthropic superstitions; and we do not see what is perfectly\nvisible to every eye.\n\nFor the man who really suffers from the sufferings of the people who\nsurround us, there exists the very plainest, simplest, and easiest means;\nthe only possible one for the cure of the evil about us, and for the\nacquisition of a consciousness of the legitimacy of his life; the one\ngiven by John the Baptist, and confirmed by Christ: not to have more than\none garment, and not to have money.  And not to have any money, means,\nnot to employ the labor of others, and hence, first of all, to do with\nour own hands every thing that we can possibly do.\n\nThis is so clear and simple!  But it is clear and simple when the\nrequirements are simple.  I live in the country.  I lie on the oven, and\nI order my debtor, my neighbor, to chop wood and light my fire.  It is\nvery clear that I am lazy, and that I tear my neighbor away from his\naffairs, and I shall feel mortified, and I shall find it tiresome to lie\nstill all the time; and I shall go and split my wood for myself.\n\nBut the delusion of slavery of all descriptions lies so far back, so much\nof artificial exaction has sprung up upon it, so many people, accustomed\nin different degrees to these habits, are interwoven with each other,\nenervated people, spoiled for generations, and such complicated delusions\nand justifications for their luxury and idleness have been devised by\npeople, that it is far from being so easy for a man who stands at the\nsummit of the ladder of idle people to understand his sin, as it is for\nthe peasant who has made his neighbor build his fire.\n\nIt is terribly difficult for people at the top of this ladder to\nunderstand what is required of them.  [Their heads are turned by the\nheight of this ladder of lies, upon which they find themselves when a\nplace on the ground is offered to them, to which they must descend in\norder to begin to live, not yet well, but no longer cruelly, inhumanly;\nfor this reason, this clear and simple truth appears strange to these\npeople.  For the man with ten servants, liveries, coachmen, cooks,\npictures, pianofortes, that will infallibly appear strange, and even\nridiculous, which is the simplest, the first act of--I will not say every\ngood man--but of every man who is not wicked: to cut his own wood with\nwhich his food is cooked, and with which he warms himself; to himself\nclean those boots with which he has heedlessly stepped in the mire; to\nhimself fetch that water with which he preserves his cleanliness, and to\ncarry out that dirty water in which he has washed himself.] {140}\n\nBut, besides the remoteness of people from the truth, there is another\ncause which prevents people from seeing the obligation for them of the\nsimplest and most natural personal, physical labor for themselves: this\nis the complication, the inextricability of the conditions, the advantage\nof all the people who are bound together among themselves by money, in\nwhich the rich man lives: My luxurious life feeds people.  What would\nbecome of my old valet if I were to discharge him?  What! we must all do\nevery thing necessary,--make our clothes and hew wood? . . .  And how\nabout the division of labor?\"\n\n[This morning I stepped out into the corridor where the fires were being\nbuilt.  A peasant was making a fire in the stove which warms my son's\nroom.  I went in; the latter was asleep.  It was eleven o'clock in the\nmorning.  To-day is a holiday: there is some excuse, there are no\nlessons.\n\nThe smooth-skinned, eighteen-year-old youth, with a beard, who had eaten\nhis fill on the preceding evening, sleeps until eleven o'clock.  But the\npeasant of his age had been up at dawn, and had got through a quantity of\nwork, and was attending to his tenth stove, while the former slept.  \"The\npeasant shall not make the fire in his stove to warm that smooth, lazy\nbody of his!\" I thought.  But I immediately recollected that this stove\nalso warmed the room of the housekeeper, a woman forty years of age, who,\non the evening before, had been making preparations up to three o'clock\nin the morning for the supper which my son had eaten, and that she had\ncleared the table, and risen at seven, nevertheless.  The peasant was\nbuilding the fire for her also.  And under her name the lazybones was\nwarming himself.\n\nIt is true that the interests of all are interwoven; but, even without\nany prolonged reckoning, the conscience of each man will say on whose\nside lies labor, and on whose idleness.  But although conscience says\nthis, the account-book, the cash-book, says it still more clearly.  The\nmore money any one spends, the more idle he is, that is to say, the more\nhe makes others work for him.  The less he spends, the more he works.]\n{142}  But trade, but public undertakings, and, finally, the most\nterrible of words, culture, the development of sciences, and the\narts,--what of them?\n\n[If I live I will make answer to those points, and in detail; and until\nsuch answer I will narrate the following.] {142}\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n\n\nLIFE IN THE CITY.\n\n\nLast year, in March, I was returning home late at night.  As I turned\nfrom the Zubova into Khamovnitchesky Lane, I saw some black spots on the\nsnow of the Dyevitchy Pole (field).  Something was moving about in one\nplace.  I should not have paid any attention to this, if the policeman\nwho was standing at the end of the street had not shouted in the\ndirection of the black spots,--\n\n\"Vasily! why don't you bring her in?\"\n\n\"She won't come!\" answered a voice, and then the spot moved towards the\npoliceman.\n\nI halted and asked the police-officer, \"What is it?\"\n\nHe said,--\"They are taking a girl from the Rzhanoff house to the station-\nhouse; and she is hanging back, she won't walk.\"  A house-porter in a\nsheepskin coat was leading her.  She was walking forward, and he was\npushing her from behind.  All of us, I and the porter and the policeman,\nwere dressed in winter clothes, but she had nothing on over her dress.  In\nthe darkness I could make out only her brown dress, and the kerchiefs on\nher head and neck.  She was short in stature, as is often the case with\nthe prematurely born, with small feet, and a comparatively broad and\nawkward figure.\n\n\"We're waiting for you, you carrion.  Get along, what do you mean by it?\nI'll give it to you!\" shouted the policeman.  He was evidently tired, and\nhe had had too much of her.  She advanced a few paces, and again halted.\n\nThe little old porter, a good-natured fellow (I know him), tugged at her\nhand.  \"Here, I'll teach you to stop!  On with you!\" he repeated, as\nthough in anger.  She staggered, and began to talk in a discordant voice.\nAt every sound there was a false note, both hoarse and whining.\n\n\"Come now, you're shoving again.  I'll get there some time!\"\n\nShe stopped and then went on.  I followed them.\n\n\"You'll freeze,\" said the porters\n\n\"The likes of us don't freeze: I'm hot.\"\n\nShe tried to jest, but her words sounded like scolding.  She halted again\nunder the lantern which stands not far from our house, and leaned\nagainst, almost hung over, the fence, and began to fumble for something\namong her skirts, with benumbed and awkward hands.  Again they shouted at\nher, but she muttered something and did something.  In one hand she held\na cigarette bent into a bow, in the other a match.  I paused behind her;\nI was ashamed to pass her, and I was ashamed to stand and look on.  But I\nmade up my mind, and stepped forward.  Her shoulder was lying against the\nfence, and against the fence it was that she vainly struck the match and\nflung it away.  I looked in her face.  She was really a person\nprematurely born; but, as it seemed to me, already an old woman.  I\ncredited her with thirty years.  A dirty hue of face; small, dull, tipsy\neyes; a button-like nose; curved moist lips with drooping corners, and a\nshort wisp of harsh hair escaping from beneath her kerchief; a long flat\nfigure, stumpy hands and feet.  I paused opposite her.  She stared at me,\nand burst into a laugh, as though she knew all that was going on in my\nmind.\n\nI felt that it was necessary to say something to her.  I wanted to show\nher that I pitied her.\n\n\"Are your parents alive?\" I inquired.\n\nShe laughed hoarsely, with an expression which said, \"he's making up\nqueer things to ask.\"\n\n\"My mother is,\" said she.  \"But what do you want?\"\n\n\"And how old are you?\"\n\n\"Sixteen,\" said she, answering promptly to a question which was evidently\ncustomary.\n\n\"Come, march, you'll freeze, you'll perish entirely,\" shouted the\npoliceman; and she swayed away from the fence, and, staggering along, she\nwent down Khamovnitchesky Lane to the police-station; and I turned to the\nwicket, and entered the house, and inquired whether my daughters had\nreturned.  I was told that they had been to an evening party, had had a\nvery merry time, had come home, and were in bed.\n\nNext morning I wanted to go to the station-house to learn what had been\ndone with this unfortunate woman, and I was preparing to go out very\nearly, when there came to see me one of those unlucky noblemen, who,\nthrough weakness, have dropped from the gentlemanly life to which they\nare accustomed, and who alternately rise and fall.  I had been acquainted\nwith this man for three years.  In the course of those three years, this\nman had several times made way with every thing that he had, and even\nwith all his clothes; the same thing had just happened again, and he was\npassing the nights temporarily in the Rzhanoff house, in the\nnight-lodging section, and he had come to me for the day.  He met me as I\nwas going out, at the entrance, and without listening to me he began to\ntell me what had taken place in the Rzhanoff house the night before.  He\nbegan his narrative, and did not half finish it; all at once (he is an\nold man who has seen men under all sorts of aspects) he burst out\nsobbing, and flooded has countenance with tears, and when he had become\nsilent, turned has face to the wall.  This is what he told me.  Every\nthing that he related to me was absolutely true.  I authenticated his\nstory on the spot, and learned fresh particulars which I will relate\nseparately.\n\nIn that night-lodging house, on the lower floor, in No. 32, in which my\nfriend had spent the night, among the various, ever-changing lodgers, men\nand women, who came together there for five kopeks, there was a\nlaundress, a woman thirty years of age, light-haired, peaceable and\npretty, but sickly.  The mistress of the quarters had a boatman lover.  In\nthe summer her lover kept a boat, and in the winter they lived by letting\naccommodations to night-lodgers: three kopeks without a pillow, five\nkopeks with a pillow.\n\nThe laundress had lived there for several months, and was a quiet woman;\nbut latterly they had not liked her, because she coughed and prevented\nthe women from sleeping.  An old half-crazy woman eighty years old, in\nparticular, also a regular lodger in these quarters, hated the laundress,\nand imbittered the latter's life because she prevented her sleeping, and\ncleared her throat all night like a sheep.  The laundress held her peace;\nshe was in debt for her lodgings, and was conscious of her guilt, and\ntherefore she was bound to be quiet.  She began to go more and more\nrarely to her work, as her strength failed her, and therefore she could\nnot pay her landlady; and for the last week she had not been out to work\nat all, and had only poisoned the existence of every one, especially of\nthe old woman, who also did not go out, with her cough.  Four days before\nthis, the landlady had given the laundress notice to leave the quarters:\nthe latter was already sixty kopeks in debt, and she neither paid them,\nnor did the landlady foresee any possibility of getting them; and all the\nbunks were occupied, and the women all complained of the laundress's\ncough.\n\nWhen the landlady gave the laundress notice, and told her that she must\nleave the lodgings if she did not pay up, the old woman rejoiced and\nthrust the laundress out of doors.  The laundress departed, but returned\nin an hour, and the landlady had not the heart to put her out again.  And\nthe second and the third day, she did not turn her out.  \"Where am I to\ngo?\" said the laundress.  But on the third day, the landlady's lover, a\nMoscow man, who knew the regulations and how to manage, sent for the\npolice.  A policeman with sword and pistol on a red cord came to the\nlodgings, and with courteous words he led the laundress into the street.\n\nIt was a clear, sunny, but freezing March day.  The gutters were flowing,\nthe house-porters were picking at the ice.  The cabman's sleigh jolted\nover the icy snow, and screeched over the stones.  The laundress walked\nup the street on the sunny side, went to the church, and seated herself\nat the entrance, still on the sunny side.  But when the sun began to sink\nbehind the houses, the puddles began to be skimmed over with a glass of\nfrost, and the laundress grew cold and wretched.  She rose, and dragged\nherself . . . whither?  Home, to the only home where she had lived so\nlong.  While she was on her way, resting at times, dusk descended.  She\napproached the gates, turned in, slipped, groaned and fell.\n\nOne man came up, and then another.  \"She must be drunk.\"  Another man\ncame up, and stumbled over the laundress, and said to the potter: \"What\ndrunken woman is this wallowing at your gate?  I came near breaking my\nhead over her; take her away, won't you?\"\n\nThe porter came.  The laundress was dead.  This is what my friend told\nme.  It may be thought that I have wilfully mixed up facts,--I encounter\na prostitute of fifteen, and the story of this laundress.  But let no one\nimagine this; it is exactly what happened in the course of one night\n(only I do not remember which) in March, 1884.  And so, after hearing my\nfriend's tale, I went to the station-house, with the intention of\nproceeding thence to the Rzhanoff house to inquire more minutely into the\nhistory of the laundress.  The weather was very beautiful and sunny; and\nagain, through the stars of the night-frost, water was to be seen\ntrickling in the shade, and in the glare of the sun on Khamovnitchesky\nsquare every thing was melting, and the water was streaming.  The river\nemitted a humming noise.  The trees of the Neskutchny garden looked blue\nacross the river; the reddish-brown sparrows, invisible in winter,\nattracted attention by their sprightliness; people also seemed desirous\nof being merry, but all of them had too many cares.  The sound of the\nbells was audible, and at the foundation of these mingling sounds, the\nsounds of shots could be heard from the barracks, the whistle of rifle-\nballs and their crack against the target.\n\nI entered the station-house.  In the station some armed policemen\nconducted me to their chief.  He was similarly armed with sword and\npistol, and he was engaged in taking some measures with regard to a\ntattered, trembling old man, who was standing before him, and who could\nnot answer the questions put to him, on account of his feebleness.  Having\nfinished his business with the old man, he turned to me.  I inquired\nabout the girl of the night before.  At first he listened to me\nattentively, but afterwards he began to smile, at my ignorance of the\nregulations, in consequence of which she had been taken to the station-\nhouse; and particularly at my surprise at her youth.\n\n\"Why, there are plenty of them of twelve, thirteen, or fourteen years of\nage,\" he said cheerfully.\n\nBut in answer to my question about the girl whom I had seen on the\npreceding evening, he explained to me that she must have been sent to the\ncommittee (so it appeared).  To my question where she had passed the\nnight, he replied in an undecided manner.  He did not recall the one to\nwhom I referred.  There were so many of them every day.\n\nIn No. 32 of the Rzhanoff house I found the sacristan already reading\nprayers over the dead woman.  They had taken her to the bunk which she\nhad formerly occupied; and the lodgers, all miserable beings, had\ncollected money for the masses for her soul, a coffin and a shroud, and\nthe old women had dressed her and laid her out.  The sacristan was\nreading something in the gloom; a woman in a long wadded cloak was\nstanding there with a wax candle; and a man (a gentleman, I must state)\nin a clean coat with a lamb's-skin collar, polished overshoes, and a\nstarched shirt, was holding one like it.  This was her brother.  They had\nhunted him up.\n\nI went past the dead woman to the landlady's nook, and questioned her\nabout the whole business.\n\nShe was alarmed at my queries; she was evidently afraid that she would be\nblamed for something; but afterwards she began to talk freely, and told\nme every thing.  As I passed back, I glanced at the dead woman.  All dead\npeople are handsome, but this dead woman was particularly beautiful and\ntouching in her coffin; her pure, pale face, with closed swollen eyes,\nsunken cheeks, and soft reddish hair above the lofty brow,--a weary and\nkind and not a sad but a surprised face.  And in fact, if the living do\nnot see, the dead are surprised.\n\nOn the same day that I wrote the above, there was a great ball in Moscow.\n\nThat night I left the house at nine o'clock.  I live in a locality which\nis surrounded by factories, and I left the house after the\nfactory-whistles had sounded, releasing the people for a day of freedom\nafter a week of unremitting toil.\n\nFactory-hands overtook me, and I overtook others of them, directing their\nsteps to the drinking-shops and taverns.  Many were already intoxicated,\nmany were women.  Every morning at five o'clock we can hear one whistle,\na second, a third, a tenth, and so forth, and so forth.  That means that\nthe toil of women, children, and of old men has begun.  At eight o'clock\nanother whistle, which signifies a breathing-spell of half an hour.  At\ntwelve, a third: this means an hour for dinner.  And a fourth at eight,\nwhich denotes the end of the day.\n\nBy an odd coincidence, all three of the factories which are situated near\nme produce only articles which are in demand for balls.\n\nIn one factory, the nearest, only stockings are made; in another\nopposite, silken fabrics; in the third, perfumes and pomades.\n\nIt is possible to listen to these whistles, and connect no other idea\nwith them than as denoting the time: \"There's the whistle already, it is\ntime to go to walk.\"  But one can also connect with those whistles that\nwhich they signify in reality; that first whistle, at five o'clock, means\nthat people, often all without exception, both men and women, sleeping in\na damp cellar, must rise, and hasten to that building buzzing with\nmachines, and must take their places at their work, whose end and use for\nthemselves they do not see, and thus toil, often in heat and a stifling\natmosphere, in the midst of dirt, and with the very briefest breathing-\nspells, an hour, two hours, three hours, twelve, and even more hours in\nsuccession.  They fall into a doze, and again they rise.  And this, for\nthem, senseless work, to which they are driven only by necessity, is\ncontinued over and over again.\n\nAnd thus one week succeeds another with the breaks of holidays; and I see\nthese work-people released on one of these holidays.  They emerge into\nthe street.  Everywhere there are drinking-shops, taverns, and loose\ngirls.  And they, in their drunken state, drag by the hand each other,\nand girls like the one whom I saw taken to the station-house; they drag\nwith them cabmen, and they ride and they walk from one tavern to another;\nand they curse and stagger, and say they themselves know not what.  I had\npreviously seen such unsteady gait on the part of factory-hands, and had\nturned aside in disgust, and had been on the point of rebuking them; but\never since I have been in the habit of hearing those whistles every day,\nand understand their meaning, I am only amazed that they, all the men, do\nnot come to the condition of the \"golden squad,\" of which Moscow is full,\n{152a} [and the women to the state of the one whom I had seen near my\nhouse]. {152b}\n\nThus I walked along, and scrutinized these factory-hands, as long as they\nroamed the streets, which was until eleven o'clock.  Then their movements\nbegan to calm down.  Some drunken men remained here and there, and here\nand there I encountered men who were being taken to the station-house.\nAnd then carriages began to make their appearance on all sides, directing\ntheir course toward one point.\n\nOn the box sits a coachman, sometimes in a sheepskin coat; and a footman,\na dandy, with a cockade.  Well-fed horses in saddle-cloths fly through\nthe frost at the rate of twenty versts an hour; in the carriages sit\nladies muffled in round cloaks, and carefully tending their flowers and\nhead-dresses.  Every thing from the horse-trappings, the carriages, the\ngutta-percha wheels, the cloth of the coachman's coat, to the stockings,\nshoes, flowers, velvet, gloves, and perfumes,--every thing is made by\nthose people, some of whom often roll drunk into their dens or sleeping-\nrooms, and some stay with disreputable women in the night-lodging houses,\nwhile still others are put in jail.  Thus past them in all their work,\nand over them all, ride the frequenters of balls; and it never enters\ntheir heads, that there is any connection between these balls to which\nthey make ready to go, and these drunkards at whom their coachman shouts\nso roughly.\n\nThese people enjoy themselves at the ball with the utmost composure of\nspirit, and assurance that they are doing nothing wrong, but something\nvery good.  Enjoy themselves!  Enjoy themselves from eleven o'clock until\nsix in the morning, in the very dead of night, at the very hour when\npeople are tossing and turning with empty stomachs in the night-lodging\nhouses, and while some are dying, as did the laundress.\n\nTheir enjoyment consists in this,--that the women and young girls, having\nbared their necks and arms, and applied bustles behind, place themselves\nin a situation in which no uncorrupted woman or maiden would care to\ndisplay herself to a man, on any consideration in the world; and in this\nhalf-naked condition, with their uncovered bosoms exposed to view, with\narms bare to the shoulder, with a bustle behind and tightly swathed hips,\nunder the most brilliant light, women and maidens, whose chief virtue has\nalways been modesty, exhibit themselves in the midst of strange men, who\nare also clad in improperly tight-fitting garments; and to the sound of\nmaddening music, they embrace and whirl.  Old women, often as naked as\nthe young ones, sit and look on, and eat and drink savory things; old men\ndo the same.  It is not to be wondered at that this should take place at\nnight, when all the common people are asleep, so that no one may see\nthem.  But this is not done with the object of concealment: it seems to\nthem that there is nothing to conceal; that it is a very good thing; that\nby this merry-making, in which the labor of thousands of toiling people\nis destroyed, they not only do not injure any one, but that by this very\nact they furnish the poor with the means of subsistence.  Possibly it is\nvery merry at balls.  But how does this come about?  When we see that\nthere is a man in the community, in our midst, who has had no food, or\nwho is freezing, we regret our mirth, and we cannot be cheerful until he\nis fed and warmed, not to mention the impossibility of imagining people\nwho can indulge in such mirth as causes suffering to others.  The mirth\nof wicked little boys, who pitch a dog's tail in a split stick, and make\nmerry over it, is repulsive and incomprehensible to us.\n\nIn the same manner here, in these diversions of ours, blindness has\nfallen upon us, and we do not see the split stick with which we have\npitched all those people who suffer for our amusement.\n\n[We live as though there were no connection between the dying laundress,\nthe prostitute of fourteen, and our own life; and yet the connection\nbetween them strikes us in the face.\n\nWe may say: \"But we personally have not pinched any tail in a stick;\" but\nwe have no right, to deny that had the tail not been pitched, our merry-\nmaking would not have taken place.  We do not see what connection exists\nbetween the laundress and our luxury; but that is not because no such\nconnection does exist, but because we have placed a screen in front of\nus, so that we may not see.\n\nIf there were no screen, we should see that which it is impossible not to\nsee.] {154}\n\nSurely all the women who attended that ball in dresses worth a hundred\nand fifty rubles each were born not in a ballroom, or at Madame\nMinanguoit's; but they have lived in the country, and have seen the\npeasants; they know their own nurse and maid, whose father and brother\nare poor, for whom the earning of a hundred and fifty rubles for a\ncottage is the object of a long, laborious life.  Each woman knows this.\nHow could she enjoy herself, when she knew that she wore on her bared\nbody at that ball the cottage which is the dream of her good maid's\nfather and brother?  But let us suppose that she could not make this\nreflection; but since velvet and silk and flowers and lace and dresses do\nnot grow of themselves, but are made by people, it would seem that she\ncould not help knowing what sort of people make all these things, and\nunder what conditions, and why they do it.  She cannot fail to know that\nthe seamstress, with whom she has already quarrelled, did not make her\ndress in the least out of love for her; therefore, she cannot help\nknowing that all these things were made for her as a matter of necessity,\nthat her laces, flowers, and velvet have been made in the same way as her\ndress.\n\nBut possibly they are in such darkness that they do not consider this.\nOne thing she cannot fail to know,--that five or six elderly and\nrespectable, often sick, lackeys and maids have had no sleep, and have\nbeen put to trouble on her account.  She has seen their weary, gloomy\nfaces.  She could not help knowing this also, that the cold that night\nreached twenty-eight degrees below zero, {155} and that the old coachman\nsat all night long in that temperature on his box.  But I know that they\nreally do not see this.  And if they, these young women and girls, do not\nsee this, on account of the hypnotic state superinduced in them by balls,\nit is impossible to condemn them.  They, poor things, have done what is\nconsidered right by their elders; but how are their elders to explain\naway this their cruelty to the people?\n\nThe elders always offer the explanation: \"I compel no one.  I purchase my\nthings; I hire my men, my maid-servants, and my coachman.  There is\nnothing wrong in buying and hiring.  I force no one's inclination: I\nhire, and what harm is there in that?\"\n\nI recently went to see an acquaintance.  As I passed through one of the\nrooms, I was surprised to see two women seated at a table, as I knew that\nmy friend was a bachelor.  A thin, yellow, old-fashioned woman, thirty\nyears of age, in a dress that had been carelessly thrown on, was doing\nsomething with her hands and fingers on the table, with great speed,\ntrembling nervously the while, as though in a fit.  Opposite her sat a\nyoung girl, who was also engaged in something, and who trembled in the\nsame manner.  Both women appeared to be afflicted with St. Vitus' dance.\nI stepped nearer to them, and looked to see what they were doing.  They\nraised their eyes to me, but went on with their work with the same\nintentness.  In front of them lay scattered tobacco and paper cases.  They\nwere making cigarettes.  The woman rubbed the tobacco between her hands,\npushed it into the machine, slipped on the cover, thrust the tobacco\nthrough, then tossed it to the girl.  The girl twisted the paper, and,\nmaking it fast, threw it aside, and took up another.  All thus was done\nwith such swiftness, with such intentness, as it is impossible to\ndescribe to a man who has never seen it done.  I expressed my surprise at\ntheir quickness.\n\n\"I have been doing nothing else for fourteen years,\" said the woman.\n\n\"Is it hard?\"\n\n\"Yes: it pains my chest, and makes my breathing hard.\"\n\nIt was not necessary for her to add this, however.  A look at the girl\nsufficed.  She had worked at this for three years, but any one who had\nnot seen her at this occupation would have said that here was a strong\norganism which was beginning to break down.\n\nMy friend, a kind and liberal man, hires these women to fill his\ncigarettes at two rubles fifty kopeks the thousand.  He has money, and he\nspends it for work.  What harm is there in that?  My friend rises at\ntwelve o'clock.  He passes the evening, from six until two, at cards, or\nat the piano.  He eats and drinks savory things; others do all his work\nfor him.  He has devised a new source of pleasure,--smoking.  He has\ntaken up smoking within my memory.\n\nHere is a woman, and here is a girl, who can barely support themselves by\nturning themselves into machines, and they pass their whole lives\ninhaling tobacco, and thereby running their health.  He has money which\nhe never earned, and he prefers to play at whist to making his own\ncigarettes.  He gives these women money on condition that they shall\ncontinue to live in the same wretched manner in which they are now\nliving, that is to say, by making his cigarettes.\n\nI love cleanliness, and I give money only on the condition that the\nlaundress shall wash the shirt which I change twice a day; and that shirt\nhas destroyed the laundress's last remaining strength, and she has died.\nWhat is there wrong about that?  People who buy and hire will continue to\nforce other people to make velvet and confections, and will purchase\nthem, without me; and no matter what I may do, they will hire cigarettes\nmade and shirts washed.  Then why should I deprive myself of velvet and\nconfections and cigarettes and clean shirts, if things are definitively\nsettled thus?  This is the argument which I often, almost always, hear.\nThis is the very argument which makes the mob which is destroying\nsomething, lose its senses.  This is the very argument by which dogs are\nguided when one of them has flung himself on another dog, and overthrown\nhim, and the rest of the pack rush up also, and tear their comrade in\npieces.  Other people have begun it, and have wrought mischief; then why\nshould not I take advantage of it?  Well, what will happen if I wear a\nsoiled shirt, and make my own cigarettes?  Will that make it easier for\nanybody else? ask people who would like to justify their course.  If it\nwere not so far from the truth, it would be a shame to answer such a\nquestion, but we have become so entangled that this question seems very\nnatural to us; and hence, although it is a shame, it is necessary to\nreply to it.\n\nWhat difference will it make if I wear one shirt a week, and make may own\ncigarettes, or do not smoke at all?  This difference, that some laundress\nand some cigarette-maker will exert their strength less, and that what I\nhave spent for washing and for the making of cigarettes I can give to\nthat very laundress, or even to other laundresses and toilers who are\nworn out with their labor, and who, instead of laboring beyond their\nstrength, will then be able to rest, and drink tea.  But to this I hear\nan objection.  (It is so mortifying to rich and luxurious people to\nunderstand their position.)  To this they say: \"If I go about in a dirty\nshirt, and give up smoking, and hand over this money to the poor, the\npoor will still be deprived of every thing, and that drop in the sea of\nyours will help not at all.\"\n\nSuch an objection it is a shame to answer.  It is such a common retort.\n{158}\n\nIf I had gone among savages, and they had regaled me with cutlets which\nstruck me as savory, and if I should learn on the following day that\nthese savory cutlets had been made from a prisoner whom they had slain\nfor the sake of the savory cutlets, if I do not admit that it is a good\nthing to eat men, then, no matter how dainty the cutlets, no matter how\nuniversal the practice of eating men may be among my fellows, however\ninsignificant the advantage to prisoners, prepared for consumption, may\nbe my refusal to eat of the cutlets, I will not and I can not eat any\nmore of them.  I may, possibly, eat human flesh, when hunger compels me\nto it; but I will not make a feast, and I will not take part in feasts,\nof human flesh, and I will not seek out such feasts, and pride myself on\nmy share in them.\n\n\nLIFE IN THE COUNTRY.\n\n\nBut what is to be done?  Surely it is not we who have done this?  And if\nnot we, who then?\n\nWe say: \"We have not done this, this has done itself;\" as the children\nsay, when they break any thing, that it broke itself.  We say, that, so\nlong as there is a city already in existence, we, by living in it,\nsupport the people, by purchasing their labor and services.  But this is\nnot so.  And this is why.  We only need to look ourselves, at the way we\nhave in the country, and at the manner in which we support people there.\n\nThe winter passes in town.  Easter Week passes.  On the boulevards, in\nthe gardens in the parks, on the river, there is music.  There are\ntheatres, water-trips, walks, all sorts of illuminations and fireworks.\nBut in the country there is something even better,--there are better air,\ntrees and meadows, and the flowers are fresher.  One should go thither\nwhere all these things have unfolded and blossomed forth.  And the\nmajority of wealthy people do go to the country to breathe the superior\nair, to survey these superior forests and meadows.  And there the wealthy\nsettle down in the country, and the gray peasants, who nourish themselves\non bread and onions, who toil eighteen hours a day, who get no sound\nsleep by night, and who are clad in blouses.  Here no one has led these\npeople astray.  There have been no factories nor industrial\nestablishments, and there are none of those idle hands, of which there\nare so many in the city.  Here the whole population never succeeds, all\nsummer long, in completing all their tasks in season; and not only are\nthere no idle hands, but a vast quantity of property is ruined for the\nlack of hands, and a throng of people, children, old men, and women, will\nperish through overstraining their powers in work which is beyond their\nstrength.  How do the rich order their lives there?  In this fashion:--\n\nIf there is an old-fashioned house, built under the serf _regime_, that\nhouse is repaired and embellished; if there is none, then a new one is\nerected, of two or three stories.  The rooms, of which there are from\ntwelve to twenty, and even more, are all six arshins in height. {161a}\nWood floors are laid down.  The windows consist of one sheet of glass.\nThere are rich rugs and costly furniture.  The roads around the house are\nmacadamized, the ground is levelled, flower-beds are laid out, croquet-\ngrounds are prepared, swinging-rings for gymnastics are erected,\nreflecting globes, often orangeries, and hotbeds, and lofty stables\nalways with complicated scroll-work on the gables and ridges.\n\nAnd here, in the country, an honest educated official, or noble family\ndwells.  All the members of the family and their guests have assembled in\nthe middle of June, because up to June, that is to say, up to the\nbeginning of mowing-time, they have been studying and undergoing\nexaminations; and they live there until September, that is to say, until\nharvest and sowing-time.  The members of this family (as is the case with\nnearly every one in that circle) have lived in the country from the\nbeginning of the press of work, the suffering time, not until the end of\nthe season of toil (for in September sowing is still in progress, as well\nas the digging of potatoes), but until the strain of work has relaxed a\nlittle.  During the whole of their residence in the country, all around\nthem and beside them, that summer toil of the peasantry has been going\non, of whose fatigues, no matter how much we may have heard, no matter\nhow much we may have heard about it, no matter how much we may have gazed\nupon it, we can form no idea, unless we have had personal experience of\nit.  And the members of this family, about ten in number, live exactly as\nthey do in the city.\n\nAt St. Peter's Day, {161b} a strict fast, when the people's food consists\nof kvas, bread, and onions, the mowing begins.\n\nThe business which is effected in mowing is one of the most important in\nthe commune.  Nearly every year, through the lack of hands and time, the\nhay crop may be lost by rain; and more or less strain of toil decides the\nquestion, as to whether twenty or more per cent of hay is to be added to\nthe wealth of the people, or whether it is to rot or die where it stands.\nAnd additional hay means additional meat for the old, and additional milk\nfor the children.  Thus, in general and in particular, the question of\nbread for each one of the mowers, and of milk for himself and his\nchildren, in the ensuing winter, is then decided.  Every one of the\ntoilers, both male and female, knows this; even the children know that\nthis is an important matter, and that it is necessary to strain every\nnerve to carry the jug of kvas to their father in the meadow at his\nmowing, and, shifting the heavy pitcher from hand to hand, to run\nbarefooted as rapidly as possible, two versts from the village, in order\nto get there in season for dinner, and so that their fathers may not\nscold them.\n\nEvery one knows, that, from the mowing season until the hay is got in,\nthere will be no break in the work, and that there will be no time to\nbreathe.  And there is not the mowing alone.  Every one of them has other\naffairs to attend to besides the mowing: the ground must be turned up and\nharrowed; and the women have linen and bread and washing to attend to;\nand the peasants have to go to the mill, and to town, and there are\ncommunal matters to attend to, and legal matters before the judge and the\ncommissary of police; and the wagons to see to, and the horses to feed at\nnight: and all, old and young, and sickly, labor to the last extent of\ntheir powers.  The peasants toil so, that on every occasion, the mowers,\nbefore the end of the third stint, whether weak, young, or old, can\nhardly walk as they totter past the last rows, and only with difficulty\nare they able to rise after the breathing-spell; and the women, often\npregnant, or nursing infants, work in the same way.  The toil is intense\nand incessant.  All work to the extreme bounds of their strength, and\nexpend in this toil, not only the entire stock of their scanty\nnourishment, but all their previous stock.  All of them--and they are not\nfat to begin with--grow gaunt after the \"suffering\" season.\n\nHere a little association is working at the mowing; three peasants,--one\nan old man, the second his nephew, a young married man, and a shoemaker,\na thin, sinewy man.  This hay-harvest will decide the fate of all of them\nfor the winter.  They have been laboring incessantly for two weeks,\nwithout rest.  The rain has delayed their work.  After the rain, when the\nhay has dried, they have decided to stack it, and, in order to accomplish\nthis as speedily as possible, that two women for each of them shall\nfollow their scythes.  On the part of the old man go his wife, a woman of\nfifty, who has become unfit for work, having borne eleven children, who\nis deaf, but still a tolerably stout worker; and a thirteen-year-old\ndaughter, who is short of stature, but a strong and clever girl.  On the\npart of his nephew go his wife, a woman as strong and well-grown as a\nsturdy peasant, and his daughter-in-law, a soldier's wife, who is about\nto become a mother.  On the part of the shoemaker go his wife, a stout\nlaborer, and her aged mother, who has reached her eightieth year, and who\ngenerally goes begging.  They all stand in line, and labor from morning\ntill night, in the full fervor of the June sun.  It is steaming hot, and\nrain threatens.  Every hour of work is precious.  It is a pity to tear\none's self from work to fetch water or kvas.  A tiny boy, the old woman's\ngrandson, brings them water.  The old woman, evidently only anxious lest\nshe shall be driven away from her work, will not let the rake out of her\nhand, though it is evident that she can barely move, and only with\ndifficulty.  The little boy, all bent over, and stepping gently, with his\ntiny bare feet, drags along a jug of water, shifting it from hand to\nhand, for it is heavier than he.  The young girl flings over her shoulder\na load of hay which is also heavier than herself, advances a few steps,\nhalts, and drops it, without the strength to carry it.  The old woman of\nfifty rakes away without stopping, and with her kerchief awry she drags\nthe hay, breathing heavily and tottering.  The old woman of eighty only\nrakes the hay, but even this is beyond her strength; she slowly drags\nalong her feet, shod with bast shoes, and, frowning, she gazes gloomily\nbefore her, like a seriously ill or dying person.  The old man has\nintentionally sent her farther away than the rest, to rake near the cocks\nof hay, so that she may not keep in line with the others; but she does\nnot fall in with this arrangement, and she toils on as long as the others\ndo, with the same death-like, gloomy countenance.  The sun is already\nsetting behind the forest; but the cocks are not yet all heaped together,\nand much still remains to do.  All feel that it is time to stop, but no\none speaks, waiting until the others shall say it.  Finally the\nshoemaker, conscious that his strength is exhausted, proposes to the old\nman, to leave the cocks until the morrow; and the old man consents, and\nthe women instantly run for the garments, jugs, pitchforks; and the old\nwoman immediately sits down just where she has been standings and then\nlies back with the same death-like look, staring straight in front of\nher.  But the women are going; and she rises with a groan, and drags\nherself after them.  And this will go on in July also, when the peasants,\nwithout obtaining sufficient sleep, reap the oats by night, lest it\nshould fall, and the women rise gloomily to thresh out the straw for the\nbands to tie the sheaves; when this old woman, already utterly cramped by\nthe labor of mowing, and the woman with child, and the young children,\ninjure themselves overworking and over-drinking; and when neither hands,\nnor horses, nor carts will suffice to bring to the ricks that grain with\nwhich all men are nourished, and millions of poods {165} of which are\ndaily required in Russia to keep people from perishing.\n\nAnd we live as though there were no connection between the dying\nlaundress, the prostitute of fourteen years, the toilsome manufacture of\ncigarettes by women, the strained, intolerable, insufficiently fed toil\nof old women and children around us; we live as though there were no\nconnection between this and our own lives.\n\nIt seems to us, that suffering stands apart by itself, and our life apart\nby itself.  We read the description of the life of the Romans, and we\nmarvel at the inhumanity of those soulless Luculli, who satiated\nthemselves on viands and wines while the populace were dying with hunger.\nWe shake our heads, and we marvel at the savagery of our grandfathers,\nwho were serf-owners, supporters of household orchestras and theatres,\nand of whole villages devoted to the care of their gardens; and we\nwonder, from the heights of our grandeur, at their inhumanity.  We read\nthe words of Isa. v. 8: \"Woe unto them that join house to house, that lay\nfield to field, till there be no place, that they may be placed alone in\nthe midst of the earth!  (11.) Woe unto them that rise up early in the\nmorning, that they may follow strong drink; that continue until night,\ntill wine inflame them!  (12.) And the harp and the viol, and tabret and\npipe, and wine are in their feasts; but they regard not the work of the\nLord, neither consider the operation of his hands.  (18.) Woe unto them\nthat draw iniquity with cords of vanity, and sin as it were with a cart-\nrope.  (20.) Woe unto then that call evil good, and good evil; that put\ndarkness for light, and light for darkness; that put bitter for sweet,\nand sweet for bitter! (21.) Woe unto them that are wise in their own\neyes, and prudent in their own sight--(22.) Woe unto them that are mighty\nto drink wine, and men of strength to mingle strong drink.\"\n\nWe read these words, and it seems to us that this has no reference to us.\nWe read in the Gospels (Matt. iii. 10): \"And now also the axe is laid\nunto the root of the trees: therefore every tree which bringeth not forth\ngood fruit is hewn down and cast into the fire.\"\n\nAnd we are fully convinced that the good tree which bringeth forth good\nfruit is ourselves; and that these words are not spoken to us, but to\nsome other and wicked people.\n\nWe read the words of Isa. vi. 10: \"Make the heart of this people fat, and\nmake their ears heavy, and shut their eyes; lest they see with their\neyes, and hear with their ears, and understand with their heart, and\nconvert and be healed.  (11.) Then said I: Lord, how long?  And he\nanswered, Until the cities be wasted without inhabitant, and the houses\nwithout man, and the land be utterly desolate.\"\n\nWe read, and are fully convinced that this marvellous deed is not\nperformed on us, but on some other people.  And because we see nothing it\nis, that this marvellous deed is performed, and has been performed, on\nus.  We hear not, we see not, and we understand not with our heart.  How\nhas this happened?\n\nWhether that God, or that natural law by virtue of which men exist in the\nworld, has acted well or ill, yet the position of men in the world, ever\nsince we have known it, has been such, that naked people, without any\nhair on their bodies, without lairs in which they could shelter\nthemselves, without food which they could find in the fields,--like\nRobinson {167} on his island,--have all been reduced to the necessity of\nconstantly and unweariedly contending with nature in order to cover their\nbodies, to make themselves clothing, to construct a roof over their\nheads, and to earn their bread, that two or three times a day they may\nsatisfy their hunger and the hunger of their helpless children and of\ntheir old people who cannot work.\n\nWherever, at whatever time, in whatever numbers we may have observed\npeople, whether in Europe, in America, in China, or in Russia, whether we\nregard all humanity, or any small portion of it, in ancient times, in a\nnomad state, or in our own times, with steam-engines and sewing-machines,\nperfected agriculture, and electric lighting, we behold always one and\nthe same thing,--that man, toiling intensely and incessantly, is not able\nto earn for himself and his little ones and his old people clothing,\nshelter, and food; and that a considerable portion of mankind, as in\nformer times, so at the present day, perish through insufficiency of the\nnecessaries of life, and intolerable toil in the effort to obtain them.\n\nWherever we have, if we draw a circle round us of a hundred thousand, a\nthousand, or ten versts, or of one verst, and examine into the lives of\nthe people comprehended within the limits of our circle, we shall see\nwithin that circle prematurely-born children, old men, old women, women\nin labor, sick and weak persons, who toil beyond their strength, and who\nhave not sufficient food and rest for life, and who therefore die before\ntheir time.  We shall see people in the flower of their age actually\nslain by dangerous and injurious work.\n\nWe see that people have been struggling, ever since the world has\nendured, with fearful effort, privation, and suffering, against this\nuniversal want, and that they cannot overcome it . . . {168}\n\n\n\n\nON THE SIGNIFICANCE OF SCIENCE AND ART.\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n\n. . . {169} The justification of all persons who have freed themselves\nfrom toil is now founded on experimental, positive science.  The\nscientific theory is as follows:--\n\n\"For the study of the laws of life of human societies, there exists but\none indubitable method,--the positive, experimental, critical method\n\n\"Only sociology, founded on biology, founded on all the positive\nsciences, can give us the laws of humanity.  Humanity, or human\ncommunities, are the organisms already prepared, or still in process of\nformation, and which are subservient to all the laws of the evolution of\norganisms.\n\n\"One of the chief of these laws is the variation of destination among the\nportions of the organs.  Some people command, others obey.  If some have\nin superabundance, and others in want, this arises not from the will of\nGod, not because the empire is a form of manifestation of personality,\nbut because in societies, as in organisms, division of labor becomes\nindispensable for life as a whole.  Some people perform the muscular\nlabor in societies; others, the mental labor.\"\n\nUpon this doctrine is founded the prevailing justification of our time.\n\nNot long ago, their reigned in the learned, cultivated world, a moral\nphilosophy, according to which it appeared that every thing which exists\nis reasonable; that there is no such thing as evil or good; and that it\nis unnecessary for man to war against evil, but that it is only necessary\nfor him to display intelligence,--one man in the military service,\nanother in the judicial, another on the violin.  There have been many and\nvaried expressions of human wisdom, and these phenomena were known to the\nmen of the nineteenth century.  The wisdom of Rousseau and of Lessing,\nand Spinoza and Bruno, and all the wisdom of antiquity; but no one man's\nwisdom overrode the crowd.  It was impossible to say even this,--that\nHegel's success was the result of the symmetry of this theory.  There\nwere other equally symmetrical theories,--those of Descartes, Leibnitz,\nFichte, Schopenhauer.  There was but one reason why this doctrine won for\nitself, for a season, the belief of the whole world; and this reason was,\nthat the deductions of that philosophy winked at people's weaknesses.\nThese deductions were summed up in this,--that every thing was\nreasonable, every thing good; and that no one was to blame.\n\nWhen I began my career, Hegelianism was the foundation of every thing.  It\nwas floating in the air; it was expressed in newspaper and periodical\narticles, in historical and judicial lectures, in novels, in treatises,\nin art, in sermons, in conversation.  The man who was not acquainted with\nHegal had no right to speak.  Any one who desired to understand the truth\nstudied Hegel.  Every thing rested on him.  And all at once the forties\npassed, and there was nothing left of him.  There was not even a hint of\nhim, any more than if he had never existed.  And the most amazing thing\nof all was, that Hegelianism did not fall because some one overthrew it\nor destroyed it.  No!  It was the same then as now, but all at once it\nappeared that it was of no use whatever to the learned and cultivated\nworld.\n\nThere was a time when the Hegelian wise men triumphantly instructed the\nmasses; and the crowd, understanding nothing, blindly believed in every\nthing, finding confirmation in the fact that it was on hand; and they\nbelieved that what seemed to them muddy and contradictory there on the\nheights of philosophy was all as clear as the day.  But that time has\ngone by.  That theory is worn out: a new theory has presented itself in\nits stead.  The old one has become useless; and the crowd has looked into\nthe secret sanctuaries of the high priests, and has seen that there is\nnothing there, and that there has been nothing there, save very obscure\nand senseless words.  This has taken place within my memory.\n\n\"But this arises,\" people of the present science will say, \"from the fact\nthat all that was the raving of the theological and metaphysical period;\nbut now there exists positive, critical science, which does not deceive,\nsince it is all founded on induction and experiment.  Now our erections\nare not shaky, as they formerly were, and only in our path lies the\nsolution of all the problems of humanity.\"\n\nBut the old teachers said precisely the same, and they were no fools; and\nwe know that there were people of great intelligence among them.  And\nprecisely thus, within my memory, and with no less confidence, with no\nless recognition on the part of the crowd of so-called cultivated people,\nspoke the Hegelians.  And neither were our Herzens, our Stankevitches, or\nour Byelinskys fools.  But whence arose that marvellous manifestation,\nthat sensible people should preach with the greatest assurance, and that\nthe crowd should accept with devotion, such unfounded and unsupportable\nteachings?  There is but one reason,--that the teachings thus inculcated\njustified people in their evil life.\n\nA very poor English writer, whose works are all forgotten, and recognized\nas the most insignificant of the insignificant, writes a treatise on\npopulation, in which he devises a fictitious law concerning the increase\nof population disproportionate to the means of subsistence.  This\nfictitious law, this writer encompasses with mathematical formulae\nfounded on nothing whatever; and then he launches it on the world.  From\nthe frivolity and the stupidity of this hypothesis, one would suppose\nthat it would not attract the attention of any one, and that it would\nsink into oblivion, like all the works of the same author which followed\nit; but it turned out quite otherwise.  The hack-writer who penned this\ntreatise instantly becomes a scientific authority, and maintains himself\nupon that height for nearly half a century.  Malthus!  The Malthusian\ntheory,--the law of the increase of the population in geometrical, and of\nthe means of subsistence in arithmetical proportion, and the wise and\nnatural means of restricting the population,--all these have become\nscientific, indubitable truths, which have not been confirmed, but which\nhave been employed as axioms, for the erection of false theories.  In\nthis manner have learned and cultivated people proceeded; and among the\nherd of idle persons, there sprung up a pious trust in the great laws\nexpounded by Malthus.  How did this come to pass?  It would seem as\nthough they were scientific deductions, which had nothing in common with\nthe instincts of the masses.  But this can only appear so for the man who\nbelieves that science, like the Church, is something self-contained,\nliable to no errors, and not simply the imaginings of weak and erring\nfolk, who merely substitute the imposing word \"science,\" in place of the\nthoughts and words of the people, for the sake of impressiveness.\n\nAll that was necessary was to make practical deductions from the theory\nof Malthus, in order to perceive that this theory was of the most human\nsort, with the best defined of objects.  The deductions directly arising\nfrom this theory were the following: The wretched condition of the\nlaboring classes was such in accordance with an unalterable law, which\ndoes not depend upon men; and, if any one is to blame in this matter, it\nis the hungry laboring classes themselves.  Why are they such fools as to\ngive birth to children, when they know that there will be nothing for the\nchildren to eat?  And so this deduction, which is valuable for the herd\nof idle people, has had this result: that all learned men overlooked the\nincorrectness, the utter arbitrariness of these deductions, and their\ninsusceptibility to proof; and the throng of cultivated, i.e., of idle\npeople, knowing instinctively to what these deductions lead, saluted this\ntheory with enthusiasm, conferred upon it the stamp of truth, i.e., of\nscience, and dragged it about with them for half a century.\n\nIs not this same thing the cause of the confidence of men in positive\ncritical-experimental science, and of the devout attitude of the crowd\ntowards that which it preaches?  At first it seems strange, that the\ntheory of evolution can in any manner justify people in their evil ways;\nand it seems as though the scientific theory of evolution has to deal\nonly with facts, and that it does nothing else but observe facts.\n\nBut this only appears to be the case.\n\nExactly the same thing appeared to be the case with the Hegelian\ndoctrine, in a greater degree, and also in the special instance of the\nMalthusian doctrine.  Hegelianism was, apparently, occupied only with its\nlogical constructions, and bore no relation to the life of mankind.\nPrecisely this seemed to be the case with the Malthusian theory.  It\nappeared to be busy itself only with statistical data.  But this was only\nin appearance.\n\nContemporary science is also occupied with facts alone: it investigates\nfacts.  But what facts?  Why precisely these facts, and no others?\n\nThe men of contemporary science are very fond of saying, triumphantly and\nconfidently, \"We investigate only facts,\" imagining that these words\ncontain some meaning.  It is impossible to investigate facts alone,\nbecause the facts which are subject to our investigation are\n_innumerable_ (in the definite sense of that word),--innumerable.  Before\nwe proceed to investigate facts, we must have a theory on the foundation\nof which these or those facts can be inquired into, i.e., selected from\nthe incalculable quantity.\n\nAnd this theory exists, and is even very definitely expressed, although\nmany of the workers in contemporary science do not know it, or often\npretend that they do not know it.  Exactly thus has it always been with\nall prevailing and guiding doctrines.  The foundations of every doctrine\nare always stated in a theory, and the so-called learned men merely\ninvent further deductions from the foundations once stated.  Thus\ncontemporary science is selecting its facts on the foundation of a very\ndefinite theory, which it sometimes knows, sometimes refuses to know, and\nsometimes really does not know; but the theory exists.\n\nThe theory is as follows: All mankind is an undying organism; men are the\nparticles of that organism, and each one of them has his own special task\nfor the service of others.  In the same manner, the cells united in an\norganism share among them the labor of fight for existence of the whole\norganism; they magnify the power of one capacity, and weaken another, and\nunite in one organ, in order the better to supply the requirements of the\nwhole organism.  And exactly in the same manner as with gregarious\nanimals,--ants or bees,--the separate individuals divide the labor among\nthem.  The queen lays the egg, the drone fructifies it; the bee works his\nwhole life long.  And precisely this thing takes place in mankind and in\nhuman societies.  And therefore, in order to find the law of life for\nman, it is necessary to study the laws of the life and the development of\norganisms.\n\nIn the life and development of organisms, we find the following laws: the\nlaw of differentiation and integration, the law that every phenomenon is\naccompanied not by direct consequences alone, another law regarding the\ninstability of type, and so on.  All this seems very innocent; but it is\nonly necessary to draw the deductions from all these laws, in order to\nimmediately perceive that these laws incline in the same direction as the\nlaw of Malthus.  These laws all point to one thing; namely, to the\nrecognition of that division of labor which exists in human communities,\nas organic, that is to say, as indispensable.  And therefore, the unjust\nposition in which we, the people who have freed ourselves from labor,\nfind ourselves, must be regarded not from the point of view of common-\nsense and justice, but merely as an undoubted fact, confirming the\nuniversal law.\n\nMoral philosophy also justified every sort of cruelty and harshness; but\nthis resulted in a philosophical manner, and therefore wrongly.  But with\nscience, all this results scientifically, and therefore in a manner not\nto be doubted.\n\nHow can we fail to accept so very beautiful a theory?  It is merely\nnecessary to look upon human society as an object of contemplation; and I\ncan console myself with the thought that my activity, whatever may be its\nnature, is a functional activity of the organism of humanity, and that\ntherefore there cannot arise any question as to whether it is just that\nI, in employing the labor of others, am doing only that which is\nagreeable to me, as there can arise no question as to the division of\nlabor between the brain cells and the muscular cells.  How is it possible\nnot to admit so very beautiful a theory, in order that one may be able,\never after, to pocket one's conscience, and have a perfectly unbridled\nanimal existence, feeling beneath one's self that support of science\nwhich is not to be shaken nowadays!\n\nAnd it is on this new doctrine that the justification for men's idleness\nand cruelty is now founded.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n\nThis doctrine had its rise not so very long--fifty years--ago.  Its\nprincipal founder was the French _savant_ Comte.  There occurred to\nComte,--a systematist, and a religious man to boot,--under the influence\nof the then novel physiological investigations of Biche, the old idea\nalready set forth by Menenius Agrippa,--the idea that human society, all\nhumanity even, might be regarded as one whole, as an organism; and men as\nliving parts of the separate organs, having each his own definite\nappointment to serve the entire organism.\n\nThis idea so pleased Comte, that upon it he began to erect a\nphilosophical theory; and this theory so carried him away, that he\nutterly forgot that the point of departure for his theory was nothing\nmore than a very pretty comparison, which was suitable for a fable, but\nwhich could by no means serve as the foundation for science.  He, as\nfrequently happens, mistook his pet hypothesis for an axiom, and imagined\nthat his whole theory was erected on the very firmest of foundations.\nAccording to his theory, it seemed that since humanity is an organism,\nthe knowledge of what man is, and of what should be his relations to the\nworld, was possible only through a knowledge of the features of this\norganism.  For the knowledge of these qualities, man is enabled to take\nobservations on other and lower organisms, and to draw conclusions from\ntheir life.  Therefore, in the fist place, the true and only method,\naccording to Comte, is the inductive, and all science is only such when\nit has experiment as its basis; in the second place, the goal and crown\nof sciences is formed by that new science dealing with the imaginary\norganism of humanity, or the super-organic being,--humanity,--and this\nnewly devised science is sociology.\n\nAnd from this view of science it appears, that all previous knowledge was\ndeceitful, and that the whole story of humanity, in the sense of self-\nknowledge, has been divided into three, actually into two, periods: the\ntheological and metaphysical period, extending from the beginning of the\nworld to Comte, and the present period,--that of the only true science,\npositive science,--beginning with Comte.\n\nAll this was very well.  There was but one error, and that was this,--that\nthe whole edifice was erected on the sand, on the arbitrary and false\nassertion that humanity is an organism.  This assertion was arbitrary,\nbecause we have just as much right to admit the existence of a human\norganism, not subject to observation, as we have to admit the existence\nof any other invisible, fantastic being.  This assertion was erroneous,\nbecause for the understanding of humanity, i.e., of men, the definition\nof an organism was incorrectly constructed, while in humanity itself all\nactual signs of organism,--the centre of feeling or consciousness, are\nlacking. {178}\n\nBut, in spite of the arbitrariness and incorrectness of the fundamental\nassumption of positive philosophy, it was accepted by the so-called\ncultivated world with the greatest sympathy.  In this connection, one\nthing is worthy of note: that out of the works of Comte, consisting of\ntwo parts, of positive philosophy and of positive politics, only the\nfirst was adopted by the learned world,--that part which justifieth, on\nnew promises, the existent evil of human societies; but the second part,\ntreating of the moral obligations of altruism, arising from the\nrecognition of mankind as an organism, was regarded as not only of no\nimportance, but as trivial and unscientific.  It was a repetition of the\nsame thing that had happened in the case of Kant's works.  The \"Critique\nof Pure Reason\" was adopted by the scientific crowd; but the \"Critique of\nApplied Reason,\" that part which contains the gist of moral doctrine, was\nrepudiated.  In Kant's doctrine, that was accepted as scientific which\nsubserved the existent evil.  But the positive philosophy, which was\naccepted by the crowd, was founded on an arbitrary and erroneous basis,\nwas in itself too unfounded, and therefore unsteady, and could not\nsupport itself alone.  And so, amid all the multitude of the idle plays\nof thought of the men professing the so-called science, there presents\nitself an assertion equally devoid of novelty, and equally arbitrary and\nerroneous, to the effect that living beings, i.e., organisms, have had\ntheir rise in each other,--not only one organism from another, but one\nfrom many; i.e., that in a very long interval of time (in a million of\nyears, for instance), not only could a duck and a fish proceed from one\nancestor, but that one animal might result from a whole hive of bees.  And\nthis arbitrary and erroneous assumption was accepted by the learned world\nwith still greater and more universal sympathy.  This assumption was\narbitrary, because no one has ever seen how one organism is made from\nanother, and therefore the hypothesis as to the origin of species will\nalways remain an hypothesis, and not an experimental fact.   And this\nhypothesis was also erroneous, because the decision of the question as to\nthe origin of species--that they have originated, in consequence of the\nlaw of heredity and fitness, in the course of an interminably long\ntime--is no solution at all, but merely a re-statement of the problem in\na new form.\n\nAccording to Moses' solution of the question (in the dispute with whom\nthe entire significance of this theory lies), it appears that the\ndiversity of the species of living creatures proceeded according to the\nwill of God, and according to His almighty power; but according to the\ntheory of evolution, it appears that the difference between living\ncreatures arose by chance, and on account of varying conditions of\nheredity and surroundings, through an endless period of time.  The theory\nof evolution, to speak in simple language, merely asserts, that by\nchance, in an incalculably long period of time, out of any thing you\nlike, any thing else that you like may develop.\n\nThis is no answer to the problem.  And the same problem is differently\nexpressed: instead of will, chance is offered, and the co-efficient of\nthe eternal is transposed from the power to the time.  But this fresh\nassertion strengthened Comte's assertion.  And, moreover, according to\nthe ingenuous confession of the founder of Darwin's theory himself, his\nidea was aroused in him by the law of Malthus; and he therefore\npropounded the theory of the struggle of living creatures and people for\nexistence, as the fundamental law of every living thing.  And lo! only\nthis was needed by the throng of idle people for their justification.\n\nTwo insecure theories, incapable of sustaining themselves on their feet,\nupheld each other, and acquired the semblance of stability.  Both\ntheories bore with them that idea which is precious to the crowd, that in\nthe existent evil of human societies, men are not to blame, and that the\nexisting order of things is that which should prevail; and the new theory\nwas adopted by the throng with entire faith and unheard-of enthusiasm.\nAnd behold, on the strength of these two arbitrary and erroneous\nhypotheses, accepted as dogmas of belief, the new scientific doctrine was\nratified.\n\nSpencer, for example, in one of his first works, expresses this doctrine\nthus:--\n\n\"Societies and organisms,\" he says, \"are alike in the following points:--\n\n\"1.  In that, beginning as tiny aggregates, they imperceptibly grow in\nmass, so that some of them attain to the size of ten thousand times their\noriginal bulk.\n\n\"2.  In that while they were, in the beginning, of such simple structure,\nthat they can be regarded as destitute of all structure, they acquire\nduring the period of their growth a constantly increasing complication of\nstructure.\n\n\"3.  In that although in their early, undeveloped period, there exists\nbetween them hardly any interdependence of parts, their parts gradually\nacquire an interdependence, which eventually becomes so strong, that the\nlife and activity of each part becomes possible only on condition of the\nlife and activity of the remaining parts.\n\n\"4.  In that life and the development of society are independent, and\nmore protracted than the life and development of any one of the units\nconstituting it, which are born, grow, act, reproduce themselves, and die\nseparately; while the political body formed from them, continues to live\ngeneration after generation, developing in mass in perfection and\nfunctional activity.\"\n\nThe points of difference between organisms and society go farther; and it\nis proved that these differences are merely apparent, but that organisms\nand societies are absolutely similar.\n\nFor the uninitiated man the question immediately presents itself: \"What\nare you talking about?  Why is mankind an organism, or similar to an\norganism?\"\n\nYou say that societies resemble organisms in these four features; but it\nis nothing of the sort.  You only take a few features of the organism,\nand beneath them you range human communities.  You bring forward four\nfeatures of resemblance, then you take four features of dissimilarity,\nwhich are, however, only apparent (according to you); and you thence\nconclude that human societies can be regarded as organisms.  But surely,\nthis is an empty game of dialectics, and nothing more.  On the same\nfoundation, under the features of an organism, you may range whatever you\nplease.  I will take the fist thing that comes into my head.  Let us\nsuppose it to be a forest,--the manner in which it sows itself in the\nplain, and spreads abroad.  1. Beginning with a small aggregate, it\nincreases imperceptibly in mass, and so forth.  Exactly the same thing\ntakes place in the fields, when they gradually seed themselves down, and\nbring forth a forest.  2. In the beginning the structure is simple:\nafterwards it increases in complication, and so forth.  Exactly the same\nthing happens with the forest,--in the first place, there were only bitch-\ntrees, then came brush-wood and hazel-bushes; at first all grow erect,\nthen they interlace their branches.  3. The interdependence of the parts\nis so augmented, that the life of each part depends on the life and\nactivity of the remaining parts.  It is precisely so with the forest,--the\nhazel-bush warms the tree-boles (cut it down, and the other trees will\nfreeze), the hazel-bush protects from the wind, the seed-bearing trees\ncarry on reproduction, the tall and leafy trees afford shade, and the\nlife of one tree depends on the life of another.  4. The separate parts\nmay die, but the whole lives.  Exactly the case with the forest.  The\nforest does not mourn one tree.\n\nHaving proved that, in accordance with this theory, you may regard the\nforest as an organism, you fancy that you have proved to the disciples of\nthe organic doctrine the error of their definition.  Nothing of the sort.\nThe definition which they give to the organism is so inaccurate and so\nelastic that under this definition they may include what they will.\n\"Yes,\" they say; \"and the forest may also be regarded as an organism.  The\nforest is mutual re-action of individuals, which do not annihilate each\nother,--an aggregate; its parts may also enter into a more intimate\nunion, as the hive of bees constitutes itself an organism.\"  Then you\nwill say, \"If that is so, then the birds and the insects and the grass of\nthis forest, which re-act upon each other, and do not destroy each other,\nmay also be regarded as one organism, in company with the trees.\"  And to\nthis also they will agree.  Every collection of living individuals, which\nre-act upon each other, and do not destroy each other, may be regarded as\norganisms, according to their theory.  You may affirm a connection and\ninteraction between whatever you choose, and, according to evolution, you\nmay affirm, that, out of whatever you please, any other thing that you\nplease may proceed, in a very long period of time.\n\nAnd the most remarkable thing of all is, that this same identical\npositive science recognizes the scientific method as the sign of true\nknowledge, and has itself defined what it designates as the scientific\nmethod.\n\nBy the scientific method it means common-sense.\n\nAnd common-sense convicts it at every step.  As soon as the Popes felt\nthat nothing holy remained in them, they called themselves most holy.\n\nAs soon as science felt that no common-sense was left in her she called\nherself sensible, that is to say, scientific science.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n\nDivision of labor is the law of all existing things, and, therefore, it\nshould be present in human societies.  It is very possible that this is\nso; but still the question remains, Of what nature is that division of\nlabor which I behold in my human society? is it that division of labor\nwhich should exist?  And if people regard a certain division of labor as\nunreasonable and unjust, then no science whatever can convince men that\nthat should exist which they regard as unreasonable and unjust.\n\nDivision of labor is the condition of existence of organisms, and of\nhuman societies; but what, in these human societies, is to be regarded as\nan organic division of labor?  And, to whatever extent science may have\ninvestigated the division of labor in the cells of worms, all these\nobservations do not compel a man to acknowledge that division of labor to\nbe correct which his own sense and conscience do not recognize as\ncorrect.  No matter how convincing may be the proofs of the division of\nlabor of the cells in the organisms studied, man, if he has not parted\nwith his judgment, will say, nevertheless, that a man should not weave\ncalico all his life, and that this is not division of labor, but\npersecution of the people.  Spencer and others say that there is a whole\ncommunity of weavers, and that the profession of weaving is an organic\ndivision of labor.  There are weavers; so, of course, there is such a\ndivision of labor.  It would be well enough to speak thus if the colony\nof weavers had arisen by the free will of its member's; but we know that\nit is not thus formed of their initiative, but that we make it.  Hence it\nis necessary to find out whether we have made these weavers in accordance\nwith an organic law, or with some other.\n\nMen live.  They support themselves by agriculture, as is natural to all\nmen.  One man has set up a blacksmith's forge, and repaired his plough;\nhis neighbor comes to him, and asks him to mend his also, and promises\nhim in return either work or money.  A third comes, and a fourth; and in\nthe community formed by these men, there arises the following division of\nlabor,--a blacksmith is created.  Another man has instructed his children\nwell; his neighbor brings his children to him, and requests him to teach\nthem also, and a teacher is created.  But both blacksmith and teacher\nhave been created, and continue to be such, merely because they have been\nasked; and they remain such as long as they are requested to be\nblacksmith and teacher.  If it should come to pass that many blacksmiths\nand teachers should set themselves up, or that their work is not\nrequited, they will immediately, as common-sense demands and as always\nhappens when there is no occasion for disturbing the regular course of\ndivision of labor,--they will immediately abandon their trade, and betake\nthemselves once more to agriculture.\n\nMen who behave thus are guided by their sense, their conscience; and\nhence we, the men endowed with sense and conscience, all assert that such\na division of labor is right.  But if it should chance that the\nblacksmiths were able to compel other people to work for them, and should\ncontinue to make horse-shoes when they were not wanted, and if the\nteachers should go on teaching when there was no one to teach, then it is\nobvious to every sane man, as a man, i.e., as a being endowed with reason\nand conscience, that this would not be division, but appropriation, of\nlabor.  And yet precisely that sort of activity is what is called\ndivision of labor by scientific science.  People do that which others do\nnot think of requiring, and demand that they shall be supported for so\ndoing, and say that this is just because it is division of labor.\n\nThat which constitutes the cause of the economical poverty of our age is\nwhat the English call over-production (which means that a mass of things\nare made which are of no use to anybody, and with which nothing can be\ndone).\n\nIt would be odd to see a shoemaker, who should consider that people were\nbound to feed him because he incessantly made boots which had been of no\nuse to any one for a long time; but what shall we say of those men who\nmake nothing,--who not only produce nothing that is visible, but nothing\nthat is of use for people at large,--for whose wares there are no\ncustomers, and who yet demand, with the same boldness, on the ground of\ndivision of labor, that they shall be supplied with fine food and drink,\nand that they shall be dressed well?  There may be, and there are,\nsorcerers for whose services a demand makes itself felt, and for this\npurpose there are brought to them pancakes and flasks; but it is\ndifficult to imagine the existence of sorcerers whose spells are useless\nto every one, and who boldly demand that they shall be luxuriously\nsupported because they exercise sorcery.  And it is the same in our\nworld.  And all this comes about on the basis of that false conception of\nthe division of labor, which is defined not by reason and conscience, but\nby observation, which men of science avow with such unanimity.\n\nDivision of labor has, in reality, always existed, and still exists; but\nit is right only when man decides with his reason and his conscience that\nit should be so, and not when he merely investigates it.  And reason and\nconscience decide the question for all men very simply, unanimously, and\nin a manner not to be doubted.  They always decide it thus: that division\nof labor is right only when a special branch of man's activity is so\nneedful to men, that they, entreating him to serve them, voluntarily\npropose to support him in requital for that which he shall do for them.\nBut, when a man can live from infancy to the age of thirty years on the\nnecks of others, promising to do, when he shall have been taught,\nsomething extremely useful, for which no one asks him; and when, from the\nage of thirty until his death, he can live in the same manner, still\nmerely on the promise to do something, for which there has been no\nrequest, this will not be division of labor (and, as a matter of fact,\nthere is no such thing in our society), but it will be what it already\nis,--merely the appropriation, by force, of the toil of others; that same\nappropriation by force of the toil of others which the philosophers\nformerly designated by various names,--for instance, as indispensable\nforms of life,--but which scientific science now calls the organic\ndivision of labor.\n\nThe whole significance of scientific science lies in this alone.  It has\nnow become a distributer of diplomas for idleness; for it alone, in its\nsanctuaries, selects and determines what is parasitical, and what is\norganic activity, in the social organism.  Just as though every man could\nnot find this out for himself much more accurately and more speedily, by\ntaking counsel of his reason and his conscience.  It seems to men of\nscientific science, that there can be no doubt of this, and that their\nactivity is also indubitably organic; they, the scientific and artistic\nworkers, are the brain cells, and the most precious cells in the whole\norganism.\n\nEver since men--reasoning beings--have existed, they have distinguished\ngood from evil, and have profited by the fact that men have made this\ndistinction before them; they have warred against evil, and have sought\nthe good, and have slowly but uninterruptedly advanced in that path.  And\ndivers delusions have always stood before men, hemming in this path, and\nhaving for their object to demonstrate to them, that it was not necessary\nto do this, and that it was not necessary to live as they were living.\nWith fearful conflict and difficulty, men have freed themselves from many\ndelusions.  And behold, a new and a still more evil delusion has sprung\nup in the path of mankind,--the scientific delusion.\n\nThis new delusion is precisely the same in nature as the old ones; its\ngist lies in secretly leading astray the activity of our reason and\nconscience, and of those who have lived before us, by something external.\nIn scientific science, this external thing is--investigation.\n\nThe cunning of this science consists in this,--that, after pointing out\nto men the coarsest false interpretations of the activity of the reason\nand conscience of man, it destroys in them faith in their own reason and\nconscience, and assures them that every thing which their reason and\nconscience say to them, that all that these have said to the loftiest\nrepresentatives of man heretofore, ever since the world has existed,--that\nall this is conventional and subjective.  \"All this must be abandoned,\"\nthey say; \"it is impossible to understand the truth by the reason, for we\nmay be mistaken.  But there exists another unerring and almost mechanical\npath: it is necessary to investigate facts.\"\n\nBut facts must be investigated on the foundation of scientific science,\ni.e., of the two hypotheses of positivism and evolution, which are not\nborne out by any thing, and which give themselves out as undoubted\ntruths.  And the reigning science announces, with delusive solemnity,\nthat the solution of all problems of life is possible only through the\nstudy of facts, of nature, and, in particular, of organisms.  The\ncredulous mass of young people, overwhelmed by the novelty of this\nauthority, which has not yet been overthrown or even touched by\ncriticism, flings itself into the study of natural sciences, into that\nsole path, which, according to the assertion of the reigning science, can\nlead to the elucidation of the problems of life.\n\nBut the farther the disciples proceed in this study, the farther and\nfarther does not only the possibility, but even the very idea, of the\nsolution of the problems of life withdraw from them, and the more and\nmore do they become accustomed, not so much to investigate, as to believe\nin the assertions of other investigators (to believe in cells, in\nprotoplasm, in the fourth condition of bodies, and so forth); the more\nand more does the form veil the contents from them; the more and more do\nthey lose the consciousness of good and evil, and the capacity of\nunderstanding those expressions and definitions of good and evil which\nhave been elaborated through the whole foregoing life of mankind; and the\nmore and more do they appropriate to themselves the special scientific\njargon of conventional expressions, which possesses no universally human\nsignificance; and the deeper and deeper do they plunge into the _debris_\nof utterly unilluminated investigations; the more and more do they lose\nthe power, not only of independent thought, but even of understanding the\nfresh human thought of others, which lies beyond the bounds of their\nTalmud.  But the principal thing is, that they pass their best years in\ngetting disused to life; they grow accustomed to consider their position\nas justifiable; and they convert themselves physically into utterly\nuseless parasites, and mentally they dislocate their brains and become\nmental eunuchs.  And in precisely the same manner, according to the\nmeasure of their folly, do they acquire self-conceit, which deprives them\nforever of all possibility of return to a simple life of toil, to a\nsimple, clear, and universally human train of reasoning.\n\nDivision of labor always has existed in human communities, and will\nprobably always exist; but the question for us lies not in the fact that\nit has existed, and that it will exist, but in this,--how are we to\ngovern ourselves so that this division shall be right?  But if we take\ninvestigation as our rule of action, we by this very act repudiate all\nrule; then in that case we shall regard as right every division of labor\nwhich we shall descry among men, and which appears to us to be right--to\nwhich conclusion the prevailing scientific science also leads.\n\nDivision of labor!\n\nSome are busied in mental or moral, others in muscular or physical,\nlabor.  With what confidence people enunciate this!  They wish to think\nso, and it seems to them that, in point of fact, a perfectly regular\nexchange of services does take place.\n\nBut we, in our blindness, have so completely lost sight of the\nresponsibility which we have assumed, that we have even forgotten in\nwhose name our labor is prosecuted; and the very people whom we have\nundertaken to serve have become the objects of our scientific and\nartistic activity.  We study and depict them for our amusement and\ndiversion.  We have totally forgotten that what we need to do is not to\nstudy and depict them, but to serve them.  To such a degree have we lost\nsight of this duty which we have taken upon us, that we have not even\nnoticed that what we have undertaken to perform in the realm of science\nand art has been accomplished not by us, but by others, and that our\nplace has turned out to be occupied.\n\nIt proves that while we have been disputing, one about the spontaneous\norigin of organisms, another as to what else there is in protoplasm, and\nso on, the common people have been in need of spiritual food; and the\nunsuccessful and rejected of art and science, in obedience to the mandate\nof adventurers who have in view the sole aim of profit, have begun to\nfurnish the people with this spiritual food, and still so furnish them.\nFor the last forty years in Europe, and for the last ten years with us\nhere in Russia, millions of books and pictures and song-books have been\ndistributed, and stalls have been opened, and the people gaze and sing\nand receive spiritual nourishment, but not from us who have undertaken to\nprovide it; while we, justifying our idleness by that spiritual food\nwhich we are supposed to furnish, sit by and wink at it.\n\nBut it is impossible for us to wink at it, for our last justification is\nslipping from beneath our feet.  We have become specialized.  We have our\nparticular functional activity.  We are the brains of the people.  They\nsupport us, and we have undertaken to teach them.  It is only under this\npretence that we have excused ourselves from work.  But what have we\ntaught them, and what are we now teaching them?  They have waited for\nyears--for tens, for hundreds of years.  And we keep on diverting our\nminds with chatter, and we instruct each other, and we console ourselves,\nand we have utterly forgotten them.  We have so entirely forgotten them,\nthat others have undertaken to instruct them, and we have not even\nperceived it.  We have spoken of the division of labor with such lack of\nseriousness, that it is obvious that what we have said about the benefits\nwhich we have conferred on the people was simply a shameless evasion.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n\nScience and art have arrogated to themselves the right of idleness, and\nof the enjoyment of the labor of others, and have betrayed their calling.\nAnd their errors have arisen merely because their servants, having set\nforth a falsely conceived principle of the division of labor, have\nrecognized their own right to make use of the labor of others, and have\nlost the significance of their vocation; having taken for their aim, not\nthe profit of the people, but the mysterious profit of science and art,\nand delivered themselves over to idleness and vice--not so much of the\nsenses as of the mind.\n\nThey say, \"Science and art have bestowed a great deal on mankind.\"\n\nScience and art have bestowed a great deal on mankind, not because the\nmen of art and science, under the pretext of a division of labor, live on\nother people, but in spite of this.\n\nThe Roman Republic was powerful, not because her citizens had the power\nto live a vicious life, but because among their number there were heroic\ncitizens.  It is the same with art and science.  Art and science have\nbestowed much on mankind, but not because their followers formerly\npossessed on rare occasions (and now possess on every occasion) the\npossibility of getting rid of labor; but because there have been men of\ngenius, who, without making use of these rights, have led mankind\nforward.\n\nThe class of learned men and artists, which has advanced, on the\nfictitious basis of a division of labor, its demands to the right of\nusing the labors of others, cannot co-operate in the success of true\nscience and true art, because a lie cannot bring forth the truth.\n\nWe have become so accustomed to these, our tenderly reared or weakened\nrepresentatives of mental labor, that it seems to us horrible that a man\nof science or an artist should plough or cart manure.  It seems to us\nthat every thing would go to destruction, and that all his wisdom would\nbe rattled out of him in the cart, and that all those grand picturesque\nimages which he bears about in his breast would be soiled in the manure;\nbut we have become so inured to this, that it does not strike us as\nstrange that our servitor of science--that is to say, the servant and\nteacher of the truth--by making other people do for him that which he\nmight do for himself, passes half his time in dainty eating, in smoking,\nin talking, in free and easy gossip, in reading the newspapers and\nromances, and in visiting the theatres.  It is not strange to us to see\nour philosopher in the tavern, in the theatre, and at the ball.  It is\nnot strange in our eyes to learn that those artists who sweeten and\nennoble our souls have passed their lives in drunkenness, cards, and\nwomen, if not in something worse.\n\nArt and science are very beautiful things; but just because they are so\nbeautiful they should not be spoiled by the compulsory combination with\nthem of vice: that is to say, a man should not get rid of his obligation\nto serve his own life and that of other people by his own labor.  Art and\nscience have caused mankind to progress.  Yes; but not because men of art\nand science, under the guise of division of labor, have rid themselves of\nthe very first and most indisputable of human obligations,--to labor with\ntheir hands in the universal struggle of mankind with nature.\n\n\"But only the division of labor, the freedom of men of science and of art\nfrom the necessity of earning them living, has rendered possible that\nremarkable success of science which we behold in our day,\" is the answer\nto this.  \"If all were forced to till the soil, those _vast_ results\nwould not have been attained which have been attained in our day; there\nwould have been none of those _striking_ successes which have so greatly\naugmented man's power over nature, were it not for these astronomical\ndiscoveries _which are so astounding to the mind of man_, and which have\nadded to the security of navigation; there would be no steamers, no\nrailways, none of those _wonderful_ bridges, tunnels, steam-engines and\ntelegraphs, photography, telephones, sewing-machines, phonographs,\nelectricity, telescopes, spectroscopes, microscopes, chloroform, Lister's\nbandages, and carbolic acid.\"\n\nI will not enumerate every thing on which our age thus prides itself.\nThis enumeration and pride of enthusiasm over ourselves and our exploits\ncan be found in almost any newspaper and popular pamphlet.  This\nenthusiasm over ourselves is often repeated to such a degree that none of\nus can sufficiently rejoice over ourselves, that we are seriously\nconvinced that art and science have never made such progress as in our\nown time.  And, as we are indebted for all this marvellous progress to\nthe division of labor, why not acknowledge it?\n\nLet us admit that the progress made in our day is noteworthy, marvellous,\nunusual; let us admit that we are fortunate mortals to live in such a\nremarkable epoch: but let us endeavor to appraise this progress, not on\nthe basis of our self-satisfaction, but of that principle which defends\nitself with this progress,--the division of labor.  All this progress is\nvery amazing; but by a peculiarly unlucky chance, admitted even by the\nmen of science, this progress has not so far improved, but it has rather\nrendered worse, the position of the majority, that is to say, of the\nworkingman.\n\nIf the workingman can travel on the railway, instead of walking, still\nthat same railway has burned down his forest, has carried off his grain\nunder his very nose, and has brought his condition very near to\nslavery--to the capitalist.  If, thanks to steam-engines and machines,\nthe workingman can purchase inferior calico at a cheap rate, on the other\nhand these engines and machines have deprived him of work at home, and\nhave brought him into a state of abject slavery to the manufacturer.  If\nthere are telephones and telescopes, poems, romances, theatres, ballets,\nsymphonies, operas, picture-galleries, and so forth, on the other hand\nthe life of the workingman has not been bettered by all this; for all of\nthem, by the same unlucky chance, are inaccessible to him.\n\nSo that, on the whole (and even men of science admit this), up to the\npresent time, all these remarkable discoveries and products of science\nand art have certainly not ameliorated the condition of the workingman,\nif, indeed, they have not made it worse.  So that, if we set against the\nquestion as to the reality of the progress attained by the arts and\nsciences, not our own rapture, but that standard upon the basis of which\nthe division of labor is defended,--the good of the laboring man,--we\nshall see that we have no firm foundations for that self-satisfaction in\nwhich we are so fond of indulging.\n\nThe peasant travels on the railway, the woman buys calico, in the _isba_\n(cottage) there will be a lamp instead of a pine-knot, and the peasant\nwill light his pipe with a match,--this is convenient; but what right\nhave I to say that the railway and the factory have proved advantageous\nto the people?\n\nIf the peasant rides on the railway, and buys calico, a lamp, and\nmatches, it is only because it is impossible to forbid the peasant's\nbuying them; but surely we are all aware that the construction of\nrailways and factories has never been carried out for the benefit of the\nlower classes: so why should a casual convenience which the workingman\nenjoys lead to a proof of the utility of all these institutions for the\npeople?\n\nThere is something useful in every injurious thing.  After a\nconflagration, one can warm one's self, and light one's pipe with a\nfirebrand; but why declare that the conflagration is beneficial?\n\nMen of art and science might say that their pursuits are beneficial to\nthe people, only when men of art and science have assigned to themselves\nthe object of serving the people, as they now assign themselves the\nobject of serving the authorities and the capitalists.  We might say this\nif men of art and science had taken as their aim the needs of the people;\nbut there are none such.  All scientists are busy with their priestly\navocations, out of which proceed investigations into protoplasm, the\nspectral analyses of stars, and so on.  But science has never once\nthought of what axe or what hatchet is the most profitable to chop with,\nwhat saw is the most handy, what is the best way to mix bread, from what\nflour, how to set it, how to build and heat an oven, what food and drink,\nand what utensils, are the most convenient and advantageous under certain\nconditions, what mushrooms may be eaten, how to propagate them, and how\nto prepare them in the most suitable manner.  And yet all this is the\nprovince of science.\n\nI am aware, that, according to its own definition, science ought to be\nuseless, i.e., science for the sake of science; but surely this is an\nobvious evasion.  The province of science is to serve the people.  We\nhave invented telegraphs, telephones, phonographs; but what advances have\nwe effected in the life, in the labor, of the people?  We have reckoned\nup two millions of beetles!  And we have not tamed a single animal since\nbiblical times, when all our animals were already domesticated; but the\nreindeer, the stag, the partridge, the heath-cock, all remain wild.\n\nOur botanists have discovered the cell, and in the cell protoplasm, and\nin that protoplasm still something more, and in that atom yet another\nthing.  It is evident that these occupations will not end for a long time\nto come, because it is obvious that there can be no end to them, and\ntherefore the scientist has no time to devote to those things which are\nnecessary to the people.  And therefore, again, from the time of Egyptian\nand Hebrew antiquity, when wheat and lentils had already been cultivated,\ndown to our own times, not a single plant has been added to the food of\nthe people, with the exception of the potato, and that was not obtained\nby science.\n\nTorpedoes have been invented, and apparatus for taxation, and so forth.\nBut the spinning-whined, the woman's weaving-loom, the plough, the\nhatchet, the chain, the rake, the bucket, the well-sweep, are exactly the\nsame as they were in the days of Rurik; and if there has been any change,\nthen that change has not been effected by scientific people.\n\nAnd it is the same with the arts.  We have elevated a lot of people to\nthe rank of great writers; we have picked these writers to pieces, and\nhave written mountains of criticism, and criticism on the critics, and\ncriticism on the critics of the critics.  And we have collected picture-\ngalleries, and have studied different schools of art in detail; and we\nhave so many symphonies and orchestras and operas, that it is becoming\ndifficult even for us to listen to them.  But what have we added to the\npopular _bylini_ [the epic songs], legends, tales, songs?  What music,\nwhat pictures, have we given to the people?\n\nOn the Nikolskaya books are manufactured for the people, and harmonicas\nin Tula; and in neither have we taken any part.  The falsity of the whole\ndirection of our arts and sciences is more striking and more apparent in\nprecisely those very branches, which, it would seem, should, from their\nvery nature, be of use to the people, and which, in consequence of their\nfalse attitude, seem rather injurious than useful.  The technologist, the\nphysician, the teacher, the artist, the author, should, in virtue of\ntheir very callings, it would seem, serve the people.  And, what then?\nUnder the present _regime_, they can do nothing but harm to the people.\n\nThe technologist or the mechanic has to work with capital.  Without\ncapital he is good for nothing.  All his acquirements are such that for\ntheir display he requires capital, and the exploitation of the laboring-\nman on the largest scale; and--not to mention that he is trained to live,\nat the lowest, on from fifteen hundred to two thousand a year, and that,\ntherefore, he cannot go to the country, where no one can give him such\nwages,--he is, by virtue of his very occupation, unfitted for serving the\npeople.  He knows how to calculate the highest mathematical arch of a\nbridge, how to calculate the force and transfer of the motive power, and\nso on; but he is confounded by the simplest questions of a peasant: how\nto improve a plough or a cart, or how to make irrigating canals.  All\nthis in the conditions of life in which the laboring man finds himself.\nOf this, he neither knows nor understands any thing,--less, indeed, than\nthe very stupidest peasant.  Give him workshops, all sorts of workmen at\nhis desire, an order for a machine from abroad, and he will get along.\nBut how to devise means of lightening toil, under the conditions of labor\nof millions of men,--this is what he does not and can not know; and\nbecause of his knowledge, his habits, and his demands on life, he is\nunfitted for this business.\n\nIn a still worse predicament is the physician.  His fancied science is\nall so arranged, that he only knows how to heal those persons who do\nnothing.  He requires an incalculable quantity of expensive preparations,\ninstruments, drugs, and hygienic apparatus.\n\nHe has studied with celebrities in the capitals, who only retain patients\nwho can be cured in the hospital, or who, in the course of their cure,\ncan purchase the appliances requisite for healing, and even go at once\nfrom the North to the South, to some baths or other.  Science is of such\na nature, that every rural physic-man laments because there are no means\nof curing working-men, because he is so poor that he has not the means to\nplace the sick man in the proper hygienic conditions; and at the same\ntime this physician complains that there are no hospitals, and that he\ncannot get through with his work, that he needs assistants, more doctors\nand practitioners.\n\nWhat is the inference?  This: that the people's principal lack, from\nwhich diseases arise, and spread abroad, and refuse to be healed, is the\nlack of means of subsistence.  And here Science, under the banner of the\ndivision of labor, summons her warriors to the aid of the people.  Science\nis entirely arranged for the wealthy classes, and it has adopted for its\ntask the healing of the people who can obtain every thing for themselves;\nand it attempts to heal those who possess no superfluity, by the same\nmeans.\n\nBut there are no means, and therefore it is necessary to take them from\nthe people who are ailing, and pest-stricken, and who cannot recover for\nlack of means.  And now the defenders of medicine for the people say that\nthis matter has been, as yet, but little developed.  Evidently it has\nbeen but little developed, because if (which God forbid!) it had been\ndeveloped, and that through oppressing the people,--instead of two\ndoctors, midwives, and practitioners in a district, twenty would have\nsettled down, since they desire this, and half the people would have died\nthrough the difficulty of supporting this medical staff, and soon there\nwould be no one to heal.\n\nScientific co-operation with the people, of which the defenders of\nscience talk, must be something quite different.  And this co-operation\nwhich should exist has not yet begun.  It will begin when the man of\nscience, technologist or physician, will not consider it legal to take\nfrom people--I will not say a hundred thousand, but even a modest ten\nthousand, or five hundred rubles for assisting them; but when he will\nlive among the toiling people, under the same conditions, and exactly as\nthey do, then he will be able to apply his knowledge to the questions of\nmechanics, technics, hygiene, and the healing of the laboring people.  But\nnow science, supporting itself at the expense of the working-people, has\nentirely forgotten the conditions of life among these people, ignores (as\nit puts it) these conditions, and takes very grave offence because its\nfancied knowledge finds no adherents among the people.\n\nThe domain of medicine, like the domain of technical science, still lies\nuntouched.  All questions as to how the time of labor is best divided,\nwhat is the best method of nourishment, with what, in what shape, and\nwhen it is best to clothe one's self, to shoe one's self, to counteract\ndampness and cold, how best to wash one's self, to feed the children, to\nswaddle them, and so on, in just those conditions in which the working-\npeople find themselves,--all these questions have not yet been\npropounded.\n\nThe same is the case with the activity of the teachers of\nscience,--pedagogical teachers.  Exactly in the same manner science has\nso arranged this matter, that only wealthy people are able to study\nscience, and teachers, like technologists and physicians, cling to money.\n\nAnd this cannot be otherwise, because a school built on a model plan (as\na general rule, the more scientifically built the school, the more costly\nit is), with pivot chains, and globes, and maps, and library, and petty\ntext-books for teachers and scholars and pedagogues, is a sort of thing\nfor which it would be necessary to double the taxes in every village.\nThis science demands.  The people need money for their work; and the more\nthere is needed, the poorer they are.\n\nDefenders of science say: \"Pedagogy is even now proving of advantage to\nthe people, but give it a chance to develop, and then it will do still\nbetter.\"  Yes, if it does develop, and instead of twenty schools in a\ndistrict there are a hundred, and all scientific, and if the people\nsupport these schools, they will grow poorer than ever, and they will\nmore than ever need work for their children's sake.  \"What is to be\ndone?\" they say to this.  The government will build the schools, and will\nmake education obligatory, as it is in Europe; but again, surely, the\nmoney is taken from the people just the same, and it will be harder to\nwork, and they will have less leisure for work, and there will be no\neducation even by compulsion.  Again the sole salvation is this: that the\nteacher should live under the conditions of the working-men, and should\nteach for that compensation which they give him freely and voluntarily.\n\nSuch is the false course of science, which deprives it of the power of\nfulfilling its obligation, which is, to serve the people.\n\nBut in nothing is this false course of science so obviously apparent, as\nin the vocation of art, which, from its very significance, ought to be\naccessible to the people.  Science may fall back on its stupid excuse,\nthat science acts for science, and that when it turns out learned men it\nis laboring for the people; but art, if it is art, should be accessible\nto all the people, and in particular to those in whose name it is\nexecuted.  And our definition of art, in a striking manner, convicts\nthose who busy themselves with art, of their lack of desire, lack of\nknowledge, and lack of power, to be useful to the people.\n\nThe painter, for the production of his great works, must have a studio of\nat least such dimensions that a whole association of carpenters (forty in\nnumber) or shoemakers, now sickening or stifling in lairs, would be able\nto work in it.  But this is not all; he must have a model, costumes,\ntravels.  Millions are expended on the encouragement of art, and the\nproducts of this art are both incomprehensible and useless to the people.\nMusicians, in order to express their grand ideas, must assemble two\nhundred men in white neckties, or in costumes, and spend hundreds of\nthousands of rubles for the equipment of an opera.  And the products of\nthis art cannot evoke from the people--even if the latter could at any\ntime enjoy it--any thing except amazement and _ennui_.\n\nWriters--authors--it appears, do not require surroundings, studios,\nmodels, orchestras, and actors; but it then appears that the author needs\n(not to mention comfort in his quarters) all the dainties of life for the\npreparation of his great works, travels, palaces, cabinets, libraries,\nthe pleasures of art, visits to theatres, concerts, the baths, and so on.\nIf he does not earn a fortune for himself, he is granted a pension, in\norder that he may compose the better.  And again, these compositions, so\nprized by us, remain useless lumber for the people, and utterly\nunserviceable to them.\n\nAnd if still more of these dealers in spiritual nourishment are developed\nfurther, as men of science desire, and a studio is erected in every\nvillage; if an orchestra is set up, and authors are supported in those\nconditions which artistic people regard as indispensable for\nthemselves,--I imagine that the working-classes will sooner take an oath\nnever to look at any pictures, never to listen to a symphony, never to\nread poetry or novels, than to feed all these persons.\n\nAnd why, apparently, should art not be of service to the people?  In\nevery cottage there are images and pictures; every peasant man and woman\nsings; many own harmonicas; and all recite stories and verses, and many\nread.  It is as if those two things which are made for each other--the\nlock and the key--had parted company; they have sprung so far apart, that\nnot even the possibility of uniting them presents itself.  Tell the\nartist that he should paint without a studio, model, or costumes, and\nthat he should paint five-kopek pictures, and he will say that that is\ntantamount to abandoning his art, as he understands it.  Tell the\nmusician that he should play on the harmonica, and teach the women to\nsing songs; say to the poet, to the author, that he ought to cast aside\nhis poems and romances, and compose song-books, tales, and stories,\ncomprehensible to the uneducated people,--they will say that you are mad.\n\nThe service of the people by science and art will only be performed when\npeople, dwelling in the midst of the common folk, and, like the common\nfolk, putting forward no demands, claiming no rights, shall offer to the\ncommon folk their scientific and artistic services; the acceptance or\nrejection of which shall depend wholly on the will of the common folk.\n\nIt is said that the activity of science and art has aided in the forward\nmarch of mankind,--meaning by this activity, that which is now called by\nthat name; which is the same as saying that an unskilled banging of oars\non a vessel that is floating with the tide, which merely hinders the\nprogress of the vessel, is assisting the movement of the ship.  It only\nretards it.  The so-called division of labor, which has become in our day\nthe condition of activity of men of science and art, was, and has\nremained, the chief cause of the tardy forward movement of mankind.\n\nThe proofs of this lie in that confession of all men of science, that the\ngains of science and art are inaccessible to the laboring masses, in\nconsequence of the faulty distribution of riches.  The irregularity of\nthis distribution does not decrease in proportion to the progress of\nscience and art, but only increases.  Men of art and science assume an\nair of deep pity for this unfortunate circumstance which does not depend\nupon them.  But this unfortunate circumstance is produced by themselves;\nfor this irregular distribution of wealth flows solely from the theory of\nthe division of labor.\n\nScience maintains the division of labor as a unalterable law; it sees\nthat the distribution of wealth, founded on the division of labor, is\nwrong and ruinous; and it affirms that its activity, which recognizes the\ndivision of labor, will lead people to bliss.  The result is, that some\npeople make use of the labor of others; but that, if they shall make use\nof the labor of others for a very long period of time, and in still\nlarger measure, then this wrongful distribution of wealth, i.e., the use\nof the labor of others, will come to an end.\n\nMen stand beside a constantly swelling spring of water, and are occupied\nwith the problem of diverting it to one side, away from the thirsty\npeople, and they assert that they are producing this water, and that soon\nenough will be collected for all.  But this water which has flowed, and\nwhich still flows unceasingly, and nourishes all mankind, not only is not\nthe result of the activity of the men who, standing at its source, turn\nit aside, but this water flows and gushes out, in spite of the efforts of\nthese men to obstruct its flow.\n\nThere have always existed a true science, and a true art; but true\nscience and art are not such because they called themselves by that name.\nIt always seems to those who claim at any given period to be the\nrepresentatives of science and art, that they have performed, and are\nperforming, and--most of all--that they will presently perform, the most\namazing marvels, and that beside them there never has been and there is\nnot any science or any art.  Thus it seemed to the sophists, the\nscholastics, the alchemists, the cabalists, the talmudists; and thus it\nseems to our own scientific science, and to our art for the sake of art.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n\n\"But art,--science!  You repudiate art and science; that is, you\nrepudiate that by which mankind lives!\"  People are constantly making\nthis--it is not a reply--to me, and they employ this mode of reception in\norder to reject my deductions without examining into them.  \"He\nrepudiates science and art, he wants to send people back again into a\nsavage state; so what is the use of listening to him and of talking to\nhim?\"  But this is unjust.  I not only do not repudiate art and science,\nbut, in the name of that which is true art and true science, I say that\nwhich I do say; merely in order that mankind may emerge from that savage\nstate into which it will speedily fall, thanks to the erroneous teaching\nof our time,--only for this purpose do I say that which I say.\n\nArt and science are as indispensable as food and drink and clothing,--more\nindispensable even; but they become so, not because we decide that what\nwe designate as art and science are indispensable, but simply because\nthey really are indispensable to people.\n\nSurely, if hay is prepared for the bodily nourishment of men, the fact\nthat we are convinced that hay is the proper food for man will not make\nhay the food of man.  Surely I cannot say, \"Why do not you eat hay, when\nit is the indispensable food?\"  Food is indispensable, but it may happen\nthat that which I offer is not food at all.  This same thing has occurred\nwith our art and science.  It seems to us, that if we add to a Greek word\nthe word \"logy,\" and call that a science, it will be a science; and, if\nwe call any abominable thing--like the dancing of nude females--by a\nGreek word, choreography, that that is art, and that it will be art.  But\nno matter how much we may say this, the business with which we occupy\nourselves when we count beetles, and investigate the chemical\nconstituents of the stars in the Milky Way, when we paint nymphs and\ncompose novels and symphonies,--our business will not become either art\nor science until such time as it is accepted by those people for whom it\nis wrought.\n\nIf it were decided that only certain people should produce food, and if\nall the rest were forbidden to do this, or if they were rendered\nincapable of producing food, I suppose that the quality of food would be\nlowered.  If the people who enjoyed the monopoly of producing food were\nRussian peasants, there would be no other food than black bread and\ncabbage-soup, and so on, and kvas,--nothing except what they like, and\nwhat is agreeable to them.  The same thing would happen in the case of\nthat loftiest human pursuit, of arts and sciences, if one caste were to\narrogate to itself a monopoly of them: but with this sole difference,\nthat, in the matter of bodily food, there can be no great departure from\nnature, and bread and cabbage-soup, although not very savory viands, are\nfit for consumption; but in spiritual food, there may exist the very\ngreatest departures from nature, and some people may feed themselves for\na long time on poisonous spiritual nourishment, which is directly\nunsuitable for, or injurious to, them; they may slowly kill themselves\nwith spiritual opium or liquors, and they may offer this same food to the\nmasses.\n\nIt is this very thing that is going on among us.  And it has come about\nbecause the position of men of science and art is a privileged one,\nbecause art and science (in our day), in our world, are not at all a\nrational occupation of all mankind without exception, exerting their best\npowers for the service of art and science, but an occupation of a\nrestricted circle of people holding a monopoly of these industries, and\nentitling themselves men of art and science, and who have, therefore,\nperverted the very idea of art and science, and have lost all the meaning\nof their vocation, and who are only concerned in amusing and rescuing\nfrom crushing _ennui_ their tiny circle of idle mouths.\n\nEver since men have existed, they have always had science and art in the\nsimplest and broadest sense of the term.  Science, in the sense of the\nwhole of knowledge acquired by mankind, exists and always has existed,\nand life without it is not conceivable; and there is no possibility of\neither attacking or defending science, taken in this sense.\n\nBut the point lies here,--that the scope of the knowledge of all mankind\nas a whole is so multifarious, ranging from the knowledge of how to\nextract iron to the knowledge of the movements of the planets, that man\nloses himself in this multitude of existing knowledge,--knowledge capable\nof _endless_ possibilities, if he have no guiding thread, by the aid of\nwhich he can classify this knowledge, and arrange the branches according\nto the degrees of their significance and importance.\n\nBefore a man undertakes to learn any thing whatever, he must make up his\nmind that that branch of knowledge is of weight to him, and of more\nweight and importance than the countless other objects of study with\nwhich he is surrounded.  Before undertaking the study of any thing, a man\ndecides for what purpose he is studying this subject, and not the others.\nBut to study every thing, as the men of scientific science in our day\npreach, without any idea of what is to come out of such study, is\ndownright impossible, because the number of subjects of study is\n_endless_; and hence, no matter how many branches we may acquire, their\nacquisition can possess no significance or reason.  And, therefore, in\nancient times, down to even a very recent date, until the appearance of\nscientific science, man's highest wisdom consisted in finding that\nguiding thread, according to which the knowledge of men should be\nclassified as being of primary or of secondary importance.  And this\nknowledge, which forms the guide to all other branches of knowledge, men\nhave always called science in the strictest acceptation of the word.  And\nsuch science there has always been, even down to our own day, in all\nhuman communities which have emerged from their primal state of savagery.\n\nEver since mankind has existed, teachers have always arisen among\npeoples, who have enunciated science in this restricted sense,--the\nscience of what it is most useful for man to know.  This science has\nalways had for its object the knowledge of what is the true ground of the\nwell-being of each individual man, and of all men, and why.  Such was the\nscience of Confucius, of Buddha, of Socrates, of Mahomet, and of others;\nsuch is this science as they understood it, and as all men--with the\nexception of our little circle of so-called cultured people--understand\nit.  This science has not only always occupied the highest place, but has\nbeen the only and sole science, from which the standing of the rest has\nbeen determined.  And this was the case, not in the least because, as the\nso-called scientific people of our day think, cunning priestly teachers\nof this science attributed to it such significance, but because in\nreality, as every one knows, both by personal experience and by\nreflection, there can be no science except the science of that in which\nthe destiny and welfare of man consist.  For the objects of science are\n_incalculable_ in number,--I undermine the word \"incalculable\" in the\nexact sense in which I understand it,--and without the knowledge of that\nin which the destiny and welfare of all men consist, there is no\npossibility of making a choice amid this interminable multitude of\nsubjects; and therefore, without this knowledge, all other arts and\nbranches of learning will become, as they have become among us, an idle\nand hurtful diversion.\n\nMankind has existed and existed, and never has it existed without the\nscience of that in which the destiny and the welfare of men consist.  It\nis true that the science of the welfare of men appears different on\nsuperficial observation, among the Buddhists, the Brahmins, the Hebrews,\nthe Confucians, the Tauists; but nevertheless, wherever we hear of men\nwho have emerged from a state of savagery, we find this science.  And all\nof a sudden it appears that the men of our day have decided that this\nsame science, which has hitherto served as the guiding thread of all\nhuman knowledge, is the very thing which hinders every thing.  Men erect\nbuildings; and one architect has made one estimate of cost, a second has\nmade another, and a third yet another.  The estimates differ somewhat;\nbut they are correct, so that any one can see, that, if the whole is\ncarried out in accordance with the calculations, the building will be\nerected.  Along come people, and assert that the chief point lies in\nhaving no estimates, and that it should be built thus--by the eye.  And\nthis \"thus,\" men call the most accurate of scientific science.  Men\nrepudiate every science, the very substance of science,--the definition\nof the destiny and the welfare of men,--and this repudiation they\ndesignate as science.\n\nEver since men have existed, great minds have been born into their midst,\nwhich, in the conflict with reason and conscience, have put to themselves\nquestions as to \"what constitutes welfare,--the destiny and welfare, not\nof myself alone, but of every man?\"  What does that power which has\ncreated and which leads me, demand of me and of every man?  And what is\nit necessary for me to do, in order to comply with the requirements\nimposed upon me by the demands of individual and universal welfare?  They\nhave asked themselves: \"I am a whole, and also a part of something\ninfinite, eternal; what, then, are my relations to other parts similar to\nmyself, to men and to the whole--to the world?\"\n\nAnd from the voices of conscience and of reason, and from a comparison of\nwhat their contemporaries and men who had lived before them, and who had\npropounded to themselves the same questions, had said, these great\nteachers have deduced their doctrines, which were simple, clear,\nintelligible to all men, and always such as were susceptible of\nfulfilment.  Such men have existed of the first, second, third, and\nlowest ranks.  The world is full of such men.  Every living man propounds\nthe question to himself, how to reconcile the demands of welfare, and of\nhis personal existence, with conscience and reason; and from this\nuniversal labor, slowly but uninterruptedly, new forms of life, which are\nmore in accord with the requirements of reason and of conscience, are\nworked out.\n\nAll at once, a new caste of people makes its appearance, and they say,\n\"All this is nonsense; all this must be abandoned.\"  This is the\ndeductive method of ratiocination (wherein lies the difference between\nthe deductive and the inductive method, no one can understand); these are\nthe dogmas of the technological and metaphysical period.  Every thing\nthat these men discover by inward experience, and which they communicate\nto one another, concerning their knowledge of the law of their existence\n(of their functional activity, according to their own jargon), every\nthing that the grandest minds of mankind have accomplished in this\ndirection, since the beginning of the world,--all this is nonsense, and\nhas no weight whatever.  According to this new doctrine, it appears that\nyou are cells: and that you, as a cell, have a very definite functional\nactivity, which you not only fulfil, but which you infallibly feel within\nyou; and that you are a thinking, talking, understanding cell, and that\nyou, for this reason, can ask another similar talking cell whether it is\njust the same, and in this way verify your own experience; that you can\ntake advantage of the fact that speaking cells, which have lived before\nyou, have written on the same subject, and that you have millions of\ncells which confirm your observations by their agreement with the cells\nwhich have written down their thoughts,--all this signifies nothing; all\nthis is an evil and an erroneous method.\n\nThe true scientific method is this: If you wish to know in what the\ndestiny and the welfare of all mankind and of all the world consists, you\nmust, first of all, cease to listen to the voices of your conscience and\nof your reason, which present themselves in you and in others like you;\nyou must cease to believe all that the great teachers of mankind have\nsaid with regard to your conscience and reason, and you must consider all\nthis as nonsense, and begin all over again.  And, in order to understand\nevery thing from the beginning, you must look through microscopes at the\nmovements of amoebae, and cells in worms, or, with still greater\ncomposure, believe in every thing that men with a diploma of\ninfallibility shall say to you about them.  And as you gaze at the\nmovements of these cells, or read about what others have seen, you must\nattribute to these cells your own human sensations and calculations as to\nwhat they desire, whither they are directing themselves, how they compare\nand discuss, and to what they have become accustomed; and from these\nobservations (in which there is not a word about an error of thought or\nof expression) you must deduce a conclusion by analogy as to what you\nare, what is your destiny, wherein lies the welfare of yourself and of\nother cells like you.  In order to understand yourself, you must study\nnot only the worms which you see, but microscopic creatures which you can\nbarely see, and transformations from one set of creatures into others,\nwhich no one has ever beheld, and which you, most assuredly, will never\nbehold.  And the same with art.  Where there has been true science, art\nhas always been its exponent.\n\nEver since men have been in existence, they have been in the habit of\ndeducing, from all pursuits, the expressions of various branches of\nlearning concerning the destiny and the welfare of man, and the\nexpression of this knowledge has been art in the strict sense of the\nword.\n\nEver since men have existed, there have been those who were peculiarly\nsensitive and responsive to the doctrine regarding the destiny and\nwelfare of man; who have given expression to their own and the popular\nconflict, to the delusions which lead them astray from their destinies,\ntheir sufferings in this conflict, their hopes in the triumph of good,\nthem despair over the triumph of evil, and their raptures in the\nconsciousness of the approaching bliss of man, on viol and tabret, in\nimages and words.  Always, down to the most recent times, art has served\nscience and life,--only then was it what has been so highly esteemed of\nmen.  But art, in its capacity of an important human activity,\ndisappeared simultaneously with the substitution for the genuine science\nof destiny and welfare, of the science of any thing you choose to fancy.\nArt has existed among all peoples, and will exist until that which among\nus is scornfully called religion has come to be considered the only\nscience.\n\nIn our European world, so long as there existed a Church, as the doctrine\nof destiny and welfare, and so long as the Church was regarded as the\nonly true science, art served the Church, and remained true art: but as\nsoon as art abandoned the Church, and began to serve science, while\nscience served whatever came to hand, art lost its significance.  And\nnotwithstanding the rights claimed on the score of ancient memories, and\nof the clumsy assertion which only proves its loss of its calling, that\nart serves art, it has become a trade, providing men with something\nagreeable; and as such, it inevitably comes into the category of\nchoreographic, culinary, hair-dressing, and cosmetic arts, whose\npractitioners designate themselves as artists, with the same right as the\npoets, printers, and musicians of our day.\n\nGlance backward into the past, and you will see that in the course of\nthousands of years, out of milliards of people, only half a score of\nConfucius', Buddhas, Solomons, Socrates, Solons, and Homers have been\nproduced.  Evidently, they are rarely met with among men, in spite of the\nfact that these men have not been selected from a single caste, but from\nmankind at large.  Evidently, these true teachers and artists and learned\nmen, the purveyors of spiritual nourishment, are rare.  And it is not\nwithout reason that mankind has valued and still values them so highly.\n\nBut it now appears, that all these great factors in the science and art\nof the past are no longer of use to us.  Nowadays, scientific and\nartistic authorities can, in accordance with the law of division of\nlabor, be turned out by factory methods; and, in one decade, more great\nmen have been manufactured in art and science, than have ever been born\nof such among all nations, since the foundation of the world.  Nowadays\nthere is a guild of learned men and artists, and they prepare, by\nperfected methods, all that spiritual food which man requires.  And they\nhave prepared so much of it, that it is no longer necessary to refer to\nthe elder authorities, who have preceded them,--not only to the ancients,\nbut to those much nearer to us.  All that was the activity of the\ntheological and metaphysical period,--all that must be wiped out: but the\ntrue, the rational activity began, say, fifty years ago, and in the\ncourse of those fifty years we have made so many great men, that there\nare about ten great men to every branch of science.  And there have come\nto be so many sciences, that, fortunately, it is easy to make them.  All\nthat is required is to add the Greek word \"logy\" to the name, and force\nthem to conform to a set rubric, and the science is all complete.  They\nhave created so many sciences, that not only can no one man know them\nall, but not a single individual can remember all the titles of all the\nexisting sciences; the titles alone form a thick lexicon, and new\nsciences are manufactured every day.  They have been manufactured on the\npattern of that Finnish teacher who taught the landed proprietor's\nchildren Finnish instead of French.  Every thing has been excellently\ninculcated; but there is one objection,--that no one except ourselves can\nunderstand any thing of it, and all this is reckoned as utterly useless\nnonsense.  However, there is an explanation even for this.  People do not\nappreciate the full value of scientific science, because they are under\nthe influence of the theological period, that profound period when all\nthe people, both among the Hebrews, and the Chinese, and the Indians, and\nthe Greeks, understood every thing that their great teachers said to\nthem.\n\nBut, from whatever cause this has come about, the fact remains, that\nsciences and arts have always existed among mankind, and, when they\nreally did exist, they were useful and intelligible to all the people.\nBut we practise something which we call science and art, but it appears\nthat what we do is unnecessary and unintelligible to man.  And hence,\nhowever beautiful may be the things that we accomplish, we have no right\nto call them arts and sciences.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n\n\"But you only furnish a different definition of arts and sciences, which\nis stricter, and is incompatible with science,\" I shall be told in answer\nto this; \"nevertheless, scientific and artistic activity does still\nexist.  There are the Galileos, Brunos, Homers, Michael Angelos,\nBeethovens, and all the lesser learned men and artists, who have\nconsecrated their entire lives to the service of science and art, and who\nwere, and will remain, the benefactors of mankind.\"\n\nGenerally this is what people say, striving to forget that new principle\nof the division of labor, on the basis of which science and art now\noccupy their privileged position, and on whose basis we are now enabled\nto decide without grounds, but by a given standard: Is there, or is there\nnot, any foundation for that activity which calls itself science and art,\nto so magnify itself?\n\nWhen the Egyptian or the Grecian priests produced their mysteries, which\nwere unintelligible to any one, and stated concerning these mysteries\nthat all science and all art were contained in them, I could not verify\nthe reality of their science on the basis of the benefit procured by them\nto the people, because science, according to their assertions, was\nsupernatural.  But now we all possess a very simple and clear definition\nof the activity of art and science, which excludes every thing\nsupernatural: science and art promise to carry out the mental activity of\nmankind, for the welfare of society, or of all the human race.\n\nThe definition of scientific science and art is entirely correct; but,\nunfortunately, the activity of the present arts and sciences does not\ncome under this head.  Some of them are directly injurious, others are\nuseless, others still are worthless,--good only for the wealthy.  They do\nnot fulfil that which, by their own definition, they have undertaken to\naccomplish; and hence they have as little right to regard themselves as\nmen of art and science, as a corrupt priesthood, which does not fulfil\nthe obligations which it has assumed, has the right to regard itself as\nthe bearer of divine truth.\n\nAnd it can be understood why the makers of the present arts and sciences\nhave not fulfilled, and cannot fulfil, their vocation.  They do not\nfulfil it, because out of their obligations they have erected a right.\n\nScientific and artistic activity, in its real sense, is only fruitful\nwhen it knows no rights, but recognizes only obligations.  Only because\nit is its property to be always thus, does mankind so highly prize this\nactivity.  If men really were called to the service of others through\nartistic work, they would see in that work only obligation, and they\nwould fulfil it with toil, with privations, and with self-abnegation.\n\nThe thinker or the artist will never sit calmly on Olympian heights, as\nwe have become accustomed to represent them to ourselves.  The thinker or\nthe artist should suffer in company with the people, in order that he may\nfind salvation or consolation.  Besides this, he will suffer because he\nis always and eternally in turmoil and agitation: he might decide and say\nthat that which would confer welfare on men, would free them from\nsuffering, would afford them consolation; but he has not said so, and has\nnot presented it as he should have done; he has not decided, and he has\nnot spoken; and to-morrow, possibly, it will be too late,--he will die.\nAnd therefore suffering and self-sacrifice will always be the lot of the\nthinker and the artist.\n\nNot of this description will be the thinker and artist who is reared in\nan establishment where, apparently, they manufacture the learned man or\nthe artist (but in point of fact, they manufacture destroyers of science\nand of art), who receives a diploma and a certificate, who would be glad\nnot to think and not to express that which is imposed on his soul, but\nwho cannot avoid doing that to which two irresistible forces draw him,--an\ninward prompting, and the demand of men.\n\nThere will be no sleek, plump, self-satisfied thinkers and artists.\nSpiritual activity, and its expression, which are actually necessary to\nothers, are the most burdensome of all man's avocations; a cross, as the\nGospels phrase it.  And the sole indubitable sign of the presence of a\nvocation is self-devotion, the sacrifice of self for the manifestation of\nthe power that is imposed upon man for the benefit of others.\n\nIt is possible to study out how many beetles there are in the world, to\nview the spots on the sun, to write romances and operas, without\nsuffering; but it is impossible, without self-sacrifice, to instruct\npeople in their true happiness, which consists solely in renunciation of\nself and the service of others, and to give strong expression to this\ndoctrine, without self-sacrifice.\n\nChrist did not die on the cross in vain; not in vain does the sacrifice\nof suffering conquer all things.\n\nBut our art and science are provided with certificates and diplomas; and\nthe only anxiety of all men is, how to still better guarantee them, i.e.,\nhow to render the service of the people impracticable for them.\n\nTrue art and true science possess two unmistakable marks: the first, an\ninward mark, which is this, that the servitor of art and science will\nfulfil his vocation, not for profit but with self-sacrifice; and the\nsecond, an external sign,--his productions will be intelligible to all\nthe people whose welfare he has in view.\n\nNo matter what people have fixed upon as their vocation and their\nwelfare, science will be the doctrine of this vocation and welfare, and\nart will be the expression of that doctrine.  That which is called\nscience and art, among us, is the product of idle minds and feelings,\nwhich have for their object to tickle similar idle minds and feelings.\nOur arts and sciences are incomprehensible, and say nothing to the\npeople, for they have not the welfare of the common people in view.\n\nEver since the life of men has been known to us, we find, always and\neverywhere, the reigning doctrine falsely designating itself as science,\nnot manifesting itself to the common people, but obscuring for them the\nmeaning of life.  Thus it was among the Greeks the sophists, then among\nthe Christians the mystics, gnostics, scholastics, among the Hebrews the\nTalmudists and Cabalists, and so on everywhere, down to our own times.\n\nHow fortunate it is for us that we live in so peculiar an age, when that\nmental activity which calls itself science, not only does not err, but\nfinds itself, as we are assured, in a remarkably flourishing condition!\nDoes not this peculiar good fortune arise from the fact that man can not\nand will not see his own hideousness?  Why is there nothing left of those\nsciences, and sophists, and Cabalists, and Talmudists, but words, while\nwe are so exceptionally happy?  Surely the signs are identical.  There is\nthe same self-satisfaction and blind confidence that we, precisely we,\nand only we, are on the right path, and that the real thing is only\nbeginning with us.  There is the same expectation that we shall discover\nsomething remarkable; and that chief sign which leads us astray convicts\nus of our error: all our wisdom remains with us, and the common people do\nnot understand, and do not accept, and do not need it.\n\nOur position is a very difficult one, but why not look at it squarely?\n\nIt is time to recover our senses, and to scrutinize ourselves.  Surely we\nare nothing else than the scribes and Pharisees, who sit in Moses' seat,\nand who have taken the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and will neither go\nin ourselves, nor permit others to go in.  Surely we, the high priests of\nscience and art, are ourselves worthless deceivers, possessing much less\nright to our position than the most crafty and depraved priests.  Surely\nwe have no justification for our privileged position.  The priests had a\nright to their position: they declared that they taught the people life\nand salvation.  But we have taken their place, and we do not instruct the\npeople in life,--we even admit that such instruction is unnecessary,--but\nwe educate our children in the same Talmudic-Greek and Latin grammar, in\norder that they may be able to pursue the same life of parasites which we\nlead ourselves.  We say, \"There used to be castes, but there are none\namong us.\"  But what does it mean, that some people and their children\ntoil, while other people and their children do not toil?\n\nBring hither an Indian ignorant of our language, and show him European\nlife, and our life, for several generations, and he will recognize the\nsame leading, well-defined castes--of laborers and non-laborers--as there\nare in his own country.  And as in his land, so in ours, the right of\nrefusing to labor is conferred by a peculiar consecration, which we call\nscience and art, or, in general terms, culture.  It is this culture, and\nall the distortions of sense connected with it, which have brought us to\nthat marvellous madness, in consequence of which we do not see that which\nis so clear and indubitable.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n\nThen, what is to be done?  What are we to do?\n\nThis question, which includes within itself both an admission that our\nlife is evil and wrong, and in connection with this,--as though it were\nan exercise for it,--that it is impossible, nevertheless, to change it,\nthis question I have heard, and I continue to hear, on all sides.  I have\ndescribed my own sufferings, my own gropings, and my own solution of this\nquestion.  I am the same kind of a man as everybody else; and if I am in\nany wise distinguished from the average man of our circle, it is chiefly\nin this respect, that I, more than the average man, have served and\nwinked at the false doctrine of our world; I have received more\napprobation from men professing the prevailing doctrine: and therefore,\nmore than others, have I become depraved, and wandered from the path.  And\ntherefore I think that the solution of the problem, which I have found in\nmy own case, will be applicable to all sincere people who are propounding\nthe same question to themselves.\n\nFirst of all, in answer to the question, \"What is to be done?\" I told\nmyself: \"I must lie neither to other people nor to myself.  I must not\nfear the truth, whithersoever it may lead me.\"\n\nWe all know what it means to lie to other people, but we are not afraid\nto lie to ourselves; yet the very worst downright lie, to other people,\nis not to be compared in its consequences with the lie to ourselves, upon\nwhich we base our whole life.\n\nThis is the lie of which we must not be guilty if we are to be in a\nposition to answer the question: \"What is to be done?\"  And, in fact, how\nam I to answer the question, \"What is to be done?\" when every thing that\nI do, when my whole life, is founded on a lie, and when I carefully\nparade this lie as the truth before others and before myself?  Not to\nlie, in this sense, means not to fear the truth, not to devise\nsubterfuges, and not to accept the subterfuges devised by others for the\npurpose of hiding from myself the deductions of my reason and my\nconscience; not to fear to part company with all those who surround me,\nand to remain alone in company with reason and conscience; not to fear\nthat position to which the truth shall lead me, being firmly convinced\nthat that position to which truth and conscience shall conduct me,\nhowever singular it may be, cannot be worse than the one which is founded\non a lie.  Not to lie, in our position of privileged persons of mental\nlabor, means, not to be afraid to reckon one's self up wrongly.  It is\npossible that you are already so deeply indebted that you cannot take\nstock of yourself; but to whatever extent this may be the case, however\nlong may be the account, however far you have strayed from the path, it\nis still better than to continue therein.  A lie to other people is not\nalone unprofitable; every matter is settled more directly and more\nspeedily by the truth than by a lie.  A lie to others only entangles\nmatters, and delays the settlement; but a lie to one's self, set forth as\nthe truth, ruins a man's whole life.  If a man, having entered on the\nwrong path, assumes that it is the true one, then every step that he\ntakes on that path removes him farther from his goal.  If a man who has\nlong been travelling on this false path divines for himself, or is\ninformed by some one, that his course is a mistaken one, but grows\nalarmed at the idea that he has wandered very far astray and tries to\nconvince himself that he may, possibly, still strike into the right road,\nthen he never will get into it.  If a man quails before the truth, and,\non perceiving it, does not accept it, but does accept a lie for the\ntruth, then he never will learn what he ought to do.  We, the not only\nwealthy, but privileged and so-called cultivated persons, have advanced\nso far on the wrong road, that a great deal of determination, or a very\ngreat deal of suffering on the wrong road, is required, in order to bring\nus to our senses and to the acknowledgment of the lie in which we are\nliving.  I have perceived the lie of our lives, thanks to the sufferings\nwhich the false path entailed upon me, and, having recognized the\nfalseness of this path on which I stood, I have had the boldness to go at\nfirst in thought only--whither reason and conscience led me, without\nreflecting where they would bring me out.  And I have been rewarded for\nthis boldness.\n\nAll the complicated, broken, tangled, and incoherent phenomena of life\nsurrounding me, have suddenly become clear; and my position in the midst\nof these phenomena, which was formerly strange and burdensome, has\nbecome, all at once, natural, and easy to bear.\n\nIn this new position, my activity was defined with perfect accuracy; not\nat all as it had previously presented itself to me, but as a new and much\nmore peaceful, loving, and joyous activity.  The very thing which had\nformerly terrified me, now began to attract me.  Hence I think, that the\nman who will honestly put to himself the question, \"What is to be done?\"\nand, replying to this query, will not lie to himself, but will go whither\nhis reason leads, has already solved the problem.\n\nThere is only one thing that can hinder him in his search for an\nissue,--an erroneously lofty idea of himself and of his position.  This\nwas the case with me; and then another, arising from the first answer to\nthe question: \"What is to be done?\" consisted for me in this, that it was\nnecessary for me to repent, in the full sense of that word,--i.e., to\nentirely alter my conception of my position and my activity; to confess\nthe hurtfulness and emptiness of my activity, instead of its utility and\ngravity; to confess my own ignorance instead of culture; to confess my\nimmorality and harshness in the place of my kindness and morality;\ninstead of my elevation, to acknowledge my lowliness.  I say, that in\naddition to not lying to myself, I had to repent, because, although the\none flows from the other, a false conception of my lofty importance had\nso grown up with me, that, until I sincerely repented and cut myself free\nfrom that false estimate which I had formed of myself, I did not perceive\nthe greater part of the lie of which I had been guilty to myself.  Only\nwhen I had repented, that is to say, when I had ceased to look upon\nmyself as a regular man, and had begun to regard myself as a man exactly\nlike every one else,--only then did my path become clear before me.\nBefore that time I had not been able to answer the question: \"What is to\nbe done?\" because I had stated the question itself wrongly.\n\nAs long as I did not repent, I put the question thus: \"What sphere of\nactivity should I choose, I, the man who has received the education and\nthe talents which have fallen to my shame?  How, in this fashion, make\nrecompense with that education and those talents, for what I have taken,\nand for what I still take, from the people?\"  This question was wrong,\nbecause it contained a false representation, to the effect that I was not\na man just like them, but a peculiar man called to serve the people with\nthose talents and with that education which I had won by the efforts of\nforty years.\n\nI propounded the query to myself; but, in reality, I had answered it in\nadvance, in that I had in advance defined the sort of activity which was\nagreeable to me, and by which I was called upon to serve the people.  I\nhad, in fact, asked myself: \"In what manner could I, so very fine a\nwriter, who had acquired so much learning and talents, make use of them\nfor the benefit of the people?\"\n\nBut the question should have been put as it would have stood for a\nlearned rabbi who had gone through the course of the Talmud, and had\nlearned by heart the number of letters in all the holy books, and all the\nfine points of his art.  The question for me, as for the rabbi, should\nstand thus: \"What am I, who have spent, owing to the misfortune of my\nsurroundings, the year's best fitted for study in the acquisition of\ngrammar, geography, judicial science, poetry, novels and romances, the\nFrench language, pianoforte playing, philosophical theories, and military\nexercises, instead of inuring myself to labor; what am I, who have passed\nthe best years of my life in idle occupations which are corrupting to the\nsoul,--what am I to do in defiance of these unfortunate conditions of the\npast, in order that I may requite those people who during the whole time\nhave fed and clothed, yes, and who even now continue to feed and clothe\nme?\"  Had the question then stood as it stands before me now, after I\nhave repented,--\"What am I, so corrupt a man, to do?\" the answer would\nhave been easy: \"To strive, first of all, to support myself honestly;\nthat is, to learn not to live upon others; and while I am learning, and\nwhen I have learned this, to render aid on all possible occasions to the\npeople, with my hands, and my feet, and my brain, and my heart, and with\nevery thing to which the people should present a claim.\"\n\nAnd therefore I say, that for the man of our circle, in addition to not\nlying to himself or to others, repentance is also necessary, and that he\nshould scrape from himself that pride which has sprung up in us, in our\nculture, in our refinements, in our talents; and that he should confess\nthat he is not a benefactor of the people and a distinguished man, who\ndoes not refuse to share with the people his useful acquirements, but\nthat he should confess himself to be a thoroughly guilty, corrupt, and\ngood-for-nothing man, who desires to reform himself and not to behave\nbenevolently towards the people, but simply to cease wounding and\ninsulting them.\n\nI often hear the questions of good young men who sympathize with the\nrenunciatory part of my writings, and who ask, \"Well, and what then shall\nI do?  What am I to do, now that I have finished my course in the\nuniversity, or in some other institution, in order that I may be of use?\"\nYoung men ask this, and in the depths of their soul it is already decided\nthat the education which they have received constitutes their privilege\nand that they desire to serve the people precisely by means of thus\nsuperiority.  And hence, one thing which they will in no wise do, is to\nbear themselves honestly and critically towards that which they call\ntheir culture, and ask themselves, are those qualities which they call\ntheir culture good or bad?  If they will do this, they will infallibly be\nled to see the necessity of renouncing their culture, and the necessity\nof beginning to learn all over again; and this is the one indispensable\nthing.  They can in no wise solve the problem, \"What to do?\" because this\nquestion does not stand before them as it should stand.  The question\nmust stand thus: \"In what manner am I, a helpless, useless man, who,\nowing to the misfortune of my conditions, have wasted my best years of\nstudy in conning the scientific Talmud which corrupts soul and body, to\ncorrect this mistake, and learn to serve the people?\"  But it presents\nitself to them thus: \"How am I, a man who has acquired so much very fine\nlearning, to turn this very fine learning to the use of the people?\"  And\nsuch a man will never answer the question, \"What is to be done?\" until he\nrepents.  And repentance is not terrible, just as truth is not terrible,\nand it is equally joyful and fruitful.  It is only necessary to accept\nthe truth wholly, and to repent wholly, in order to understand that no\none possesses any rights, privileges, or peculiarities in the matter of\nthis life of ours, but that there are no ends or bounds to obligation,\nand that a man's first and most indubitable duty is to take part in the\nstruggle with nature for his own life and for the lives of others.\n\nAnd this confession of a man's obligation constitutes the gist of the\nthird answer to the question, \"What is to be done?\"\n\nI tried not to lie to myself: I tried to cast out from myself the remains\nof my false conceptions of the importance of my education and talents,\nand to repent; but on the way to a decision of the question, \"What to\ndo?\" a fresh difficulty arose.  There are so many different occupations,\nthat an indication was necessary as to the precise one which was to be\nadopted.  And the answer to this question was furnished me by sincere\nrepentance for the evil in which I had lived.\n\n\"What to do?  Precisely what to do?\" all ask, and that is what I also\nasked so long as, under the influence of my exalted idea of any own\nimportance, I did not perceive that my first and unquestionable duty was\nto feed myself, to clothe myself, to furnish my own fuel, to do my own\nbuilding, and, by so doing, to serve others, because, ever since the\nwould has existed, the first and indubitable duty of every man has\nconsisted and does consist in this.\n\nIn fact, no matter what a man may have assumed to be his\nvocation,--whether it be to govern people, to defend his\nfellow-countrymen, to divine service, to instruct others, to invent means\nto heighten the pleasures of life, to discover the laws of the world, to\nincorporate eternal truths in artistic representations,--the duty of a\nreasonable man is to take part in the struggle with nature, for the\nsustenance of his own life and of that of others.  This obligation is the\nfirst of all, because what people need most of all is their life; and\ntherefore, in order to defend and instruct the people, and render their\nlives more agreeable, it is requisite to preserve that life itself, while\nmy refusal to share in the struggle, my monopoly of the labors of others,\nis equivalent to annihilation of the lives of others.  And, therefore, it\nis not rational to serve the lives of men by annihilating the lives of\nmen; and it is impossible to say that I am serving men, when, by my life,\nI am obviously injuring them.\n\nA man's obligation to struggle with nature for the acquisition of the\nmeans of livelihood will always be the first and most unquestionable of\nall obligations, because this obligation is a law of life, departure from\nwhich entails the inevitable punishment of either bodily or mental\nannihilation of the life of man.  If a man living alone excuses himself\nfrom the obligation of struggling with nature, he is immediately\npunished, in that his body perishes.  But if a man excuses himself from\nthis obligation by making other people fulfil it for him, then also he is\nimmediately punished by the annihilation of his mental life; that is to\nsay, of the life which possesses rational thought.\n\nIn this one act, man receives--if the two things are to be separated--full\nsatisfaction of the bodily and spiritual demands of his nature.  The\nfeeding, clothing, and taking care of himself and his family, constitute\nthe satisfaction of the bodily demands and requirements; and doing the\nsame for other people, constitutes the satisfaction of his spiritual\nrequirements.  Every other employment of man is only legal when it is\ndirected to the satisfaction of this very first duty of man; for the\nfulfilment of this duty constitutes the whole life of man.\n\nI had been so turned about by my previous life, this first and\nindubitable law of God or of nature is so concealed in our sphere of\nsociety, that the fulfilment of this law seemed to me strange, terrible,\neven shameful; as though the fulfilment of an eternal, unquestionable\nlaw, and not the departure from it, can be terrible, strange, and\nshameful.\n\nAt first it seemed to me that the fulfilment of this matter required some\npreparation, arrangement or community of men, holding similar views,--the\nconsent of one's family, life in the country; it seemed to me disgraceful\nto make a show of myself before people, to undertake a thing so improper\nin our conditions of existence, as bodily toil, and I did not know how to\nset about it.  But it was only necessary for me to understand that this\nis no exclusive occupation which requires to be invented and arranged\nfor, but that this employment was merely a return from the false position\nin which I found myself, to a natural one; was only a rectification of\nthat lie in which I was living.  I had only to recognize this fact, and\nall these difficulties vanished.  It was not in the least necessary to\nmake preparations and arrangements, and to await the consent of others,\nfor, no matter in what position I had found myself, there had always been\npeople who had fed, clothed and warmed me, in addition to themselves; and\neverywhere, under all conditions, I could do the same for myself and for\nthem, if I had the time and the strength.  Neither could I experience\nfalse shame in an unwonted occupation, no matter how surprising it might\nbe to people, because, through not doing it, I had already experienced\nnot false but real shame.\n\nAnd when I had reached this confession and the practical deduction from\nit, I was fully rewarded for not having quailed before the deductions of\nreason, and for following whither they led me.  On arriving at this\npractical deduction, I was amazed at the ease and simplicity with which\nall the problems which had previously seemed to me so difficult and so\ncomplicated, were solved.\n\nTo the question, \"What is it necessary to do?\" the most indubitable\nanswer presented itself: first of all, that which it was necessary for me\nto do was, to attend to my own samovar, my own stove, my own water, my\nown clothing; to every thing that I could do for myself.  To the\nquestion, \"Will it not seem strange to people if you do this?\" it\nappeared that this strangeness lasted only a week, and after the lapse of\nthat week, it would have seemed strange had I returned to my former\nconditions of life.  With regard to the question, \"Is it necessary to\norganize this physical labor, to institute an association in the country,\non my land?\" it appeared that nothing of the sort was necessary; that\nlabor, if it does not aim at the acquisition of all possible leisure, and\nthe enjoyment of the labor of others,--like the labor of people bent on\naccumulating money,--but if it have for its object the satisfaction of\nrequirements, will itself be drawn from the city to the country, to the\nland, where this labor is the most fruitful and cheerful.  But it is not\nrequisite to institute any association, because the man who labors,\nnaturally and of himself, attaches himself to the existing association of\nlaboring men.\n\nTo the question, whether this labor would not monopolize all my time, and\ndeprive me of those intellectual pursuits which I love, to which I am\naccustomed, and which, in my moments of self-conceit, I regard as not\nuseless to others? I received a most unexpected reply.  The energy of my\nintellectual activity increased, and increased in exact proportion with\nbodily application, while freeing itself from every thing superfluous.  It\nappeared that by dedicating to physical toil eight hours, that half of\nthe day which I had formerly passed in the oppressive state of a struggle\nwith _ennui_, eight hours remained to me, of which only five of\nintellectual activity, according to my terms, were necessary to me.  For\nit appeared, that if I, a very voluminous writer, who had done nothing\nfor nearly forty years except write, and who had written three hundred\nprinted sheets;--if I had worked during all those forty years at ordinary\nlabor with the working-people, then, not reckoning winter evenings and\nleisure days, if I had read and studied for five hours every day, and had\nwritten a couple of pages only on holidays (and I have been in the habit\nof writing at the rate of one printed sheet a day), then I should have\nwritten those three hundred sheets in fourteen years.  The fact seemed\nstartling: yet it is the most simple arithmetical calculation, which can\nbe made by a seven-year-old boy, but which I had not been able to make up\nto this time.  There are twenty-four hours in the day; if we take away\neight hours, sixteen remain.  If any man engaged in intellectual\noccupations devote five hours every day to his occupation, he will\naccomplish a fearful amount.  And what is to be done with the remaining\neleven hours?\n\nIt proved that physical labor not only does not exclude the possibility\nof mental activity, but that it improves its quality, and encourages it.\n\nIn answer to the question, whether this physical toil does not deprive me\nof many innocent pleasures peculiar to man, such as the enjoyment of the\narts, the acquisition of learning, intercourse with people, and the\ndelights of life in general, it turned out exactly the reverse: the more\nintense the labor, the more nearly it approached what is considered the\ncoarsest agricultural toil, the more enjoyment and knowledge did I gain,\nand the more did I come into close and loving communion with men, and the\nmore happiness did I derive from life.\n\nIn answer to the question (which I have so often heard from persons not\nthoroughly sincere), as to what result could flow from so insignificant a\ndrop in the sea of sympathy as my individual physical labor in the sea of\nlabor ingulfing me, I received also the most satisfactory and unexpected\nof answers.  It appeared that all I had to do was to make physical labor\nthe habitual condition of my life, and the majority of my false, but\nprecious, habits and my demands, when physically idle, fell away from me\nat once of their own accord, without the slightest exertion on my part.\nNot to mention the habit of turning day into night and _vice versa_, my\nhabits connected with my bed, with my clothing, with conventional\ncleanliness,--which are downright impossible and oppressive with physical\nlabor,--and my demands as to the quality of my food, were entirely\nchanged.  In place of the dainty, rich, refined, complicated,\nhighly-spiced food, to which I had formerly inclined, the most simple\nviands became needful and most pleasing of all to me,--cabbage-soup,\nporridge, black bread, and tea _v prikusku_. {238}  So that, not to\nmention the influence upon me of the example of the simple\nworking-people, who are content with little, with whom I came in contact\nin the course of my bodily toil, my very requirements underwent a change\nin consequence of my toilsome life; so that my drop of physical labor in\nthe sea of universal labor became larger and larger, in proportion as I\naccustomed myself to, and appropriated, the habits of the laboring\nclasses; in proportion, also, to the success of my labor, my demands for\nlabor from others grew less and less, and my life naturally, without\nexertion or privations, approached that simple existence of which I could\nnot even dream without fulfilling the law of labor.\n\nIt proved that my dearest demands from life, namely, my demands for\nvanity, and diversion from _ennui_, arose directly from my idle life.\nThere was no place for vanity, in connection with physical labor; and no\ndiversions were needed, since my time was pleasantly occupied, and, after\nmy fatigue, simple rest at tea over a book, or in conversation with my\nfellows, was incomparably more agreeable than theatres, cards, conceits,\nor a large company,--all which things are needed in physical idleness,\nand which cost a great deal.\n\nIn answer to the question, Would not this unaccustomed toil ruin that\nhealth which is indispensable in order to render service to the people\npossible? it appeared, in spite of the positive assertions of noted\nphysicians, that physical exertion, especially at my age, might have the\nmost injurious consequences (but that Swedish gymnastics, the massage\ntreatment, and so on, and other expedients intended to take the place of\nthe natural conditions of man's life, were better), that the more intense\nthe toil, the stronger, more alert, more cheerful, and more kindly did I\nfeel.  Thus it undoubtedly appeared, that, just as all those cunning\ndevices of the human mind, newspapers, theatres, concerts, visits, balls,\ncards, journals, romances, are nothing else than expedients for\nmaintaining the spiritual life of man outside his natural conditions of\nlabor for others,--just so all the hygienic and medical devices of the\nhuman mind for the preparation of food, drink, lodging, ventilation,\nheating, clothing, medicine, water, massage, gymnastics, electric, and\nother means of healing,--all these clever devices are merely an expedient\nto sustain the bodily life of man removed from its natural conditions of\nlabor.  It turned out that all these devices of the human mind for the\nagreeable arrangement of the physical existence of idle persons are\nprecisely analogous to those artful contrivances which people might\ninvent for the production in vessels hermetically sealed, by means of\nmechanical arrangements, of evaporation, and plants, of the air best\nfitted for breathing, when all that is needed is to open the window.  All\nthe inventions of medicine and hygiene for persons of our sphere are much\nthe same as though a mechanic should hit upon the idea of heating a steam-\nboiler which was not working, and should shut all the valves so that the\nboiler should not burst.  Only one thing is needed, instead of all these\nextremely complicated devices for pleasure, for comfort, and for medical\nand hygienic preparations, intended to save people from their spiritual\nand bodily ailments, which swallow up so much labor,--to fulfil the law\nof life; to do that which is proper not only to man, but to the animal;\nto fire off the charge of energy taken win in the shape of food, by\nmuscular exertion; to speak in plain language, to earn one's bread.  Those\nwho do not work should not eat, or they should earn as much as they have\neaten.\n\nAnd when I clearly comprehended all this, it struck me as ridiculous.\nThrough a whole series of doubts and searchings, I had arrived, by a long\ncourse of thought, at this remarkable truth: if a man has eyes, it is\nthat he may see with them; if he has ears, that he may hear; and feet,\nthat he may walk; and hands and back, that he may labor; and that if a\nman will not employ those members for that purpose for which they are\nintended, it will be the worse for him.\n\nI came to this conclusion, that, with us privileged people, the same\nthing has happened which happened with the horses of a friend of mine.\nHis steward, who was not a lover of horses, nor well versed in them, on\nreceiving his master's orders to place the best horses in the stable,\nselected them from the stud, placed them in stalls, and fed and watered\nthem; but fearing for the valuable steeds, he could not bring himself to\ntrust them to any one, and he neither rode nor drove them, nor did he\neven take them out.  The horses stood there until they were good for\nnothing.  The same thing has happened with us, but with this difference:\nthat it was impossible to deceive the horses in any way, and they were\nkept in bonds to prevent their getting out; but we are kept in an\nunnatural position that is equally injurious to us, by deceits which have\nentangled us, and which hold us like chains.\n\nWe have arranged for ourselves a life that is repugnant both to the moral\nand the physical nature of man, and all the powers of our intelligence we\nconcentrate upon assuring man that this is the most natural life\npossible.  Every thing which we call culture,--our sciences, art, and the\nperfection of the pleasant thing's of life,--all these are attempts to\ndeceive the moral requirements of man; every thing that is called hygiene\nand medicine, is an attempt to deceive the natural physical demands of\nhuman nature.  But these deceits have their bounds, and we advance to\nthem.  \"If such be the real human life, then it is better not to live at\nall,\" says the reigning and extremely fashionable philosophy of\nSchopenhauer and Hartmann.  If such is life, 'tis better for the coming\ngeneration not to live,\" say corrupt medical science and its newly\ndevised means to that end.\n\nIn the Bible, it is laid down as the law of man: \"In the sweat of thy\nface shalt thou eat bread, and in sorrow thou shalt bring forth\nchildren;\" but \"_nous avons change tout ca_,\" as Moliere's character\nsays, when expressing himself with regard to medicine, and asserting that\nthe liver was on the left side.  We have changed all that.  Men need not\nwork in order to eat, and women need not bear children.\n\nA ragged peasant roams the Krapivensky district.  During the war he was\nan agent for the purchase of grain, under an official of the commissary\ndepartment.  On being brought in contact with the official, and seeing\nhis luxurious life, the peasant lost his mind, and thought that he might\nget along without work, like gentlemen, and receive proper support from\nthe Emperor.  This peasant now calls himself \"the Most Serene Warrior,\nPrince Blokhin, purveyor of war supplies of all descriptions.\"  He says\nof himself that he has \"passed through all the ranks,\" and that when he\nshall have served out his term in the army, he is to receive from the\nEmperor an unlimited bank account, clothes, uniforms, horses, equipages,\ntea, pease and servants, and all sorts of luxuries.  This man is\nridiculous in the eyes of many, but to me the significance of his madness\nis terrible.  To the question, whether he does not wish to work, he\nalways replies proudly: \"I am much obliged.  The peasants will attend to\nall that.\"  When you tell him that the peasants do not wish to work,\neither, he answers: \"It is not difficult for the peasant.\"\n\nHe generally talks in a high-flown style, and is fond of verbal\nsubstantives.  \"Now there is an invention of machinery for the\nalleviation of the peasants,\" he says; \"there is no difficulty for them\nin that.\"  When he is asked what he lives for, he replies, \"To pass the\ntime.\"  I always look on this man as on a mirror.  I behold in him myself\nand all my class.  To pass through all the ranks (_tchini_) in order to\nlive for the purpose of passing the time, and to receive an unlimited\nbank account, while the peasants, for whom this is not difficult, because\nof the invention of machinery, do the whole business,--this is the\ncomplete formula of the idiotic creed of the people of our sphere in\nsociety.\n\nWhen we inquire precisely what we are to do, surely, we ask nothing, but\nmerely assert--only not in such good faith as the Most Serene Prince\nBlokhin, who has been promoted through all ranks, and lost his mind--that\nwe do not wish to do any thing.\n\nHe who will reflect for a moment cannot ask thus, because, on the one\nhand, every thing that he uses has been made, and is made, by the hands\nof men; and, on the other side, as soon as a healthy man has awakened and\neaten, the necessity of working with feet and hands and brain makes\nitself felt.  In order to find work and to work, he need only not hold\nback: only a person who thinks work disgraceful--like the lady who\nrequests her guest not to take the trouble to open the door, but to wait\nuntil she can call a man for this purpose--can put to himself the\nquestion, what he is to do.\n\nThe point does not lie in inventing work,--you can never get through all\nthe work that is to be done for yourself and for others,--but the point\nlies in weaning one's self from that criminal view of life in accordance\nwith which I eat and sleep for my own pleasure; and in appropriating to\nmyself that just and simple view with which the laboring man grows up and\nlives,--that man is, first of all, a machine, which loads itself with\nfood in order to sustain itself, and that it is therefore disgraceful,\nwrong, and impossible to eat and not to work; that to eat and not to work\nis the most impious, unnatural, and, therefore, dangerous position, in\nthe nature of the sin of Sodom.  Only let this acknowledgement be made,\nand there will be work; and work will always be joyous and satisfying to\nboth spiritual and bodily requirements.\n\nThe matter presented itself to me thus: The day is divided for every man,\nby food itself, into four parts, or four stints, as the peasants call it:\n(1) before breakfast; (2) from breakfast until dinner; (3) from dinner\nuntil four o'clock; (4) from four o'clock until evening.\n\nA man's employment, whatever it may be that he feels a need for in his\nown person, is also divided into four categories: (1) the muscular\nemployment of power, labor of the hands, feet, shoulders, back,--hard\nlabor, from which you sweat; (2) the employment of the fingers and\nwrists, the employment of artisan skill; (3) the employment of the mind\nand imagination; (4) the employment of intercourse with others.\n\nThe benefits which man enjoys are also divided into four categories.\nEvery man enjoys, in the first place, the product of hard labor,--grain,\ncattle, buildings, wells, ponds, and so forth; in the second place, the\nresults of artisan toil,--clothes, boots, utensils, and so forth; in the\nthird place, the products of mental activity,--science, art; and, in the\nforth place, established intercourse between people.\n\nAnd it struck me, that the best thing of all would be to arrange the\noccupations of the day in such a manner as to exercise all four of man's\ncapacities, and myself produce all these four sorts of benefits which men\nmake use of, so that one portion of the day, the first, should be\ndedicated to hard labor; the second, to intellectual labor; the third, to\nartisan labor; and the forth, to intercourse with people.  It struck me,\nthat only then would that false division of labor, which exists in our\nsociety, be abrogated, and that just division of labor established, which\ndoes not destroy man's happiness.\n\nI, for example, have busied myself all my life with intellectual labor.  I\nsaid to myself, that I had so divided labor, that writing, that is to\nsay, intellectual labor, is my special employment, and the other matters\nwhich were necessary to me I had left free (or relegated, rather) to\nothers.  But this, which would appear to have been the most advantageous\narrangement for intellectual toil, was precisely the most disadvantageous\nto mental labor, not to mention its injustice.\n\nAll my life long, I have regulated my whole life, food, sleep, diversion,\nin view of these hours of special labor, and I have done nothing except\nthis work.  The result of this has been, in the first place, that I have\ncontracted my sphere of observations and knowledge, and have frequently\nhad no means for the study even of problems which often presented\nthemselves in describing the life of the people (for the life of the\ncommon people is the every-day problem of intellectual activity).  I was\nconscious of my ignorance, and was obliged to obtain instruction, to ask\nabout things which are known by every man not engaged in special labor.\nIn the second place, the result was, that I had been in the habit of\nsitting down to write when I had no inward impulse to write, and when no\none demanded from me writing, as writing, that is to say, my thoughts,\nbut when my name was merely wanted for journalistic speculation.  I tried\nto squeeze out of myself what I could.  Sometimes I could extract\nnothing; sometimes it was very wretched stuff, and I was dissatisfied and\ngrieved.  But now that I have learned the indispensability of physical\nlabor, both hard and artisan labor, the result is entirely different.  My\ntime has been occupied, however modestly, at least usefully and\ncheerfully, and in a manner instructive to me.  And therefore I have torn\nmyself from that indubitably useful and cheerful occupation for my\nspecial duties only when I felt an inward impulse, and when I saw a\ndemand made upon me directly for my literary work.\n\nAnd these demands called into play only good nature, and therefore the\nusefulness and the joy of my special labor.  Thus it turned out, that\nemployment in those physical labors which are indispensable to me, as\nthey are to every man, not only did not interfere with my special\nactivity, but was an indispensable condition of the usefulness, worth,\nand cheerfulness of that activity.\n\nThe bird is so constructed, that it is indispensable that it should fly,\nwalk, peek, combine; and when it does all this, it is satisfied and\nhappy,--then it is a bird.  Just so man, when he walks, turns, raises,\ndrags, works with his fingers, with his eyes, with his ears, with his\ntongue, with his brain,--only then is he satisfied, only then is he a\nman.\n\nA man who acknowledges his appointment to labor will naturally strive\ntowards that rotation of labor which is peculiar to him, for the\nsatisfaction of his inward requirements; and he can alter this labor in\nno other way than when he feels within himself an irresistible summons to\nsome exclusive form of labor, and when the demands of other men for that\nlabor are expressed.\n\nThe character of labor is such, that the satisfaction of all a man's\nrequirements demands that same succession of the sorts of work which\nrenders work not a burden but a joy.  Only a false creed, [Greek text\nwhich cannot be reproduced], to the effect that labor is a curse, could\nhave led men to rid themselves of certain kinds of work; i.e., to the\nappropriation of the work of others, demanding the forced occupation with\nspecial labor of other people, which they call division of labor.\n\nWe have only grown used to our false comprehension of the regulation of\nlabor, because it seems to us that the shoemaker, the machinist, the\nwriter, or the musician will be better off if he gets rid of the labor\npeculiar to man.  Where there is no force exercised over the labor of\nothers, or any false belief in the joy of idleness, not a single man will\nget rid of physical labor, necessary for the satisfaction of his\nrequirements, for the sake of special work; because special work is not a\nprivilege, but a sacrifice which man offers to inward pressure and to his\nbrethren.\n\nThe shoemaker in the country, who abandons his wonted labor in the field,\nwhich is so grateful to him, and betakes himself to his trade, in order\nto repair or make boots for his neighbors, always deprives himself of the\npleasant toil of the field, simply because he likes to make boots,\nbecause he knows that no one else can do it so well as he, and that\npeople will be grateful to him for it; but the desire cannot occur to\nhim, to deprive himself, for the whole period of his life, of the\ncheering rotation of labor.\n\nIt is the same with the _starosta_ [village elder], the machinist, the\nwriter, the learned man.  To us, with our corrupt conception of things,\nit seems, that if a steward has been relegated to the position of a\npeasant by his master, or if a minister has been sent to the colonies, he\nhas been chastised, he has been ill-treated.  But in reality a benefit\nhas been conferred on him; that is to say, his special, hard labor has\nbeen changed into a cheerful rotation of labor.  In a naturally\nconstituted society, this is quite otherwise.  I know of one community\nwhere the people supported themselves.  One of the members of this\nsociety was better educated than the rest; and they called upon him to\nread, so that he was obliged to prepare himself during the day, in order\nthat he might read in the evening.  This he did gladly, feeling that he\nwas useful to others, and that he was performing a good deed.  But he\ngrew weary of exclusively intellectual work, and his health suffered from\nit.  The members of the community took pity on him, and requested him to\ngo to work in the fields.\n\nFor men who regard labor as the substance and the joy of life, the basis,\nthe foundation of life will always be the struggle with nature,--labor\nboth agricultural and mechanical, and intellectual, and the establishment\nof communion between men.  Departure from one or from many of these\nvarieties of labor, and the adoption of special labor, will then only\noccur when the man possessed of a special branch, and loving this work,\nand knowing that he can perform it better than others, sacrifices his own\nprofit for the satisfaction of the direct demands made upon him.  Only on\ncondition of such a view of labor, and of the natural division of labor\narising from it, is that curse which is laid upon our idea of labor\nabrogated, and does every sort of work becomes always a joy; because a\nman will either perform that labor which is undoubtedly useful and\njoyous, and not dull, or he will possess the consciousness of\nself-abnegation in the fulfilment of more difficult and restricted toil,\nwhich he exercises for the good of others.\n\nBut the division of labor is more profitable.  More profitable for whom?\nIt is more profitable in making the greatest possible quantity of calico,\nand boots in the shortest possible time.  But who will make these boots\nand this calico?  There are people who, for whole generations, make only\nthe heads of pins.  Then how can this be more profitable for men?  If the\npoint lies in manufacturing as much calico and as many pins as possible,\nthen this is so.  But the point concerns men and their welfare.  And the\nwelfare of men lies in life.  And life is work.  How, then, can the\nnecessity for burdensome, oppressive toil be more profitable for people?\nFor all men, that one thing is more profitable which I desire for\nmyself,--the utmost well-being, and the gratification of all those\nrequirements, both bodily and spiritual, of the conscience and of the\nreason, which are imposed upon me.  And in my own case I have found, that\nfor my own welfare, and for the satisfaction of these needs of mine, all\nthat I require is to cure myself of that folly in which I had been\nliving, in company with the Krapivensky madman, and which consisted in\npresupposing that some people need not work, and that certain other\npeople should direct all this, and that I should therefore do only that\nwhich is natural to man, i.e., labor for the satisfaction of their\nrequirements; and, having discovered this, I convinced myself that labor\nfor the satisfaction of one's own needs falls of itself into various\nkinds of labor, each one of which possesses its own charm, and which not\nonly do not constitute a burden, but which serve as a respite to one\nanother.  I have made a rough division of this labor (not insisting on\nthe justice of this arrangement), in accordance with my own needs in\nlife, into four parts, corresponding to the four stints of labor of which\nthe day is composed; and I seek in this manner to satisfy my\nrequirements.\n\nThese, then, are the answers which I have found for myself to the\nquestion, \"What is to be done?\"\n\n_First_, Not to lie to myself, however far removed my path in life may be\nfrom the true path which my reason discloses to me.\n\n_Second_, To renounce my consciousness of my own righteousness, my\nsuperiority especially over other people; and to acknowledge my guilt.\n\n_Third_, To comply with that eternal and indubitable law of humanity,--the\nlabor of my whole being, feeling no shame at any sort of work; to contend\nwith nature for the maintenance of my own life and the lives of others.\n\n\n\n\nON LABOR AND LUXURY.\n\n\nI concluded, after having said every thing that concerned myself; but I\ncannot refrain, from a desire to say something more which concerns\neverybody, from verifying the deductions which I have drawn, by\ncomparisons.  I wish to say why it seems to me that a very large number\nof our social class ought to come to the same thing to which I have come;\nand also to state what will be the result if a number of people should\ncome to the same conclusion.\n\nI think that many will come to the point which I have attained: because\nif the people of our sphere, of our caste, will only take a serious look\nat themselves, then young persons, who are in search of personnel\nhappiness, will stand aghast at the ever-increasing wretchedness of their\nlife, which is plainly leading them to destruction; conscientious people\nwill be shocked at the cruelty and the illegality of their life; and\ntimid people will be terrified by the danger of their mode of life.\n\n_The Wretchedness of our Life_:--However much we rich people may reform,\nhowever much we may bolster up this delusive life of ours with the aid of\nour science and art, this life will become, with every year, both weaker\nand more diseased; with every year the number of suicides, and the\nrefusals to bear children, will increase; with every year we shall feel\nthe growing sadness of our life; with every generation, the new\ngenerations of people of this sphere of society will become more puny.\n\nIt is obvious that in this path of the augmentation of the comforts and\nthe pleasures of life, in the path of every sort of cure, and of\nartificial preparations for the improvements of the sight, the hearing,\nthe appetite, false teeth, false hair, respiration, massage, and so on,\nthere can be no salvation.  That people who do not make use of these\nperfected preparations are stronger and healthier, has become such a\ntruism, that advertisements are printed in the newspapers of\nstomach-powders for the wealthy, under the heading, \"Blessings for the\npoor,\" {252} in which it is stated that only the poor are possessed of\nproper digestive powers, and that the rich require assistance, and, among\nother various sorts of assistance, these powders.  It is impossible to\nset the matter right by any diversions, comforts, and powders, whatever;\nonly a change of life can rectify it.\n\n_The Inconsistency of our Life with our Conscience_:--however we may seek\nto justify our betrayal of humanity to ourselves, all our justifications\nwill crumble into dust in the presence of the evidence.  All around us,\npeople are dying of excessive labor and of privation; we ruin the labor\nof others, the food and clothing which are indispensable to them, merely\nwith the object of procuring diversion and variety for our wearisome\nlives.  And, therefore, the conscience of a man of our circle, if even a\nspark of it be left in him, cannot be lulled to sleep, and it poisons all\nthese comforts and those pleasures of life which our brethren, suffering\nand perishing in their toil, procure for us.  But not only does every\nconscientious man feel this himself,--he would be glad to forget it, but\nthis he cannot do.\n\nThe new, ephemeral justifications of science for science, of art for art,\ndo not exclude the light of a simple, healthy judgment.  The conscience\nof man cannot be quieted by fresh devices; and it can only be calmed by a\nchange of life, for which and in which no justification will be required.\n\nTwo causes prove to the people of the wealthy classes the necessity for a\nchange of life: the requirements of their individual welfare, and of the\nwelfare of those most nearly connected with them, which cannot be\nsatisfied in the path in which they now stand; and the necessity of\nsatisfying the voice of conscience, the impossibility of accomplishing\nwhich is obvious in their present course.  These causes, taken together,\nshould lead people of the wealthy classes to alter their mode of life, to\nsuch a change as shall satisfy their well-being and their conscience.\n\nAnd there is only one such change possible: they must cease to deceive,\nthey must repent, they must acknowledge that labor is not a curse, but\nthe glad business of life.  \"But what will be the result if I do toil for\nten, or eight, or five hours at physical work, which thousands of\npeasants will gladly perform for the money which I possess?\" people say\nto this.\n\nThe first, simplest, and indubitable result will be, that you will become\na more cheerful, a healthier, a more alert, and a better man, and that\nyou will learn to know the real life, from which you have hidden\nyourself, or which has been hidden from you.\n\nThe second result will be, that, if you possess a conscience, it will not\nonly cease to suffer as it now suffers when it gazes upon the toil of\nothers, the significance of which we, through ignorance, either always\nexaggerate or depreciate, but you will constantly experience a glad\nconsciousness that, with every day, you are doing more and more to\nsatisfy the demands of your conscience, and you will escape from that\nfearful position of such an accumulation of evil heaped upon your life\nthat there exists no possibility of doing good to people; you will\nexperience the joy of living in freedom, with the possibility of good;\nyou will break a window,--an opening into the domain of the moral world\nwhich has been closed to you.\n\n\"But this is absurd,\" people usually say to you, for people of our\nsphere, with profound problems standing before us,--problems\nphilosophical, scientific, artistic, ecclesiastical and social.  It would\nbe absurd for us ministers, senators, academicians professors, artists, a\nquarter of an hour of whose time is so prized by people, to waste our\ntime on any thing of that sort, would it not?--on the cleaning of our\nboots, the washing of our shirts, in hoeing, in planting potatoes, or in\nfeeding our chickens and our cows, and so on; in those things which are\ngladly done for us, not only by our porter or our cook, but by thousands\nof people who value our time?\n\nBut why should we dress ourselves, wash and comb our hair? why should we\nhand chairs to ladies, to guests? why should we open and shut doors, hand\nladies, into carriages, and do a hundred other things which serfs\nformerly did for us?  Because we think that it is necessary so to do;\nthat human dignity demands it; that it is the duty, the obligation, of\nman.\n\nAnd the same is the case with physical labor.  The dignity of man, his\nsacred duty and obligation, consists in using the hands and feet which\nhave been given to him, for that for which they were given to him, and\nthat which consumes food on the labor which produces that food; and that\nthey should be used, not on that which shall cause them to pine away, not\nas objects to wash and clean, and merely for the purpose of stuffing into\none's mouth food, drink, and cigarettes.  This is the significance that\nphysical labor possesses for man in every community; but in our\ncommunity, where the avoidance of this law of labor has occasioned the\nunhappiness of a whole class of people, employment in physical labor\nacquires still another significance,--the significance of a sermon, and\nof an occupation which removes a terrible misfortune that is threatening\nmankind.\n\nTo say that physical labor is an insignificant occupation for a man of\neducation, is equivalent to saying, in connection with the erection of a\ntemple: \"What does it matter whether one stone is laid accurately in its\nplace?\"  Surely, it is precisely under conditions of modesty, simplicity,\nand imperceptibleness, that every magnificent thing is accomplished; it\nis impossible to plough, to build, to pasture cattle, or even to think,\namid glare, thunder, and illumination.  Grand and genuine deeds are\nalways simple and modest.  And such is the grandest of all deeds which we\nhave to deal with,--the reconciliation of those fearful contradictions\namid which we are living.  And the deeds which will reconcile these\ncontradictions are those modest, imperceptible, apparently ridiculous\nones, the serving one's self, physical labor for one's self, and, if\npossible, for others also, which we rich people must do, if we understand\nthe wretchedness, the unscrupulousness, and the danger of the position\ninto which we have drifted.\n\nWhat will be the result if I, or some other man, or a handful of men, do\nnot despise physical labor, but regard it as indispensable to our\nhappiness and to the appeasement of our conscience?  This will be the\nresult, that there will be one man, two men, or a handful of men, who,\ncoming into conflict with no one, without governmental or revolutionary\nviolence, will decide for ourselves the terrible question which stands\nbefore all the world, and which sets people at variance, and that we\nshall settle it in such wise that life will be better to them, that their\nconscience will be more at peace, and that they will have nothing to\nfear; the result will be, that other people will see that the happiness\nwhich they are seeking everywhere, lies there around them; that the\napparently unreconcilable contradictions of conscience and of the\nconstitution of this world will be reconciled in the easiest and most\njoyful manner; and that, instead of fearing the people who surround us,\nit will become necessary for us to draw near to them and to love them.\n\nThe apparently insoluble economical and social problem is merely the\nproblem of Kriloff's casket. {256}  The casket will simply open.  And it\nwill not open, so long as people do not do simply that first and simple\nthing--open it.\n\nA man sets up what he imagines to be his own peculiar library, his own\nprivate picture-gallery, his own apartments and clothing, he accumulates\nhis own money in order therewith to purchase every thing that he needs;\nand the end of it all is, that engaged with this fancied property of his,\nas though it were real, he utterly loses his sense of that which actually\nconstitutes his property, on which he can really labor, which can really\nserve him, and which will always remain in his power, and of that which\nis not and cannot be his own property, whatever he may call it, and which\ncannot serve as the object of his occupation.\n\nWords always possess a clear significance until we deliberately attribute\nto them a false sense.\n\nWhat does property signify?\n\nProperty signifies that which has been given to me, which belongs to me\nexclusively; that with which I can always do any thing I like; that which\nno one can take away from me; that which will remain mine to the end of\nmy life, and precisely that which I am bound to use, increase, and\nimprove.  Now, there exists but one such piece of property for any\nman,--himself.\n\nHence it results that half a score of men may till the soil, hew wood,\nand make shoes, not from necessity, but in consequence of an\nacknowledgment of the fact that man should work, and that the more he\nworks the better it will be for him.  It results, that half a score of\nmen,--or even one man, may demonstrate to people, both by his confession\nand by his actions, that the terrible evil from which they are suffering\nis not a law of fate, the will of God, or any historical necessity; but\nthat it is merely a superstition, which is not in the least powerful or\nterrible, but weak and insignificant, in which we must simply cease to\nbelieve, as in idols, in order to rid ourselves of it, and in order to\nrend it like a paltry spider's web.  Men who will labor to fulfil the\nglad law of their existence, that is to say, those who work in order to\nfulfil the law of toil, will rid themselves of that frightful\nsuperstition of property for themselves.\n\nIf the life of a man is filled with toil, and if he knows the delights of\nrest, he requires no chambers, furniture, and rich and varied clothing;\nhe requires less costly food; he needs no means of locomotion, or of\ndiversion.  But the principal thing is, that the man who regards labor as\nthe business and the joy of his life will not seek that relief from his\nlabor which the labors of others might afford him.  The man who regards\nlife as a matter of labor will propose to himself as his object, in\nproportion as he acquires understanding, skill, and endurance, greater\nand greater toil, which shall constantly fill his life to a greater and\ngreater degree.  For such a man, who sees the meaning of his life in work\nitself, and not in its results, for the acquisition of property, there\ncan be no question as to the implements of labor.  Although such a man\nwill always select the most suitable implements, that man will receive\nthe same satisfaction from work and rest, when he employs the most\nunsuitable implements.  If there be a steam-plough, he will use it; if\nthere is none, he will till the soil with a horse-plough, and, if there\nis none, with a primitive curved bit of wood shod with iron, or he will\nuse a rake; and, under all conditions, he will equally attain his object.\nHe will pass his life in work that is useful to men, and he will\ntherefore win complete satisfaction.\n\nAnd the position of such a man, both in his external and internal\nconditions, will be more happy than that of the man who devotes his life\nto the acquisition of property.  Such a man will never suffer need in his\noutward circumstances, because people, perceiving his desire to work,\nwill always try to provide him with the most productive work, as they\nproportion a mill to the water-power.  And they will render his material\nexistence free from care, which they will not do for people who are\nstriving to acquire property.  And freedom from anxiety in his material\nconditions is all that a man needs.  Such a man will always be happier in\nhis internal conditions, than the one who seeks wealth, because the first\nwill never gain that which he is striving for, while the latter always\nwill, in proportion to his powers.  The feeble, the aged, the dying,\naccording to the proverb, \"With the written absolution in his hands,\"\nwill receive full satisfaction, and the love and sympathy of men.\n\nWhat, then, will be the outcome of a few eccentric individuals, or\nmadmen, tilling the soil, making shoes, and so on, instead of smoking\ncigarettes, playing whist, and roaming about everywhere to relieve their\ntedium, during the space of the ten leisure hours a day which every\nintellectual worker enjoys?  This will be the outcome: that these madmen\nwill show in action, that that imaginary property for which men suffer,\nand for which they torment themselves and others, is not necessary for\nhappiness; that it is oppressive, and that it is mere superstition; that\nproperty, true property, consists only in one's own head and hands; and\nthat, in order to actually exploit this real property with profit and\npleasure, it is necessary to reject the false conception of property\noutside one's own body, upon which we expend the best efforts of our\nlives.  The outcome us, that these men will show, that only when a man\nceases to believe in imaginary property, only when he brings into play\nhis real property, his capacities, his body, so that they will yield him\nfruit a hundred-fold, and happiness of which we have no idea,--only then\nwill he be so strong, useful, and good a man, that, wherever you may\nfling him, he will always land on his feet; that he will everywhere and\nalways be a brother to everybody; that he will be intelligible to\neverybody, and necessary, and good.  And men looking on one, on ten such\nmadmen, will understand what they must all do in order to loose that\nterrible knot in which the superstition regarding property has entangled\nthem, in order to free themselves from the unfortunate position in which\nthey are all now groaning with one voice, not knowing whence to find an\nissue from it.\n\nBut what can one man do amid a throng which does not agree with him?\nThere is no argument which could more clearly demonstrate the terror of\nthose who make use of it than this.  The _burlaki_ {260} drag their bark\nagainst the current.  There cannot be found a _burlak_ so stupid that he\nwill refuse to pull away at his towing-rope because he alone is not able\nto drag the bark against the current.  He who, in addition to his rights\nto an animal life, to eat and sleep, recognizes any sort of human\nobligation, knows very well in what that human obligation lies, just as\nthe boatman knows it when the tow-rope is attached to him.  The boatman\nknows very well that all he has to do is to pull at the rope, and proceed\nin the given direction.  He will seek what he is to do, and how he is to\ndo it, only when the tow-rope is removed from him.  And as it is with\nthese boatmen and with all people who perform ordinary work, so it is\nwith the affairs of all humanity.  All that each man needs is not to\nremove the tow-rope, but to pull away on it in the direction which his\nmaster orders.  And, for this purpose, one sort of reason is bestowed on\nall men, in order that the direction may be always the same.  And this\ndirection has obviously been so plainly indicated, that both in the life\nof all the people about us, and in the conscience of each individual man,\nonly he who does not wish to work can say that he does not see it.  Then,\nwhat is the outcome of this?\n\nThis: that one, perhaps two men, will pull; a third will look on, and\nwill join them; and in this manner the best people will unite until the\naffair begins to start, and make progress, as though itself inspiring and\nbidding thereto even those who do not understand what is being done, and\nwhy it is being done.  First, to the contingent of men who are\nconsciously laboring in order to comply with the law of God, there will\nbe added the people who only half understand and who only half confess\nthe faith; then a still greater number of people who admit the same\ndoctrine will join them, merely on the faith of the originators; and\nfinally the majority of mankind will recognize this, and then it will\ncome to pass, that men will cease to ruin themselves, and will find\nhappiness.\n\nThis will happen,--and it will be very speedily,--when people of our set,\nand after them a vast majority, shall cease to think it disgraceful to\npay visits in untanned boots, and not disgraceful to walk in overshoes\npast people who have no shoes at all; that it is disgraceful not to\nunderstand French, and not disgraceful to eat bread and not to know how\nto set it; that it is disgraceful not to have a starched shirt and clean\nclothes, and not disgraceful to go about in clean garments thereby\nshowing one's idleness; that it is disgraceful to have dirty hands, and\nnot disgraceful not to have hands with callouses.\n\nAll this will come to pass when the sense of the community shall demand\nit.  But the sense of the community will demand this when those delusions\nin the imagination of men, which have concealed the truth from them,\nshall have been abolished.  Within my own recollection, great changes\nhave taken place in this respect.  And these changes have taken place\nonly because the general opinion has undergone an alteration.  Within my\nmemory, it has come to pass, that whereas it used to be disgraceful for\nwealthy people not to drive out with four horses and two footmen, and not\nto keep a valet or a maid to dress them, wash them, put on their shoes,\nand so forth; it has now suddenly become discreditable for one not to put\non one's own clothes and shoes for one's self, and to drive with footmen.\nPublic opinion has effected all these changes.  Are not the changes which\npublic opinion is now preparing clear?\n\nAll that was necessary five and twenty years ago was to abolish the\ndelusion which justified the right of serfdom, and public opinion as to\nwhat was praiseworthy and what was discreditable changed, and life\nchanged also.  All that is now requisite is to annihilate the delusion\nwhich justifies the power of money over men, and public opinion will\nundergo a change as to what is creditable and what is disgraceful, and\nlife will be changed also; and the annihilation of the delusion, of the\njustification of the moneyed power, and the change in public opinion in\nthis respect, will be promptly accomplished.  This delusion is already\nflickering, and the truth will very shortly be disclosed.  All that is\nrequired is to gaze steadfastly, in order to perceive clearly that change\nin public opinion which has already taken place, and which is simply not\nrecognized, not fitted with a word.  The educated man of our day has but\nto reflect ever so little on what will be the outcome of those views of\nthe world which he professes, in order to convince himself that the\nestimate of good and bad, by which, by virtue of his inertia, he is\nguided in life, directly contradict his views of the world.\n\nAll that the man of our century has to do is to break away for a moment\nfrom the life which runs on by force of inertia, to survey it from the\none side, and subject it to that same standard which arises from his\nwhole view of the world, in order to be horrified at the definition of\nhis whole life, which follows from his views of the world.  Let us take,\nfor instance, a young man (the energy of life is greater in the young,\nand self-consciousness is more obscured).  Let us take, for instance, a\nyoung man belonging to the wealthy classes, whatever his tendencies may\nchance to be.\n\nEvery good young man considers it disgraceful not to help an old man, a\nchild, or a woman; he thinks, in a general way, that it is a shame to\nsubject the life or health of another person to danger, or to shun it\nhimself.  Every one considers that shameful and brutal which Schuyler\nrelates of the Kirghiz in times of tempest,--to send out the women and\nthe aged females to hold fast the corners of the _kibitka_ [tent] during\nthe storm, while they themselves continue to sit within the tent, over\ntheir _kumis_ [fermented mare's-milk].  Every one thinks it shameful to\nmake a week man work for one; that it is still more disgraceful in time\nof danger--on a burning ship, for example,--being strong, to be the first\nto seat one's self in the lifeboat,--to thrust aside the weak and leave\nthem in danger, and so on.\n\nAll men regard this as disgraceful, and would not do it upon any account,\nin certain exceptional circumstances; but in every-day life, the very\nsame actions, and others still worse, are concealed from them by\ndelusions, and they perpetrate them incessantly.  The establishment of\nthis new view of life is the business of public opinion.  Public opinion,\nsupporting such a view, will speedily be formed.\n\nWomen form public opinion, and women are especially powerful in our day.\n\n\n\n\nTO WOMEN.\n\n\nAs stated in the Bible, a law was given to the man and the woman,--to the\nman, the law of labor; to the woman, the law of bearing children.\nAlthough we, with our science, _avons change tout ca_, the law for the\nman, as for woman, remains as unalterable as the liver in its place, and\ndeparture from it is equally punished with inevitable death.  The only\ndifference lies in this, that departure from the law, in the case of the\nman, is punished so immediately in the future, that it may be designated\nas present punishment; but departure from the law, in the case of the\nwoman, receives its chastisement in a more distant future.\n\nThe general departure of all men from the law exterminates people\nimmediately; the departure from it of all women annihilates it in the\nsucceeding generation.  But the evasion by some men and some women does\nnot exterminate the human race, and only deprives those who evade it of\nthe rational nature of man. The departure of men from this law began long\nago, among those classes who were in a position to subject others, and,\nconstantly spreading, it has continued down to our own times; and in our\nown day it has reached folly, the ideal consisting in evasion of the\nlaw,--the ideal expressed by Prince Blokhin, and shared in by Renan and\nby the whole cultivated world: \"Machines will work, and people will be\nbundles of nerves devoted to enjoyment.\"\n\nThere was hardly any departure from the law in the part of women, it was\nexpressed only in prostitution, and in the refusal to bear children--in\nprivate cases.  The women belonging to the wealthy classes fulfilled\ntheir law, while the men did not comply with theirs; and therefore the\nwomen became stronger, and continued to rule, and must rule, over men who\nhave evaded the law, and who have, therefore, lost their senses.  It is\ngenerally stated that woman (the woman of Paris in particular is\nchildless) has become so bewitching, through making use of all the means\nof civilization, that she has gained the upper hand over man by this\nfascination of hers.  This is not only unjust, but precisely the reverse\nof the truth.  It is not the childless woman who has conquered man, but\nthe mother, that woman who has fulfilled her law, while the man has not\nfulfilled his.  That woman who deliberately remains childless, and who\nentrances man with her shoulders and her locks, is not the woman who\nrules over men, but the one who has been corrupted by man, who has\ndescended to his level,--to the level of the vicious man,--who has evaded\nthe law equally with himself, and who has lost, in company with him,\nevery rational idea of life.\n\nFrom this error springs that remarkable piece of stupidity which is\ncalled the rights of women.  The formula of these rights of women is as\nfollows: \"Here! you man,\" says the woman, \"you have departed from your\nlaw of real labor, and you want us to bear the burden of our real labor.\nNo, if this is to be so, we understand, as well as you do, how to perform\nthose semblances of labor which you exercise in banks, ministries,\nuniversities, and academies; we desire, like yourselves, under the\npretext of the division of labor, to make use of the labor of others, and\nto live for the gratification of our caprices alone.\"  They say this, and\nprove by their action that they understand no worse, if not better, than\nmen, how to exercise this semblance of labor.\n\nThis so-called woman question has come up, and could only come up, among\nmen who have departed from the law of actual labor.  All that is required\nis, to return to that, and this question cannot exist.  Woman, having her\nown inevitable task, will never demand the right to share the toil of men\nin the mines and in the fields.  She could only demand to share in the\nfictitious labors of the men of the wealthy classes.\n\nThe woman of our circle has been, and still is, stronger than the man,\nnot by virtue of her fascinations, not through her cleverness in\nperforming the same pharisaical semblance of work as man, but because she\nhas not stepped out from under the law that she should undergo that real\nlabor, with danger to her life, with exertion to the last degree, from\nwhich the man of the wealthy classes has excused herself.\n\nBut, within my memory, a departure from this law on the part of woman,\nthat is to say, her fall, has begun; and, within my memory, it has become\nmore and more the case.  Woman, having lost the law, has acquired the\nbelief that her strength lies in the witchery of her charms, or in her\nskill in pharisaical pretences at intellectual work.  And both things are\nbad for the children.  And, within my memory, women of the wealthy\nclasses have come to refuse to bear children.  And so mothers who hold\nthe power in their hands let it escape them, in order to make way for the\ndissolute women, and to put themselves on a level with them.  The evil is\nalready wide-spread, and is extending farther and farther every day; and\nsoon it will lay hold on all the women of the wealthy classes, and then\nthey will compare themselves with men: and in company with them, they\nwill lose the rational meaning of life.  But there is still time.\n\nIf women would but comprehend their destiny, their power, and use it for\nthe salvation of their husbands, brothers, and children,--for the\nsalvation of all men!\n\nWomen of the wealthy classes who are mothers, the salvation of the men of\nour world from the evils from which they are suffering, lies in your\nhands.\n\nNot those women who are occupied with their dainty figures, with their\nbustles, their hair-dressing, and their attraction for men, and who bear\nchildren against their will, with despair, and hand them over to nurses;\nnor those who attend various courses of lectures, and discourse of\npsychometric centres and differentiation, and who also endeavor to escape\nbearing children, in order that it may not interfere with their folly\nwhich they call culture: but those women and mothers, who, possessing the\npower to refuse to bear children, consciously and in a straightforward\nway submit to this eternal, unchangeable law, knowing that the burden and\nthe difficulty of such submission is their appointed lot in life,--these\nare the women and mothers of our wealthy classes, in whose hands, more\nthan in those of any one else, lies the salvation of the men of our\nsphere in society from the miseries that oppress them.\n\nYe women and mothers who deliberately submit yourselves to the law of\nGod, you alone in our wretched, deformed circle, which has lost the\nsemblance of humanity, you alone know the whole of the real meaning of\nlife, according to the law of God; and you alone, by your example, can\ndemonstrate to people that happiness in life, in submission to the will\nof God, of which they are depriving themselves.  You alone know those\nraptures and those joys which invade the whole being, that bliss which is\nappointed for the man who does not depart from the law of God.  You know\nthe happiness of love for your husbands,--a happiness which does not come\nto an end, which does not break off short, like all other forms of\nhappiness, and which constitutes the beginning of a new happiness,--of\nlove for your child.  You alone, when you are simple and obedient to the\nwill of God, know not that farcical pretence of labor which the men of\nour circle call work, and know that the labor imposed by God on men, and\nknow its true rewards, the bliss which it confers.  You know this, when,\nafter the raptures of love, you await with emotion, fear, and terror that\ntorturing state of pregnancy which renders you ailing for nine months,\nwhich brings you to the verge of death, and to intolerable suffering and\npain.  You know the conditions of true labor, when, with joy, you await\nthe approach and the increase of the most terrible torture, after which\nto you alone comes the bliss which you well know.  You know this, when,\nimmediately after this torture, without respite, without a break, you\nundertake another series of toils and sufferings,--nursing,--in which\nprocess you at one and the same time deny yourselves, and subdue to your\nfeelings the very strongest human need, that of sleep, which, as the\nproverb says, is dearer than father or mother; and for months and years\nyou never get a single sound, unbroken might's rest, and sometimes, nay,\noften, you do not sleep at all for a period of several nights in\nsuccession, but with failing arms you walk alone, punishing the sick\nchild who is breaking your heart.  And when you do all this, applauded by\nno one, and expecting no praises for it from any one, nor any\nreward,--when you do this, not as an heroic deed, but like the laborer in\nthe Gospel when he came from the field, considering that you have done\nonly that which was your duty, then you know what the false, pretentious\nlabor of men performed for glory really is, and that true labor is\nfulfilling the will of God, whose command you feel in your heart.  You\nknow that if you are a true mother it makes no difference that no one has\nseen your toil, that no one has praised you for it, but that it has only\nbeen looked upon as what must needs be so, and that even those for whom\nyour have labored not only do not thank you, but often torture and\nreproach you.  And with the next child you do the same: again you suffer,\nagain you undergo the fearful, invisible labor; and again you expect no\nreward from any one, and yet you feel the sane satisfaction.\n\nIf you are like this, you will not say after two children, or after\ntwenty, that you have done enough, just as the laboring man fifty years\nof age will not say that he has worked enough, while he still continues\nto eat and to sleep, and while his muscles still demand work; if you are\nlike this, your will not cast the task of nursing and care-taking upon\nsome other mother, just as a laboring man will not give another man the\nwork which he has begun, and almost completed, to finish: because into\nthis work you will throw your life.  And therefore the more there is of\nthis work, the fuller and the happier is your life.\n\nAnd when you are like this, for the good fortune of men, you will apply\nthat law of fulfilling God's will, by which you guide your life, to the\nlives of your husband, of your children, and of those most nearly\nconnected with you.  If your are like this, and know from your own\nexperience, that only self-sacrificing, unseen, unrewarded labor,\naccompanied with danger to life and to the extreme bounds of endurance,\nfor the lives of others, is the appointed lot of man, which affords him\nsatisfaction, then you will announce these demands to others; you will\nurge your husband to the same toil; and you will measure and value the\ndignity of men acceding to this toil; and for this toil you will also\nprepare your children.\n\nOnly that mother who looks upon children as a disagreeable accident, and\nupon love, the comforts of life, costume, and society, as the object of\nlife, will rear her children in such a manner that they shall have as\nmuch enjoyment as possible out of life, and that they shall make the\ngreatest possible use of it; only she will feed them luxuriously, deck\nthem out, amuse them artificially; only she will teach them, not that\nwhich will fit them for self-sacrificing masculine or feminine labor with\ndanger of their lives, and to the last limits of endurance, but that\nwhich will deliver them from this labor.  Only such a woman, who has lost\nthe meaning of her life, will sympathize with that delusive and false\nmale labor, by means of which her husband, having rid himself of the\nobligations of a man, is enabled to enjoy, in her company, the work of\nothers.  Only such a woman will choose a similar man for the husband of\nher daughter, and will estimate men, not by what they are personally, but\nby that which is connected with them,--position, money, or their ability\nto take advantage of the labor of others.\n\nBut the true mother, who actually knows the will of God, will fit her\nchildren to fulfil it also.  For such a mother, to see her child overfed,\nenervated, decked out, will mean suffering; for all this, as she well\nknows, will render difficult for him the fulfilment of the law of God in\nwhich she has instructed him.  Such a mother will teach, not that which\nwill enable her son and her daughter to rid themselves of labor, but that\nwhich will help them to endure the toils of life.  She will have no need\nto inquire what she shall teach her children, for what she shall prepare\nthem.  Such a woman will not only not encourage her husband to false and\ndelusive labor, which has but one object, that of using the labors of\nothers; but she will bear herself with disgust and horror towards such an\nemployment, which serves as a double temptation to her children.  Such a\nwoman will not choose a husband for her daughter on account of the\nwhiteness of his hands and the refinement of manner; but, well aware that\nlabor and deceit will exist always and everywhere, she will, beginning\nwith her husband, respect and value in men, and will require from them,\nreal labor, with expenditure and risk of life, and she will despise that\ndeceptive labor which has for its object the ridding one's self of all\ntrue toil.\n\nSuch a mother, who brings forth children and nurses them, and will\nherself, rather than any other, feed her offspring and prepare their\nfood, and sew, and wash, and teach her children, and sleep and talk with\nthem, because in this she grounds the business of her life,--only such a\nmother will not seek for her children external guaranties in the form of\nher husband's money, and the children's diplomas; but she will rear them\nto that same capacity for the self-sacrificing fulfilment of the will of\nGod which she is conscious of herself possessing,--a capacity for\nenduring toil with expenditure and risk of life,--because she knows that\nin this lies the sole guaranty, and the only well-being in life.  Such a\nmother will not ask other people what she ought to do; she will know\nevery thing, and will fear nothing.\n\nIf there can exist any doubt for the man and for the childless woman, as\nto the path in which the fulfilment of the will of God lies, this path is\nfirmly and clearly defined for the woman who is a mother; and if she has\ncomplied with it in submissiveness and in simplicity of spirit, she,\nstanding on that loftiest height of bliss which the human being is\npermitted to attain, will become a guiding-star for all men who are\nseeking good.  Only the mother can calmly say before her death, to Him\nwho sent her into this world, and to Him whom she has served by bearing\nand rearing children more dear than herself,--only she can say calmly,\nhaving served Him who has imposed this service upon her: \"Now lettest\nthou thy servant depart in peace.\"  And this is the highest perfection,\ntowards which, as towards the highest bliss, men are striving.\n\nSuch are the women, who, having fulfilled their destiny, reign over\npowerful men; such are the women who prepare the new generations of\npeople, and fix public opinion: and, therefore, in the hands of these\nwomen lies the highest power of saving men from the prevailing and\nthreatening evils of our times.\n\nYes, ye women and mothers, in your hands, more than in those of all\nothers, lies the salvation of the world!\n\n\n\n\nFootnotes:\n\n\n{21a}  The fine, tall members of a regiment, selected and placed together\nto form a showy squad.\n\n{21b}  [] Omitted by the Censor in the authorized edition printed in\nRussia, in the set of Count Tolstoi's works.\n\n{24a}  Reaumur.\n\n{24b}  A drink made of water, honey, and laurel or salvia leaves, which\nis drunk as tea, especially by the poorer classes.\n\n{28}  [] Omitted by the censor from the authorized edition published in\nRussia in the set of count Tolstoi's works.  The omission is indicated\nthus . . .\n\n{39}  _Kalatch_, a kind of roll: _baranki_, cracknels of fine flour.\n\n{59}  An _arshin_ is twenty-eight inches.\n\n{60}  A _myeshchanin_, or citizen, who pays only poll-tax and not a guild\ntax.\n\n{62}  Omitted in authorized edition.\n\n{66}  Omitted by the censor in the authorized edition.\n\n{94}  Omitted by the Censor in the authorized edition.\n\n{96}  Omitted by the Censor in the authorized edition.\n\n{99}  Omitted by the Censor in the authorized edition.\n\n{108}  Omitted by the Censor from the authorized edition.\n\n{111}  Omitted by the Censor in the authorized edition.\n\n{113}  Omitted by the Censor in the authorized edition\n\n{116}  Omitted by the Censor in the authorized edition.\n\n{122a}  Omitted by the Censor in the authorized edition.\n\n{122b}  A very complicated sort of whist.\n\n{124}  The whole of this chapter is omitted by the Censor in the\nauthorized edition, and is there represented by the following sentence:\n\"And I felt that in money, in money itself, in the possession of it,\nthere was something immoral; and I asked myself, What is money?\"\n\n{135}  Omitted by the Censor in the authorized edition.\n\n{138}  Omitted by the Censor in the authorized edition.\n\n{139}  The above passage is omitted in the authorized edition, and the\nfollowing is added: \"I came to the simple and natural conclusion, that,\nif I pity the tortured horse upon which I am riding, the first thing for\nme to do is to alight, and to walk on my own feet.\"\n\n{140}  Omitted in the authorized edition.\n\n{142}  Omitted in the authorized edition.\n\n{152a}  \"Into a worse state,\" in the authorized edition.\n\n{152b}  Omitted in the authorized edition.\n\n{154}  Omitted in the authorized edition.\n\n{155}  Reaumur.\n\n{158}  In the Moscow edition (authorized by the Censor), the concluding\nparagraph is replaced by the following:--\"They say: The action of a\nsingle man is but a drop in the sea.  A drop in the sea!\n\n\"There is an Indian legend relating how a man dropped a pearl into the\nsea, and in order to recover it he took a bucket, and began to bail out,\nand to pour the water on the shore.  Thus he toiled without intermission,\nand on the seventh day the spirit of the sea grew alarmed lest the man\nshould dip the sea dry, and so he brought him his pearl.  If our social\nevil of persecuting man were the sea, then that pearl which we have lost\nis equivalent to devoting our lives to bailing out the sea of that evil.\nThe prince of this world will take fright, he will succumb more promptly\nthan did the spirit of the sea; but this social evil is not the sea, but\na foul cesspool, which we assiduously fill with our own uncleanness.  All\nthat is required is for us to come to our senses, and to comprehend what\nwe are doing; to fall out of love with our own uncleanness,--in order\nthat that imaginary sea should dry away, and that we should come into\npossession of that priceless pearl,--fraternal, humane life.\"\n\n{161a}  An arshin is twenty-eight inches.\n\n{161b}  The fast extends from the 5th to the 30th of June, O.S.  (June 27\nto July 12, N.S.)\n\n{165}  A pood is thirty-six pounds.\n\n{167}  Robinson Crusoe.\n\n{168}  Here something has been omitted by the Censor, which I am unable\nto supply.--TRANS.\n\n{169}  An omission by the censor, which I am unable to supply.  TRANS.\n\n{178}  We designate as organisms the elephant and the bacterian, only\nbecause we assume by analogy in those creatures the same conjunction of\nfeeling and consciousness that we know to exist in ourselves.  But in\nhuman societies and in humanity, this actual sign is absent; and\ntherefore, however many other signs we may discover in humanity and in\norganism, without this substantial token the recognition of humanity as\nan organism is incorrect.\n\n{238}  _v prikusku_, when a lump of sugar is held in the teeth instead or\nbeing put into the tea.\n\n{252}  In English in the text.\n\n{256}  An excellent translation of Kriloff's Fables, by Mr. W. R. S.\nRalston, is published in London.\n\n{260}  _Burlak_, pl. _burlaki_, is a boatman on the River Volga.","title":"What to Do? Thoughts Evoked by the Census of Moscow","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":79517}