CORNELL UNIVERSnV LIBRARY 3 1924 060 289 091 The original of tiiis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924060289091 Production Note Cornell University Library pro- duced this volume to replace the irreparably deteriorated original. It was scanned using Xerox soft- ware and equipment at 600 dots per inch resolution and com- pressed prior to storage using CCITT Group 4 compression. The digital data were used to create Cornell's replacement volume on paper that meets the ANSI Stand- ard Z39. 48-1984. The production of this volume was supported in part by the Commission on Pres- ervation and Access and the Xerox Corporation. Digital file copy- right by Cornell University Library 1991. aiorttell Itttoemtg Hihrarg ailtata, ^m faib H. J. Daven-oort WHAT TO DO? THOUGHTS EVOKED BY THE CENSUS OF MOSCOW BT COUNT LYOF N. TOLSTOI A NEW AND AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION FROM THE UNABRIDGED RUSSIAN MANUSCRIPT ^^;w tosk THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. 13 AsTOB Flack CoPTisionT, 1888, Br THOMAS Y. CKOWELL & CO. INTEODUCTION. Great social questions face us. They are rising like ominous storm-clouds above the horizon, not only in what are sometimes called the " effete monarchies " of the Old World, but here in this New World, in this favored land. Thoughtful men and women are everywhere busying them- selves with their solution. Side by side with the portentous increase of wealth, is the more portentous increase of destitution and crime. On the one side, unheard-of luxury ; on the other, desperate poverty. On the one side, pride and idleness ; on the other, beggary and anarchy. There are warnings in history, — two mighty warnings, — the fall of Rome, the French Revolution. Rome sowed the wind, and reaped the whirlwind. The French aristocracy cried, '■'■Apris noiis le diluge;" but the deluge came while, not after; it was a deluge of blood. Modern civilization is sowing the whirlwind : what shall ■we or our children reap? There are enormous wrongs. Can they be righted while yet there is time ? How ? Various methods have suggested themselves. Some are visionary: some would be practicable if men's eyes were opened. Who doubts, that, if alcoholic drinks could be banished from the earth, the question of poverty and crime would be practically settled? Meanwhile, associated charities rally earnest men and women, and home missionaries devote their lives to this work. iv INTBODVCTION. But still the problem grows more ominons. A voice from Russia — the voice, as it were, of a prophet — has proclaimed another and inexorable way. A nobleman, rich and famous, a popular novelist, a great land-owner, with every thing in his grasp that ambition might suggest, found himself face to face with this question. He had lived the idle, luxurious life of "the upper classes," the world over, and thought to compound with his conscience by a dilettante system of money-giving. With this charitable object in view, he investigated the poverty of Moscow, which is exactly like the poverty of every other city, — Paris, London, New York, Berlin, Boston, — and after systematic examination he came to the conclusion that the mere giving of money only added to the existing evU. Then the great question took possession of him, — WJiat Must We Dot He discovered a solution which he claims to be B^umur. 8 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN T about ; and God is my witness, I have not had any thing to eat for two days." He said this shyly, with an attempt at a smile. A seller * of warm drinks, an old soldier, was standing near. I called him, and made him pour out a glass for him. The peasant took the warm vessel in his hands, and, before drinking, warmed them against the glass, trying not to lose an}' of the precious heat; and whilst doing this he related to me his story. The adventures of these people, or at least the stories which they tell, are almost always the same : He had had a little work ; then it had ceased : and here, in the night-lodg- ing-house, his purse, containing his money and passport, had been stolen from him. Now he could not leave Moscow. He told me that during the day he warmed himself in public-houses, eating any stale crust of bread which might be given him. His night's lodging here in Liapin's house cost him nothing. He was only waiting for the round of the poliee-sei^eant to lock him up for being without his passport, when he would be sent on foot, with a party of men similarly situated, to the place of his birth. "They say the inspection will take place on Thursday, when I shall be taken up ; so I must try and keep on until then." (The prison and his compulsoiy journey appeared to him as the "promised land.") While he was speaking, two or three men in the crowd said they were also in exactly the same situation. A thin, pale youth, with a long nose, only a shirt upon his back, and that torn about the shoulders, and a tattered cap on his head, edged his way to me through the crowd. He was shivering violently all the time, but tried, as he caught my eye, to smile scornfully at the peasant's talk, thinking thus to show his superiority. I offered him some drink. He warmed his hands on the tnmbler as the other had done ; but just as he began to speak, he was shouldered aside by a big, black, hook-nosed, bare-headed fellow, in a thin shirt and waistcoat, who also asked for some drink. Then a tall old man, with a thin beard, in an overcoat fastened round the waist with a cord, and in matting-shoes, had some. He was drunk. > A abiten-seller : ibiltn is a hot driok made of herbs or spices and molasses. WBAT MUST WE DO TBEN T 9 Then came a little man, with a swollen face and teary eyes, in a coarse brown jacket, and with knees protruding through his torn trousers, and knocking against each other with culd. He shivered so that he could not hold the glass, and spilled the contents over his clothes : the others took to abusing him, but he only grinned miserably, and shivered. After him came an ugly, deformed man in rags, and with bare feet. Then an individual of the officer type ; another belonging to the church class ; then a strange-looking being without a nose, — and all of them hungry, cold, suppliant, and humble, — crowded round me, and stretched out their hands for the glass ; but the drink was exhausted. Then one man asked for money : I gave him some. A second and a thii-d followed, till the whole crowd pressed on me. In the general confusion the gatekeeper of the neighboring house shouted to the crowd to clear the pavement before his house, and the people submissively obe3'ed. Some of them undertook to control the tumult, and took me under their protection. They attempted to drag me out of the crush. But the crowd that formerly had lined the pavement in a long file, now had become condensed about me. Every one looked at me and begged ; and it seemed as if each face were more pitiful, harassed, and degraded than the other. I distributed all the money I had, — only about twenty rubles, — and entered the lodging-house with the crowd. The house was enormous, and consisted of four parts. In the upper stories were the men's rooms ; on the ground- floor the women's. I went first into the women's dormitory, — a large room, filled with beds resembling the berths in a third-class railway-carriage. They were arranged in two tiers, one above the other. Strange-looking women in ragged dresses, without jackets, old and young, kept coming in and occupying places, some below, others climbing above. Some of the elder ones crossed themselves, pronouncing the name of the founder of the refuge. Some laughed and swore. I went up-stairs. There, in a similar way, the men had taken their places. Amongst them I recognized one of those to whom I had given money. On seeing him I suddenly felt horribly ashamed, and made baste to leave. And with a sense of having committed some crime, I returned home. There I entei-ed along the carpeted steps into the rug-covered hall, and, having taken off my fur coat, 10 WBAT MUST WE DO THEN T sat down to a meal of five courses, served by two footraen in livery, with white tics a%d white gloves. And a scene of the past came suddenly before me. Thirty years ago I saw a man's head cut off under the guillotiue m Paris before a crowd of thousands of spectators. I was aware that the man had l)eeu a great criminal : I was acquainted with all the arguments in justification of capital punishment for such offences. I saw this execution carried out deliberately : but at the moment that the head and body were severed from each other by the keen blade, I gasped, and realized in every fibre of my being, that all the arguments which 1 had hitherto heard U]x>n capital punishment were wickedly false ; that, no matter how many might agree as to its being a lawful act, it was literall}' murder ; whatever other title men might give it, they thus had virtually committed murder, that worst of all crimes: and there was I, both by my silence and my non- interference, an aider, abetter, and participator in the sin. Similar convictions were now again forced ujwn me when I beheld the misery, cold, hunger, and humiliation of thou- sands of my fellow-men. I realized not only with my biain, but in every pulse of my soul, that, whilst there were thou- sands of such sufferers in Moscow, I, with tens of thousands of others, filled myself daily to repletion with luxurious dainties of every description, took the tenderest care of my horees, aud clothed my very floors with velvet carpets ! Whatever the wise aud learned of the world might say about it, howev^er unalterable the course of life might seem to be, the same evil was continually being enacted, and I, by my own personal habits of luxuiy, was a promoter of that evil. The difference between the two cases was only this : that in the first, all I could h^ve done would have been to shout out to the murderers standing near the guillotine, who were accomplishing the deed, that they were committing a murder, though of course knowing that my interference would have been in vain. Whereas, in this second case, I might have given away, not only the drink and the small sum of money I had with me, but also the coat from off my shoulders, and all that I possessed at home. Yet I had not done so, and therefore felt, and feel, and can never cease to feel, myself a partaker in a crime which is continually being com- mitted, so long as I have superfluous foot! whilst others have none, so long as I have two coats whilst there exists one man without any. WHAT MUST WE DO TBENf 11 III. On the same evening that I returned from Liapin's house, I imparted my impressions to a friend : and he, a resident of the town, began to explain to me, not without a certain satisfaction, that this was the most natural state of things in a town ; that it was only owing to my provincialism that I found any thing remarkable in it ; and that it had ever been, and ever would be, so, such being one of the inevitable conditions of civilization. In London it was yet worae, . . . therefore there could be nothing wrong about it, and there was nothing to be disturbed and troubled about. I began to argue with my friend, but with such warmth and so angrily, that my wife rushed in from the adjoining room to ask what had happened. It appeared that I had, without being aware of it, shouted out in an agonized voice, gesticulating wildly, " We should not go on living in this way! we must not live so! we have no right!" I was rebuked for my unnecessai-y excitement ; I was told that I could not talk quietly upon any question ; that I was irrita- ble ; and it was pointed out to me that the existence of such misery as I had witnessed, should in no way be a reason for embittering the life of my home-circle, I felt that this was perfectly just, and held my tongue ; but in the depth of my soul I knew that I was right, and I could not quiet my conscience. The town life, which had previously seemed alien and strange to me, became now so hateful that all the indul- gences of a luxurious existence, in which I had formerly delighted, now served to torment me. . However much I tried to find some kind of excuse for my mode of life, I could not contemplate without irritation either my own or other people's drawing-rooms, nor a clean, richly served dinner-table, nor a carriage with well-fed coachman and horses, nor the shops, theatres, and enter- tainments. I could not help seeing, in contrast with all this, those hungry, shivering, and degraded inhabitants of the night-lodging-house. And I could never free niyself from the thought that these two conditions were inseparable — that the one proceeded from the other. I remember that the sense of culpability which I had felt from the fli'st moment 12 WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? never left me ; but with this feeling another soon became mingled, which lessened the first. When I talked to my intimate friends and acquaintances about my impressions on Liapin's house, they all answered in the same way, and expressed besides their appreciation of my kindness and tender-heartedness, and gave me to under- stand that the sight had so impressed me because I, Leo Tolstoi, was kind-hearted and good. And I willingly allowed myself to believe it. The natural consequence of this was, that the first keen sense of self-reproach and shame was blunted, and was re- placed by a sense of satisfaction at my own virtue, and a desire to make it known to others. " It is in truth," I said to myself, " probably not my connection with a luxurious life which is at fault, but the unavoidable circumstances of life. And thus a change in my particular life cannot alter the evil which I have seen." In changing my own life, I should only render myself and those nearest and dearest to me miserable, whilst that other misery would remain the same ; and therefore my object should be, not to alter my own way of living, as I had at firet imagined, but to try as much as was in my power to ameliorate the position of those unfortunate ones who had excited my compassion. The whole matter, I reasoned, lies in the fact that I, being an extremely kind and good man, wish to do good to my fellow-men. And I began to arrange a plan of philanthropic activity in which I might exhibit all my virtues. I must, however, here remark, that, while planning this charitable effort, in the depth of my heart I felt that I was not doing i the right thing ; but, as too often happens, j^eason and im- I agination were stifling the voice of conscience. ^AUOUt this I time the census *as beingtaken, an'd it-seemed to nte a good opportunity for instituting that charitable organization in which I wanted to shine. I was acquainted with many philanthropic institutions and societies already existing in Moscow, but all their activity seemed to me both wrongly directed and insignificant in comparison with what I myself wished to do. And this was what I invented to excite sympathy amongst the rich people for the poor : I began to collect money, and enlist men who wished to help in the work, and who would, in company with the census officera, visit all the nests of pauperism, entering WHAT MUST WE DO THEN t 13 into relations with the poor, finding out the details of their needs, helping them with money and work, sending them out of Moscow, placing their children in schools, and their old men and women in homes and houses of refuge. I thought, moreover, that, from those who undertook this work, there could be formed a permanent society, which, dividing between its members the various districts of Mos- cow, would take care that new cases of want and misery should be avoided, and so by degrees stifle pauperism at its very birth, accomplishing their task, not so much by cure, as by prevention. I already saw in the future, begging and poverty entirely disappearing, I having been the means of its accomplisliment. Then all of us who were rich could go on living in all our luxury as before, dwelling in fine bouses, eating dinnera of five courses, driving in our carriages to theatres and enter- tainments, and no longer being harassed by such sights as I had witnessed at Liapin's house. Having invented this plan, 1 wrote an article about it ; and, before even giving it to be printed, I went to those acquaint- ances from whom I hoi>ed to obtain co-operation, and ex- pounded to all whom I visited that day (chiefly the rich) the ideas I afterwards published in my article. I proposed to profit by the census in order to study the state of pauperism in Moscow, and to help to exterminate it by personal effort and money, after which we might all with a quiet conscience enjoy our usual pleasures. All listened to me attentively and seriously ; but, in every case, I re- marked that the moment my hearers came to undei-stand what I was driving at, they seemed to become*uncomfortable and somewhat embarrassed. But it was principally, I feel sure, on my account ; because they considered all that I said to be folly. It seemed as though some other motive compelled my listeners to agree for the moment with my foolishness. — "Oh, yes! Certainly. It would be delightful," they said : " of course it is impossible not to sympathize with you. Your idea is splendid. I myself have bad the same ; but . . . people here are so indifferent, that it is hardly rea- sonable to expect a great success. However, as far as I am concerned, I am, of course, ready to share in the enterprise." Similar answers -I received from all. They consented, as it appeared to me, not because they were persuaded by my arguments, nor in compliance with my request, but because 14 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN t of some exterior reason, which rendered it impossible for them to refuse. 1 remarked this partly because none of those who promised me their help in the form of money, defined the sum they meant to give ; so that I had to name the amount by asking, " May I count upon you for twenty-five, or one hundred, or two hundred, or three hundred, rubles?" And not one of them paid the money.. I draw attention to this fact, because, when people are going to pay for what they are anxious to have, they are generally in haste to give it. Suppose it were to secure a box to see Sarah Bernhardt, the money is imme- diately produced. Here, however, of all who agreed to give, and expressed their sympath}', no one immediatelj' produced the amount, but merely silently acquiesced in the sum I hap- pened to name. In the last house I visited that day, there was a large party. The mistress of the house had for some years l-)een employed in works of charity. Several carriages were waiting at llie door of the house. Footmen in expensive liveries were Beated in the hall. In the spacious drawing-room, ladies, old and young, wearing rich dresses and ornaments, were talking to some young men, and dressing up small dolls, destined for a lottery in aid of the poor. The sight of this drawing-room, and of the people assem- bled there, struck me very painfully. For not only was their property worth several million rubles ; not only could the interest on the capital spent here on dresses, laces, bronzes, jewels, carriages, horses, liveries, footmen, exceed a hundred times the value of these ladies' work ; not only was this the case, — but even the expenses caused by this very party of ladies and gentlemen, the gloves, linen, candles, tea, sugar, cakes, all this represented a sum a hundred times exceed- ing the value of the work done. I saw all this, and therefore might have understood that here, at all events, I should not find sympathy for my plan ; but I had come in order to give an invitation, and, however painful it was to me, I said what I wished to say, repeating almost the words of my article. One lady present offered me some money, adding that, owing to her sensibilities, she did not feel strong enough to visit the poor herself, but that she would give help in this form. How much money, and when she would give it, she did not say. Another lady and a young man offereon my son, my wife, and various other people. Every one seemed embarrassed, but all found it necessaiy to approve of the idea itself ; and all, immediately after this approba- tion, began to express their doubts as to the success of the plan, and, for some reason or other (all without exception), took to condemning the indiSference and coldness of society and of the world, though evidently excluding themselves. In the depth of my soul, I continued to feel that all this was not the right thing, that nothing would come of it ; but the article had been printed, and I had agreed to take part in the census. I had put a plan into action, and now the plan itself drew me along. IV. In accordance with my request, the part of the town was assigned to me for the census which contained the houses generally known under the name of the Bzhanoff lodgings. I had long before heard that they were consid- ered to be the lowest circle of poverty and vice, and that was the reason that I asked the officers of the census to assign me this district. My desire was gratified. Having received the appointment from the Town Council, I went, a few days before the census, alone, to inspect my district. With the help of a plan I was furnished with, I WHAT MUST WE DO THEN t 17 Boon found the Rzhanoff Houses, — approached by a street, which terminated on the left-band side of a gloomy building without any apparent entrance. From the aspect of this house, I guessed it was the one I was in search of. On de- scending the street, I had come across some boys, from ten to fourteen years old, in short coats, sliding down the frozen gutter, some on their feet, others upon a single skate. The boys were ragged, and, like all town boys, sharp and bold. I stopped to look at them. An old woman in torn clothes, with hanging yellow cheeks, came round the corner. She was going up-hill, and, like a horse out of wind, gasped painfully at every step ; and, when abreast of me, she stopped with hoarse, choking breath. In any other place, this old woman would have asked alms of me, but here she only began to. talk. ^'Just look at them!" she said, pointing to the sliding boj's; "always at mischief! They will become the same Rzhanoff good-for-nothings as their fathers." One boy, in an overcoat and visorless cap, overhearing her words, stopped. " You shut up ! " he shouted. "You're only an old RzhanoS goat yourself! " I asked the boy if he lived here. " Yes, and so does she. She stole some boots," he called out, and, pushing himself off, slid on. The woman gave vent to a torrent of abuse, inten-upted by her cough. During this squabble an old white-haired man, all in rags, came down the middle of the street, brand- ishing his arms, and carrying in one hand a bundle of small loaves. He seemed to have just fortified himself with a glass of liquor. He had evidently heard the old woman's abuse, and took her side. " I'll give it you, you little devils, you ! " he cried out, pretending to rush after them ; and, having passed behind me, he stepped upon the pavement. If you saw this old man in a fashionable street, you would be struck with his air of de- crepitude, feebleness, and jwverty. Here he appeared in the character of a merry workman, returning from his day's labor. I followed him. He turned round the corner to the left into an alley ; and, having passed the front of the bouse and the gate, he disappeared through the door of an inn. Into this alley the doors of the latter, a public-house, and several small eating-houses, opened. It was the Rzhanoff Houses. 18 WUAT MUST WE DO THEN t Every thing was gray, dirty, and foul-smelling, — buildings, lodgings, courts, and people. Most of those I met here were in tattered clothes, half naked. Some were passing along, others were running from one door to another. Two were bargaining about some rags. I went round the whole build- ing, down another lane and a court, and, having returned, stopped at the archway of the Rzhanoff Houses. I wanted to go in, and see what was going on inside, but the idea made me feel painfully awkward. What should I say if they asked me what I had come for? However, after a little hesitation, I went in. The moment I entered the court, I was conscious of a most revolting odor. The court was dreadfully dirty. I turned round the corner, and at the same instant heard the steps of people running along the boards of the gallery, and thence down the staii-s. First a gaunt-looking woman, with tucked-up sleeves, a faded pink dress, and shoes on her stockingless feet, rushed out ; after her, a rough-haired man in a red shirt, and ex- tremely wide trousers, like a petticoat, and with goloshes on his feet. The man caught her under the stairs : " You sha'n't escape me," he said, laughing. " Just listen to the squint-eyed devil ! " began the woman, who was evidently not averse to his attentions ; but, having caught sight of me, she exclaimed angrilj', " Who are you looking for? " As I did not want any one in particular, I felt somewhat confused, and went away. This little incident, though by no means remarkable in itself, suddenly showed to me the work I was about to under- take in an entirely new light, especially after what I had seen on the other side of the courtj'ard, — the scolding old woman, the light-hearted old man, and the sliding boys. I had meditated doing good to these people by the help of the rich men of Moscow. I now realized, for the first time, that all these poor unfortunates, whom I had been wishing to help, had, besides the time they spent suffering from cold and hunger, in waiting to get a lodging, several hours daily to get through, and that they must somehow fill up the rest of the twenty-four hours of every day, — a whole life, of which I had never thought before. I realized now, for the first time, that all these people, besides the mere effort to find food and shelter from the cold, must live through the rest of every day of their life as other people have to do, WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f 19 must get angry at times, and be dull, and try to appear light- hearted, and be sad or merry. And now, for the first time j (however strange the confession may sound), I was fully/ aware that the task which I was undertaking could not] simply consist in feeding and clothing a thousand people < (just as one might feed a thousand head of sheep, and drive them into shelter), but must develop some more essential help. And when I considered that each one of these in- dividuals was just such another man as myself, possessing I also a past history, with the same passions, temptations, and errors, the same thoughts, the same questions to be answered, then suddenly the work before me appeared stu- pendous, and I felt my own utter helplessness ; — but it had been begun, and I was resolved to continue it. On the appointed day, the students who were to assist me started early in the morning ; while I, the instigator, only joined them at twelve o'clock. I could not come earlier ; as I did not get up till ten, after which I had to take some coffee, and then smoke for the sake of my digestion. Twelve o'clock then found me at the door of the Rzhanoff Houses. A policeman showed me a public-house, to which the census- clerks referred all those who wished to inquire for them. I entered, and found it very dirty and unsavory. Here, right in front of me, was a counter; to the left a small room, fur- nished with tables covered with soiled napkins ; to the right a large room on pillars, containing similar little tables placed in the windows and along the walls ; with men here and there having tea, some very ragged, others well dressed, ap- parently workmen or small shopkeepers. There were also several women. In spite of the dirt, it was easy to see, by the business air of the man in charge, and the ready, obliging manners of the waiters, that the eating-house was driving a good trade. I had no sooner entered than one of the waiters was already preparing to assist me in getting off my over- coat, and anxious to take my orders, showing that evidently the people here were in the habit of doing their work quickly and readily. My inquiry for the census-clerks was answered by a call for "V&nya" from a little man dressed in foreign fashion, 20 WHAT MUST WE DO TBENt who was arranging something in a cupboard behind the counter. This was the proprietor of the public-house, a peasant from Kaluga, Ivdn Fedotitch by name, who also rented half of the other houses, sub-letting the rooms to lodgers. In answer to his call, a thin, sallow-faced, hook- nosed lad, of some eighteen years, came forward hastily ; and the landlord said, " Take this gentleman to the clerks : they have gone to the main body of the building over the well." The lad put down his napkin, pulled a coat on over his white shirt and trousers, picked up a large cap, then, with quick, short steps, he led the way by a back-door through the buildings. At the entrance of a greasy, malodorous kitchen, we met an old woman, who was carefully carrying in a rag some putrid tripe. We descended into a court, built up all round with wooden buildings on stone foundations. The smell was most offensive, and seemed to be concentrated in a privy, to which numbers of people were constantly resorting. This awful cesspool forced itself upon one's notice by the pestilential atmosphere around it. The boy, taking care not to soil his white trousers, led me cautiously across frozen and unfrozen filth, and approached one of the buildings. The people crossing the yard and galleries all stopped to gaze at mc. It was evident that a cleanly-dressed man was an unusual sight in the place. The boy asked a woman whom we met, whether she had seen where the census officials had entered, and three people at once answered his question : some said that the}' were over the well ; others said that they had been there, but had now gone to Nikita Ivanovitch's. An old man in the middle of the court, who had only a shirt on, said that they were at No. 30. The boy concluded that this information was the most probable, and led me to No. 30, into the basement, where darkness and a bad smell, different from that which filled the court, prevailed. We continued to descend along a dark passage. As we were traversing it, a door was suddenly opened ; and out of it came a drunken old man in a shirt, evidently not of the peasant class. A shrieking washerwoman, with tucked-up sleeves and soapy arms, was pushing him out of the room. " V4nya " (my guide) shoved him aside, saying, " It won't do to kick up such a row here — and you an officer too ! " When we arrived at No. 30, V4nya pulled the door, which opened with the sound of a wet slap ; and we felt a gush of WHAT MUST WE DO THENt 21 soapy steam, and an odor of bad food and tobacco, and en- tered into complete darkness. The windows were on the other side ; and we were in a crooked corridor, that went right and left, and with doors leading, at different angles, into rooms separated from it by a partition of unevenly laid boards, roughly whitewashed. In a dark room to the left we could see a woman washing at a trough. Another old woman was looking out of a door at the right. Near an open door was a hairy, red-skinned peasant in bark shoes, sitting on a couch. His hands rested upon his knees ; and he was swinging his feet, and looking sadly at his shoes. At the end of the passage was a small door leading into the room where the census officers were assembled. This was the room of the landlady of the whole of No. 30. She rented the apartment from Iv4n Fedotitch, and sub-let the rooms to ordinary or night lodgers. In this tiny room a student sat under an image glittering with gilt paper, and, with the air of a magistrate, was put- ting questions to a man dressed in shirt and vest. This last was a friend of the landlady's, who was answering the ques- tions in her stead. The landlady herself, — an old woman, — and two inquisitive lodgers, were also present. When I entered, the room was quite filled up. I pushed through to the table, shook hands with the student, and he went on extracting his information ; while I studied the inhabitants, and put questions to them for my own ends. It appeared, however, I could find no one here upon whom to bestow my benevolence. The landlady of the rooms, notwithstanding their wretchedness and filth (which espe- cially struck me in comparison with the mansion in which I lived), was well off, even from the point of view of town poverty ; and compared with the country destitution, with which I was well acquainted, she lived luxuriously. She had a feather-bed, a quilted blanket, a samovdr, a fur cloak, a cupboard, with dishes, plates, etc. The landlady's friend had the same well-to-do appearance, and boasted even a watch and chain. The lodgers were poor, but among them there was no one requiring immediate help. Three only applied for aid, — the woman washing linen, who said she had been abandoned by her husband ; an old widowed woman, without means of livelihood ; and the peasant in the ragged shoes, who told me he had not had 22 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN t any thing to eat that day. But, upon gathering more precise information, it became evident that all these people were not in extreme want, and that, in order really to help, it would be necessary to become more intimately acquainted with them When I offered the washerwoman to place her children iu a " home," she became confused, thought over it some time, then thanked me much, but evidently did not desire it : she wished rather to be given some money. Her eldest daugh* ter helped her in the washing, and the second acted as nurse to the little boy. The old woman asked to be put into a refuge ; but, upon examining her comer, I saw that she was not in dire distress. She had a box containing her property : she had a teapot, two cups, and old bonbon-boxes with tea and sugar. She knitted stockings and gloves, and received a monthly allow- ance from a lady benefactress. The peasant was evidently more desirous of wetting his throat after his last day's drunkenness than of food, and any thing given him would have gone to the public-house. In these rooms, therefore, there was no one whom I could have rendered in any respect happier by helping them with money. There were only paupers there, — and paupers, it seemed to me, of a questionable kind. I put down the names of the old woman, the laundress, and the peasant, and settled in my mind that it would be ne- cessary to do something for them, but that first I should aid those other especially unfortunate ones whom I expected to come across ii» this house. I made up my mind that some system was necessary in distributing the aid which we had to give : first, we should find the most needy, and then come to such as these. But in the next lodging, and in the next ^ain, I found only similar cases, which would have to be looked into more closely before being, helped. Of those whom pecuniary aid alone would have rendered happy, I found none. However ashamed I feel in confessing it, I began to experience a certain disappointment at not finding in these houses any thing resemU. jLg what I had expected. I thouglit to find very exceptional people ; but, when I had gone over all the lodgings, I became convinced that their inhabitants were in no way extremely peculiar, but much like those amongst whom I lived. WHAT MUST WE DO THENt 23 As with us, BO also with them, there were some more or less good, and others more or less bad : there were some more or less happy, and others more or less unhappy. Those who were unhappy amongst them would have been equally wretched with us, their misery being within themselves, — a misery not to be mended by any kind of bank-note. VI. The inhabitants of these houses belonged to the lowest population of the town, which in Moscow amounts to per- haps more than a hundred thousand. In this house, there were representative men of all kinds, — petty employers and journeymen, shoemakers, bnishmakers, joiners, hackney coachmen, jobbers carrying on business on their own account, washerwomen, second-hand dealers, money-lenders, day-la- borers, and others without any definite occupation : here also lodged beggars and women of the town. Many like those whom I had seen waiting in front of Liapin's house lived here, but they were mixed up with the working-people ; and, besides, those whom I then saw were in a most wretched condition, when, having eaten and drunk all they had, they were turned out of the public-house, and, cold and hungry, were waiting, as for heavenly manna, to be admitted into the free night-lodging-house, — day by day longing to be taken to prison, in order to be sent back to their respective homes. Here I saw the same men among a greater number of working-people, and at a time, when, by some means or other, they had got a few farthings to pay for their night's lodging, and perhaps a ruble or two for food and drink. However strange it may sound, I had no such feelings here as I experienced in Liapin's house ; but, on the contrary, dur- ing my first visiting-round, I and the students bad a sensa- tion which was rather agreeable than otherwise. I might even say it was entirely agreeable. My first impression was, that the majority of those lodging here were workingmen, and very kindly disposed. We found most of the lodgers at work, — the washerwomen at their tubs, the joiners bj- their benches, the bootmakers at their lasts. The tiny rooms were full of people, and the work was going on cheerfully and with energy. There was a smell of per- 24 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN t spiration among the workmen, of leather at the bootmaker's, of chips in the carpenter's shop. We often heard songs, and saw bare, sinewy arms working briskly and skilfully. Everywhere we were received kindly and cheerfully. Nearly everywhere our intrusion into the daily life of these ^'people excited infthem no desire to show us their impor- tance^ or to rate us soundly, as happens when such visits are paid to the lodgings of well-to-do people. On the con- trary, all our questions were answered respectfully without any particular importance being attached to them, — served, indeed, only as an excuse for them to be merry, and to joke as to how they were to be enrolled on the list ; how such a one was as good as two, and how two others ought to be reck- oned as one. Many we found at dinner or at tea ; and each time, in answer to our greeting, "Bread and salt," or, "Tea and sugar," they said, " You are welcome ; " and some even made room for us to sit down. Instead of the place being the resort of an ever-shifting population, such as we expected to find here, it turned out that in this house were many rooms which had been tenanted by the same people for long periods. One carpenter, with his workmen, and a bootmaker, with his journeymen, had been living here ifor ten years. The boot- maker's shop was very dirty and quite choked up, but all his men were working very cheerily. I tried to talk with one of the workmen, wishing to sound him about the miseries of his lot, what he owed to the master, and so forth ; but he did not understand me, and spoke of his master and of his life from a very favorable point of view. In one lodging, there lived an old man with his old wife. They dealt in apples. Their room was warm, clean, and filled with their belongings. The floor was covered with matting made of apple-sacks. There were chests, a cup- board, a samovar, and crockery. In the comer were many holy images, before which two lamps were burning : on the wall hung fur cloaks wrapped up in a sheet. The old woman with wrinkled face, kind and talkative, was apparently her- self delighted with her quiet, respectable life. Ivdn Fedotitch, the owner of the inn and of the lodgings, came out, and walked with us. He joked kindlj- with many of the lodgers, calling them all by their names, and giving us short sketches of their characters. They were as othei men, did not consider themselves unhappy, but believed WHAT MUST WE DO THEN T 25 they were like every one else, as in reality they were. We were prepared to see only dreadful things, and we met instead objects not only not repulsive, but estimable. And there were so many of them, compared with the ragged, ruined, unoccupied people we met now and then among them, that the latter did not in the least destroy the general impression. To the students it did not appear so remarkable as it did to me. They were merely performing an act, as they thought, useful to science, and, in passing, made casual observations : but I was a benefactor ; my object in going there was to help the unhappy, ruined, depraved men and women whom I had expected to meet in this house. And suddenly, instead of unhappy, ruined, depraved beings, I found the majority to be workingmen, quiet, satisfied, cheerful, kind, and very good. I was still more strongly impressed when I found that in these lodgings the crj-ing want I wished to relieve had already been relieved before I came. But by whom? By these same unhappy, depraved beings whom I was prepared to save ; and this help was given in a way not open to me. In one cellar lay a lonely old man suffering from typhus- fever. He had no connections in the world ; yet a woman, — a widow with a little girl, — quite a stranger to him, but liv- ing in the comer next to him, nui-sed him, and gave him tea, and bought him medicine with her own money. In another lodging lay a woman in puerperal fever. A woman of the town was nursing her child, and had prepared a sucking-bottle for him, and had not gone out to ply her sEid trade for two days. An orphan girl was taken into the family of a tailor, wlio had three children of his own. Thus, there remained only such miserable unoccupied men as retired officials, clerks, men-servants out of situations, beggars, tipsy people, pros- titutes, children, whom it was not possible to help all at once by means of money, but whose cases it was necessary to consider carefully before assisting them. I had been seek- ing for men suffering from want of means, whom one might be able to help by sharing one's superfluities with them. I had not found them. All those I had seen, it would have been very difficult to assist materially without devoting time and care to them. 26 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN t '.'.■ ■ w^-'^i-...,. ^^. .'^^■^' "^^-^ These unfortunate people ranged themselves in my mind under~three heads : first, those who had lost fonner advan- tageous positions, and who were waiting to return to them (such men belonged to the lowest as well as to the highest classes of society) ; secondly, women of the town, who are very numerous in these houses ; and thirdly, children. The majority of those I found, and noted down, were men who had lost former places, and were desirous of returning to them. Such men were also numerous, being chiefly of the better class, and government officials. In almost all the lodgings we entered with the landlord, we were told, "Here we need not trouble to fill up the resi- dential card ourselves : there is a man here who is able to do it, provided he is not tipsy." And Ivdn Fedotitch would call by name some such indi- vidual, who always belonged to this class of ruined people of a higher grade. When thus summoned, the man, if he were not tipsy, was always willing to undertake the task : he kept nodding his head with a sense of importance, knitted his brows, inserted now and then learned terms in his remarks, and carefully holding in his dirty, trembling bands the neat pink card, looked round at his fellow-lodgers with pride and contempt, as if he were now, by the superiority of his education, triumphing over those who had been continu- ally humbling him. He was evidently pleased with having intercourse with the world which used pink cards, with a world of which he him- self had once been a member. To my questions about his life, this kind of man not only replied willingly, but with enthusiasm, — beginning to tell a story, fixed in his mind like a prayer, about all kinds of misfortunes which had liappened to him, and chiefly about his former p>osition, in which, considering his education, he ought to have remained. Many such people are scattered about in all the tenements of the Rzhanofif Houses. One lodging-house was tenanted exclusively by them, women and men. As we approached them, Ivdn Fedotitch said, " Now, here's where the nobility live." The lodging was full : almost all the lodgers — about forty WHAT MUST WE DO THEN t 27 persons — were at home. In the whole house, there were no faces so ruined and degraded-looking as these, — if old, flabby ; if young, pale and haggard. I talked with several of them. Almost always the same story was told, only in different degrees of development. One and all had been once rich, or had still a rich father or brother or uncle ; or either his father or the unfortunate him- self had held a high office. Then came some misfortune caused by envious enemies or his own imprudent kindness, or some out-of-the-way occurrence ; and, having lost every thing, he was obliged to descend to these strange and hate- ful surroundings, among lice and rags, in company with drunkards and loose characters, feeding upon bread and liver, and subsisting by beggary. All the thoughts, desires, and recollections of these men are turned toward the past. The present appears to them as something unnatural, hideous, and unworthy of attention. The present does not exist for them. They have only recol- lections of the past, and expectations of the future, which may be realized at an}' moment, and for the attainment of which but very little is needed ; but, unfortunately, this little is out of their reach ; it cannot be got anywhere : and so they perish needlessly, one sooner, another later. One needs only to be dressed respectably, in order to call on a well-known person who is kindly disposed toward him ; another requires only to be dressed, have his debts paid, and go to some town or other ; a third wants to take his effects out of pawn, and get a small sum to carry on a law-suit, which must be decided in his favor, and then all will be well again. All say that they have need of some external circumstance in order to regain that position which they think natural and happy for them. If I had not been blinded by my pride in being a bene- / factor, I should have needed only to look a little closer ! into their faces, young and old, which were generally weak, S sensual, but kind, in order to understand that their misfor- / tunes could not be met by exterior means ; that they could ) be happy in no situation, while their present conception of . life remained the same ; that they were by r6 means peculiar ) people in peculiarly unhappy circumstances, but that they < were like all other men, ourselves included. I remember well how my intercourse with men of this class was particularly trying to me. I now understand why it was 28 WSAT MUST WE DO TBEN t 80. In them I saw my own self as in a mirror. If I had considered carefully my own life, and the lives of people of my own class, I should have seen, that, between us and these unfortunate men, there existed no essential difference. Those who live around me in expensive suites of apart- ments, and houses of their own in the best streets of the city, eating something better, too, than liver or herring with their bread, are none the less unhappy. They also are discon- tented with their lot, regret the past, and desire a happier future, precisely as did the wretched tenants of the Rzhanoff Houses. Both wish to work less, and to be worked for more, the difference between them being only in degrees of idleness. Unfortunately, I did not see this at first, nor did I under- stand that such people needed to be relieved, not by my charity, but of their own false views of the world ; and that, to change a man's estimate of life, he must be given one more accurate than his own, which, unhappily, not possessing myself, I could not communicate to others. These men were unhappy, not because, to use an illustra- tion, they bad not nourishing food, but because their stom- achs were spoiled ; and they required, not nourishment, but a tonic. I did not see, that, in order to help them, it was not necessary to give them food, but to teach them bow to eat. Though I am anticipating, I must say, that, of all these people whose names I put down, I did not in reality help one, notwithstanding that all some of them had desired was done in order to relieve them. Of these I became acquainted with three men in particular. All three, after many failures and much assistance, are now just in the same position m which they were three years ago. The second class of unfortunates, whom I hoped after- wards to be able to help, were women ot the town. Such women were very numerous in the Rzhanofl' Houses ; and they were of every kind, from young girls still bearing some like- ness to women, to old and fearful-looking creatures without a vestige of humanity. The hope of helping these women, whom I had not at first in view, was aroused by the following circumstances. When we had just finished half of our visiting-tour, we WHAT HUST WJS DO THEN T 29 had already acquired a somewhat mechaDieal method. On eDtering a new lodging, we at once asked for the landlord. One of us sat down, clearing a space to write ; and the other went from one to another, questioning each man and woman in the room, and reporting the information obtained to the one who was writing. On our entering one of the basement lodgings, the student went to look for the landlord ; and I began to question all who were in the place. This place was thus divided : In the middle of the room, which was four yards square, there stood a stove. From the stove radiated four partitions, or screens, making a similar number of small compartments. In the first of these, which had two doors in it opposite each other, and four pallets, were an old man and a woman. Next to it was a rather long but narrow room, in which was the landlord, a young, pale, good-looking man, dressed in a gray woollen coat. To the left of the first division, there was a third small room where a man was sleeping, seeminglj- tipsy, and a woman in a pink dressing-gown. The fourth com- partment was behind a partition, access to it being through the landlord's room. The student entered the latter, while I remained in the first, questioning the old man and the woman. The former had been a tj'pesetter, but had now no means of livelihood whatever. The woman was a cook's wife. I went into the third compartment, and asked the woman in the dressing-gown about the man who was asleep. She answered that he was a visitor. I asked her who she was. She replied that she was a peasant girl from the county of Moscow. " What is your occupation? " She laughed, and made no answer. " What do you do for your living?" I repeated, thinking she had not understood the question. " I sit in the inn," she said. I did not understand her, and asked again, — " What are your means of living? " She gave me no answer, but continued to giggle. In the fourth room, where we had not yet been, I heard the voices of women also giggling. The landlord came out of his room, and approached us. 30 WHAT MUST iVE DO THEN t He had evidently heard my questions and the woman's an- swers. He glanced sternly at her, and, turning to me, said, " She is a prostitute ; " and it was evident that he was pleased that he knew this word, which is the one used in official cir- cles, and at having pronounced it correctly. And having said this with a respectful smile of satisfaction towards me, he turned to the woman. As he did so, the expression of his face changed. In a peculiarly contemptuous manner, and with rapid utterance as one would speak to a dog, he said, without looking at her, " Don't be a fool ! instead of saying you sit in the inn, speak plainly, and say you are a prostitute. — She does not even yet know her proper name," he said, turning to me. This manner of speaking shocked me. " It is not for us to shame her," I said. " If we were all living according to God's commandment, there would be no such persons." "Yes, yes: of course you are right," said the landlord, with a forced smile. " Therefore we must pity them, and not reproach them as if it were their own fault entirely." I do not remember exactly what I said. I remember only that I was disgusted by the disdainful tone of this young landlord, in a lodging filled with females whom he termed prostitutes ; and I pitied the woman, and expressed both feelings. No sooner had I said this, than I heard from the small compartment where the giggling had been, the noise of creak- ing bed-boards ; and over the partition, which did not reach to the ceiling, appeared the dishevelled curly head of a female with small swollen eyes, and a shining red face ; a second, and then a third, head followed. They were evi- dently standing on their beds ; and all three were stretching their necks and holding their breath, and looking silently at me with strained attention. A painful silence followed. The student, who had been smiling before this happened, now became grave ; the landlord became confused, and cast down his eyes ; and the women continued to look at me in expectation. I felt more disconcerted than all the rest. I had certainly not expected that a casual word would produce such an effect. It was like the field of battle covered with dead WBAT MUST WE DO THEN t 31 bones seen by the prophet Ezekiel, on which, trembling from contact with the spirit, the dead bones began to move. I had casually uttered a word of love and pity, which pro- duced upon all such an effect that it seemed as if they had been only waiting for it, to cease to be corpses, and to become alive again. They continued to look at me, as if wondering what would come next, as if waiting for me to say those words and do those acts by which these dry bones would begin to come together, — be covered with flesh and receive life. But I felt, alas ! that I had no such words or deeds to give, or to continue as I had begun. In the depth of my soul I felt that I had told a lie, that I myself was like them, that I had nothing more to say ; and I began to write down on the domiciliary card the names and the occupations of all the lodgers there. This occurrence led me into a new kind of error. I began to think that these unhappy ones also could be helped. This, in my self-deception it seemed to me, would be very easily done. I said to myself, " Now we shall put down the names of these women too ; and afterwards, when we (though it never occurred to me to ask who were the we) have written every thing down, we can occupy ourselves with their affairs." I imagined that we, the very persons who, during man}' gen- erations, have been leading such women into such a condi- tion, and still continue to do so, could one fine morning wake, and remedy it all. And yet, if I could have recol- lected my conversation with the lost woman who was nursing the baby for the sick mother, I should have understood all the folly of such an idea. When we first saw this woman nursing the child, we thought that it was liers ; but upon our asking her what she was, she answered us plainly that she was unmanied. She did not say " prostitute." It was left for tlie rude pro- prietor of the lodgings to make use of that terrible word. The supposition that she had a child gave me the idea of helping her out of her present position. " Is this child yours? " I asked. " No : it is that woman's there." " Why do you nurse him? " " She asked me to : she is dying." Though my surmise turned out to be wrong, I continued to speak with her in the same spirit. I began to questioL. 32 WHAT MUST WE DO TBENt her as to who she was, and how she came to be in such a position. She told me her story willingly, and very plainly. She belonged to the lower ranks of Moscow societj', the daughter of a factory workman. She was left an orphan, and adopted by her aunt, from whose house she began to visit the inns. The aunt was now dead. When I asked her whether she wished to change her course of life, my question did not even interest her. How can a supposition about something quite imix>ssible awaken an interest in any one? She smiled, and said, - - "Who would take me with a yellow ticket? " " But," said I, " if it were possible to find you a situation as a cook or something else?" I said this because she looked like a strong woman, with a kind, dull, round face, not unlike many cooks I had seen. Evidently my words did not please her. She repeated, " Cook ! but I do not understand how to bake bread." She spoke jestingly ; but, by the expression of her face, I saw that she was unwilling ; that she even considered the position and rank of a cook beneath her. This woman, who, in the most simple manner, like the widow in the gosjjel, had sacrificed all that she had for a sick person, at the same time, like other women of the same profession, considered the position of a workman or working- woman low and despicable. She had been educated in order ' to live without work, — a life which all her friends considered quite natural. This was her misfortune. And by this she came into her present ix>sition, «nd is kept in it. This brought her to the inns. Who of us men and women will cure her of this false view of life ? Are there among us men convinced that a laborious life is more respectable than an idle one, and who are living according to this conviction, and who make this the test of their esteem and respec t ? If I had thought about it. I sbould have undei'stood that neither I, nor anybody else I know, was able to cure a person of this disease. I should have understood that those wondering and awak- ened faces that looked over the partition expressed merely astonishment at the pity shown to them, but no wish to reform their lives. They did not see the immorality of them. They knew that they were despised and condemned, but the reason for it they could not understand. They had lived in this manner from their infancy among women like them- \ WBAT MUST WE DO TBENf 83 selves, who, they know very well, have always existed, do exist, and are so necessary to society, that there are officials deputed by government to see that they conform to regula- tions. Besides, they know that they have power over men, and subdue them, and often influence them more than any other women. They see that their position in society, notwith- standing the fact that they are always blamed, is recognized by men as well as by women and by the government ; and therefore they cannot even understand of what they have to rei)ent, and wherein they should reform. During one of our visiting-tours the student told me, that, in one of the lodgings, there was a woman about to sell her daughter, thirteen years old. Wishing tO save this little girl, I went on puriK)se to their lodging. Mother and daughter were living in great poverty. The mother, a small, dark-complexioned prostitute of forty years of age, was not simply ugly, but disagreeably ugly. The daughter also was bad-looking. To all my indirect ques- tions about their mode of life, the mother replied curtly, with a look of suspicion and animosity, apparently feeling that I was an enemy with bad intentions : the daughter said nothing without looking first at the mother, in whom she evidently had entire confidence. They did not awaken pity in my heart, but rather disgust. But I decided that it was necessary' to save the daughter, to awaken an interest in ladies who might sympathize with the miserable condition of these women, and might so be brought here. But if I had thought about the antecedents of the mother, how she had given birth to her daughter, how she had fed and educated her, certainly without any outside help, and with great sacrifices to herself ; if I had thought of the view of life which had formed itself in her mind, — I should have understood, that, in the mother's conduct, there was nothing at all bad or immoral, seemg she had been doing for her daughter all she could; i.e., what she considered best for herself. It was possible to take this girl away from her mother by force ; but to convince her that she was doing wrong in sell- ing her daughter, was not possible. It would first be neces- sary to save this woman — this mother — from a condition of life approved by evei-y one, and according to which a 34 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f -vroinan may live withont marrying and without working, serving exclusively as a gratification to the passions. If I had thought about this, I should have understood that the majority of those ladies whom I wished to send here for the "savjjig of this girl were not only themselves avoiding family duties, and leading idle and sensual lives, but were con- sciously educating their daughters for this very same mode of existence. One mother leads her daughter to the inn, and another to court and to balls. But the views of the world held by both mothers are the same ; viz., that a woman must gratify the lusts of men, and for that she must be fed, dressed, and taken care of. How, then, are our ladies to reform this woman and her daughter? u IX. Still more strange were my dealings with the children. In my rdle as a benefactor, I paid attention to the children, too, wishing to save innocent beings from going to ruin in this den ; and I wrote down their names in order to attend to them myself afterwards. Among these children, my attention was particularly drawn to Serozha, a boy twelve years old. I sincerely pitied this clever, intelligent lad, who had been living with a bootmaker, and who was left without any place of refuge when his mas- ter was put into prison. 1 wished to do something for him. I will now give the result of my benevolence in his case, because this boj''s story will show my false position as a benefactor better than any thing else. I took the boy into my house, and lodged him in the kitchen. Could I possibly bring a lousy boy out of a den of depravity to my children ? I considered that I had been very kind in having put him where he was, amongst my servants. I thought myself a great benefactor for having given liim some of my old clothes and fed him ; though it was properly my cook who did it, not I. The boy remained in my house about a week. During this week I saw him twice, and, passing by liim, spoke some words to him, and, when out walking, called on a bootmaker whom I knew, and proposed the boy as an apprentice. A peasant who was on a visit at my house invited him to go to his village, and work in a family. WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f 35 The boy refused to accept it, and disappeared within a week. I went to Rzhanoff's house to inquire after him. He had returned there ; but when I called, he was not at home. He had already been two days to the zoological gardens, where he hired himself for thirty kopeks a day to appear in a pro- cession of savages in costume, leading an elephant. There was some public show on at the time. I went to see him again, but he evidently avoided me. Had I reflected upon the life of this boy, and on my own, I should have understood that the boy had been spoiled by the fact of his having tasted the sweets of a merry and idle life, and that he had lost the habit of working. And I, in order to confer a benefit on him and reform him, took him into my own house ; and what did he see there ? He saw my chil- dren, some older than he, some younger, and some of the same age, who not only never did any thing for themselves, but gave as much work to others as they could. They dirtied and spoiled every thing about them, surfeited them- selves with all sorts of dainties, broke the china, upset and threw to the dogs food which would have been a treat to him. If I took him out of a den and brought him to a re- spectable place, he could not but assimilate those views of life which existed there ; and, according to these views, he understood, that, in a respectable position, one must live without working, eat and drink well, and lead a merry life. True, he did not know that my children had much labor in learning the exceptions in Latin and Greek grammars ; and he would not have been able to understand the object of such work. But one- cannot help seeing, that, had he even understood it, the influence upon him of the example of my children would have been still stronger. He would have then understood that they were being educated in such a way, that, not working now, they might hereafter also work as little as possible, and enjoy the good things of life by virtue of their diplomas. But what he did understand of it, made him go, not to the peasant- to take care of cattle and feed on potatoes and kvas, but to the zoological gardens in the costume of a savage to lead an elephant for thirty kopeks a day. I ought to have understood how foolish it was of one who was educat- ing his own children in complete idleness and luxury, to try to reform other men and their children, and save them from 36 WHAT MUST WE DO TRENT going to ruin and idleness in what I called the dent in Uzhanoff's house ; where, however, three-fourths of the men were working for themselves and for others. But then I understood nothing of all this. In Rzhanoff's house, there were a great many children in the most miserable condition. There were children of pros- titutes, orphans, and children carried about the streets by beggars. They were all very wretched. But my experience with Serozha showed me, that, so long as I continued living the life which I did, I was not able to help them. While the latter was living with us, I remember that I took pains to hide from him our way of life, particularly that of my children. I felt that all my endeavors to lead him to a good and laborious life were frustrated by my example, and that of my children. It is very easy to take away a child from a prostitute or a beggar. It is very easy, when one has money, to wash him, dress him in new clothes, feed him well, and even teach him different accomplishments ; but to teach him how to earn his liviug, is, for us who have not been earning ours, but have been doing just the contrary, not only difficult, but quite impossible, because by our example, and by the very improvements of his mode of life eflfected b3' us, without any cost on our part, we teach him the very opposite. You may take a puppj', pet him, feed him, teach him to carry things after you, and be pleased with looking at him : . but it is not enough to feed a man, dress him, and teach him Greek; you must teach him how to livej i.e., how to take less from o there, a nd give them more in return : and yet we cannot help teaching him tbe very opix>8ite, through our own j mode of life, whether we take him into our own house, or ' put him into a home to bring up. I HAVE never since experienced such a feeling of compas- sion towards men, and of aversion towards myself, as I felt in Liapin's house. I was now filled with the desire to carry out the scheme which I had already begun, and to do good to those men whom I met with. And, strange to say, though it might seem that to do good and to give money to those in want of it, was, a good deed, and ought to dispose men to universal love, it turned out WHAT MUST WE DO TBENt 87 quite the reverse ; calling up in me bitter feeling, and a dis- position to censure them. Even during our first visiting-tour a scene occurred similar to that in Liapin's house ; but it failed to produce again the same effect, and created a very different impression. It began with my finding in one of the lodgings a miserable person who required immediate help, — a woman who had not eaten food for two days. It happened thus: In one very large and almost empty night-lodging, I asked an old woman whether there were any poor people who had nothing to eat. She hesitated a moment, and then named two ; then suddenly, as if recollecting her- self, she said, "Yes, there lies one of them," pointing to a pallet. " This one," she added, " indeed, has nothing to eat." "You don't say so! Who is she?" " She has been a lost woman ; but as nobody takes her now, she can't earn any thing. The landlady has had pity on her, but now she wants to turn her out. — Agafia ! I say, Agafia ! " cried the old woman. We went a little nearer, and saw something rise from the pallet. This was a gray-haired, dishevelled woman, thin as a skeleton, in a dirty, torn chemise, and with peculiarly glit- tering, immovable eyes. She looked fixedly beyond us, tried to snatch up her jacket behind her in order to cover her bony chest, and growled out like a dog, " What? what? " I asked her how she managed to live. For some time she was unable to see the drift of my words, and said, "I do not know myself : they are going to turn me out." I asked again ; and oh, how ashamed of m3-self I feel ! my hand can scarcely write it ! I asked her whether it was true that she was starving. She replied in the same feverish, excited manner, "I had nothing to eat yesterday; I have had nothing to eat to-day." The miserable aspect of this woman impressed me deeply, but quite differently, from what those had in Liapin's house : there, out of pity for them, I felt embarrassed and ashamed of myself ; but here, I rejoiced that I had, at last, found what I had been looking for, — a hungry being. I gave her a ruble, and I remember how glad I felt that the others had seen it. The old woman forthwith asked me also for money. It was so pleasant to me to give, that I handed her some also, 38 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? without thinking whether it was necessary or not. She accompanied me to the door, and those who were in the cor- ridor heard how she thanked me. Probably my questions about the poor provoked expectations, for some of the inmates began to follow us wherever we went. Among those that begged, there were evidently drunkards, who gave me a most disagreeable impression ; but, having once given to the old woman, I thought I had no right to refuse them, and I began to give away more. This only increased the number of applicants, and there was a stir throughout the whole lodging-house. On the stairs and in the galleries, people appeared dogging my steps. When I came out of the yard, a boy ran quickly down the stairs, pushing through the people. He did not notice me, and said hurriedly, — " He gave a ruble to Agafia ! " Having reached the ground, he, too, joined the crowd that was following me. I came out into the street. All sorts of people crowded round me, begging for money. Having given awa}' all I bad in coppei's, I entered a shop and asked the proprietor to give me change for ten rubles. And here a scene similar to that which took place in Liapin's house occurred. A dreadful confusion ensued. Old women, seedy gentlefolk, peasants, children, all crowded about the shop, stretching out their hands ; I gave, and asked some of them about their position and means, and entered all in my note-book. The shopkeeper, having turned up the fur collar of his great-coat, was sitting like a statue, glancing now and then at the crowd, and again staring beyond it. He apparently felt like every one else, that all this was very foolish, but he dared not say so. In Liapin's house the misery and humiliation of the people had overwhelmed me ; and I felt myself to blame for it, and also felt the desire and the possibility of becoming a better man. But though the scene here was similar, it produced a quite different effect. In the first place, I felt angry with many of those who assailed me, and then I felt anxious as to what the shopmen and the dvorniks might think of me. I returned home that day with a weight on my mind. I knew that what I had done was foolish and inconsistent ; but, as usual, when my conscience was troubled, I talked the more about my projected plan, as if I had no doubt whatever as to its success. WHAT MUST WE DO THENt 39 The next day I went alone to those whom I had noted down, and who seemed the most miserable, thinking they could be more easily helped than others. As I have already mentioned, I was not really able to help any of these people. It turned out that to do so was more difificult than I had imagined ; either I did not understand how to do it, or else it was indeed impossible. I went several times before the last visiting-tour to Ezhan- oS's house, and each time the same thing occurred : I was assailed by a crowd of men and women, in the midst of whom I utterly lost my presence of mind. I felt the impossibility of doing any thing because there were so many of them, and I was angry with them because they were so many ; besides, each of them, taiien separately, did not awaken any sympathy in me. I felt that each one of them lied, or at least prevaricated, and regarded me only as a purse out of which money could be abstracted. It often seemed to me that the very money which was extorted from me did not improve their position, but only made it worse. The oftener I went to these houses, the closer the inter- course which I had with tlie inmates, the more apparent became the impossibility of doing any thing ; but, notwith- standing this, I did not give up my plan until after the last night tour with the census-takers. I feel more ashamed of this visit than of any other. Formerly I had gone alone, but now twenty of us went together. At seven o'clock all those who wished to take part in this last tour began to assemble in my house. They were almost all strangers to me. Some students, an oflicer, and two of my fashionable acquaintances, who, after having repeated the usual phrase, " C'est tr6s int^ressant ! " asked me to put them into the number of the census-takers. These fashionable friends of mine bad dressed themselves in shooting-jackets and high travelling boots, which they thought more suited to the visit than their ordinary attire. They carried with them peculiar pocket-books and extraordi- nary-looking pencils. They were in that agitated state of mind which one experiences just before going to a hunt, or to a duel, or into a battle. The falseness and foolishness of our enterprise was now more apparant to me when looking at them ; but were we not all in the same ridiculous position? Before starting we had a conference, somewhat like a council of war, as to what we should begin with, how to 40 WHAT MUST WH DO TBENt divide ourselves, and so on. This conference was just like all other official councils, meetings, and committees : each spoke, not because he had any thing to say, or to ask, but because every one tried to find something to say in order not to be behind the rest. But during this conversation no one alluded to the acts of benevolence to which I had so many times referred ; and however much ashamed I felt, I found it was needful to remind them that we must carry out our chaiitable intentions by writing down, during the visiting- tour, the names of all whom we should find in a destitute condition. I had always felt ashamed to speak about these matters ; but here, in the midst of our hurried preparations for the expedition, I could scarcel3' utter a word about them. All listened to me and seemed touched, all agreed with me in words ; but it was evident that each of them knew that it was folly, and that it would lead to nothing, so they began at once to talk about other subjects, and continued doing so until it was time for us to start. We came to the dark tavern, aroused the waiters, and began to sort our papers. When we were told that the peo- ple, having heard about this visiting-tour, had begun t^ leave their lodgings, we asked the landlord to shut the gate, and we ourselves went to the j'ard to persuade those to remain who wanted to escape, assuring them that no one would ask to see their tickets. I remember the strange and painful impression produced upon me by these frightened night-lodgers. Bagged and half- dressed, they all appeared tall to me by the light of the lan- tern in the dark court-yard. Frighteneid and horrible in their terror, they stood in a small knot round the pestilential out- house, listening to our persuasions, but not believing us ; and evidently, like hunted animals, were prepared to do any thing to escape from us. Gentlemen of all kinds, town and country policemen, pub- lic prosecutors and judges, had, all their lives long, been hunting them in towns and villages, on the roads and in the streets, in the taverns and in the lodging-houses, and sud- denly these gentlemen had come at night and shut the gate, only, forsooth, in order to count them ; they found it as diffi- cult to believe this as it would be for hares to believe that the dogs are come out not to catch but to count them. But the gates were shut, and the frightened night-lodgers WHAT MUST WE DO THEN T 41 returned to their respective places ; and we, having separated into groups, began our visit. With roe were my fashionable acquaintances and two students. Vinya, with a lantern, went before us in a great-coat and white trousers, and we fol- lowed. We entered lodgings well known to me. The place was familiar, some of the persons also ; but the majority were new to me, and the spectacle was also a new and dreadful one, — still more dreadful than that which I had seen at Liapin's house. All the lodgings were Riled, all the pallets occupied, and not only by one, but often by two persons. The sight was dreadful, because of the closeness with which these people were huddled together, and because of the indis- criminate commingling of men and women. Such of the latter as were not dead-drunk were sleeping with men. Many women with children slept with strange men on narrow beds. The spectacle was dreadful, owing to the misery, dirt, rag- gedness, and terror of these people ; and chiefly so because there were so many of them. One lodging, then another, then a third, a tenth, a twentieth, and so on, without end. And everywhere the same fearful stench, the same suffo- cating exhalation, the same confusion of sexes, men and women, drunk, or in a state of insensibility ; the same terror, submissiveness, and guilt stamped on all faces, so that I felt deeply ashamed and grieved, as I had before at Liapiu's. At last I understood that what I was about to do was dis- gusting, foolish, and therefore imi)ossible ; so I left off writ- ing down their names and questioning them, knowing now that nothing would come of it. At Liapin's I had been like a man who sees a honible wound on the body of another. He feels sorry for the man, ashamed of not having relieved him before, yet he can still hope to help the sufferer ; but now I was like a doctor who comes with his own medicines to the patient, uncovers bis wound only to mangle it, and to confess to himself that all he has done has been in vain, and that his remedy is inef- fectual. XI. This visit gave the last blow to my self-deception. It be- came very evident to me that my aim was not only foolish, but also productive of evil. And yet, though I knew this, it seemed to be my duty to continue my project a little longer : 42 WHAT MUST WB DO TUEN f first, because by the article which I had written, and my visits, I had raised the expectations of the poor ; secondly, because what I had said and written had awakened the sympathy of some benefactors, many of whom had promised to assist me personally and with money. And I was expect- ing to be applied to by both, and hoped to satisfy them as well as I was able. As regards the applications made to me by those who were in need, the following details may be given : I received more than a hundred letters, which came exclusively from the " rich poor," if I may so express myself. Some of them I visited, and some I left unanswered. In no instance did I succeed in doing any good. All the applications made to me were from persons who were once in a privileged position (I call such persons privileged who receive more from others than they give in return), had lost that position, and were desirous of regaining it. One wanted two hundred rubles in order to keep his business from going to ruin, and to enable him to finish the education of his children ; another wanted to have a photographic establishment ; a third wanted money to par his debts, and take his best clothes out of pawn ; a fouith was in need of a piano, in order to perfect himself, and earn money to support his famil3- by giving les- sons. The majority did not name any particular sum of money : thej- simply asked for help ; but when I began to in- vestigate what was necessary, it turned out that their wants increased in proportion to the help offered, and nothing satisfactoi-y resulted. I repeat again, the fault may have been in my want of understanding ; but in any case I helped DO one, notwithstanding the fact that 1 made every effort to do so. As for the philanthropists who were to co-operate with me, something very strange and quite unexiiected occurred : of all who promised to assist with money, and even stated the amount they would give, not one contributed any thing for distribution among the ix>or. The promises of pecuniai'y assistance amounted to about three thousand rubles ; but of all these people, not one recol- lected his agreement, or gave me a single kopek. The students alone gave the monej^ which they received as pay- ment for visiting, about twelve rubles ; so that my scheme, which was to iiave collected tens of thousands of rubles from the rich, and to have saved hundreds and thousands of WUAT MUST WE DO TRENT 43 people from misery and vice, ended in my distributing at random some few rubles among those who came begging ; and there remained on my hands the twelve rubles offered by the students, with twenty-five more sent me by the town- council for my labor as manager, which I positively did not know what to do with. And so ended the affair. Then , before leaving Moscow for the country, on the Sun- day before the carnival I went to the Rzhanoff bouse in the morning in order to distribute the thirty-seven rubles among the poor. I visited all whom I knew in the lodgings, but found only one invalid, to whom I gave something, — I think, five rubles. There was nobody else to give to. Of course, many began to beg ; but, as 1 did not know them, I made up my mind to take the advice of Ivdn Fedotitch, the tavern- keeper, respecting the distribution of the remaining thirty- two rubles. It was the first day of the carnival. Everybody was smartly dressed, all had had food, and many were drunk. In the j-ard near the corner of the liouse stood an old-clothes man, dressed in a ragged peasant's coat and bark shoes. He was still hale and hearty. Sorting his purchases, he was putting them into ditferent heaps, — leather, iron, and other thiugs, — and was singing a merry song at the top of his voice. I began to talk with him. He was seventy years of age ; had no relatives ; earned his living by dealing in old clothes, and not only did not complain, but said he had enough to eat, drink, and to spare. I asked him who in the place were particularly in want. He became cross, and said plainly that there was no one in want but drunkards and idlers ; but on learning my object in asking, he begged of me five kopeks for drink, and ran to the tavern for it. I also went to the tavern to sec Ivan Fedotitch, in order to ask him to distribute the money for me. It was full ; gayly- di'essed tipsy prostitutes were walking to and fro ; all the tables were occupied ; many people were already drunk ; and in the small room some one was playing a harmonium, and two people were dancing. Ivan Fedotitch, out of respect for nie, ordered them to leave off, and sat down next me at a vacant table. I asked him, as lie knew bis lodgers well, to point out those most in want, iis I was intrusted with a little money for distribution, aud wished him to direct me. The 44 WnAT MUST WE DO TUEN f kind-hearted man (he died a year after) , although he had to wait on his customers, gave me his attention for a time in order to oblige me. He began to think over it, and was evidently puzzled. One old waiter had overheard us, and took his part in the conference. They began to go over his lodgers, some of whom were known to me, but they could not agree. " Paramonovna," suggested the waiter. " Well, yes, she does go hungry sometimes ; but she drinks." " What difference does that make? " " Well, Spiridon Ivanovitch, he has children ; that's the man for you. " But Iv4n Fedotitch had doubts about Spiridon too. " Akulina, but she has a pension. Ah, but there is the blind man ! " To him I ra3-self objected : I had just seen him. This was an old man of eighty years of age, without any relatives. One could scarcely imagine any condition to be worse ; and yet I had just seen him lying drunk on a feather bed, curs- ing at his comparatively young mistress in the most filthy language. The}' then named a one-armed boy and his mother. I saw that IvAn Fedotitch was in great difficulty, owing to his conscientiousness, for he knew that every thing given away by me would be spent at his tavern. But as I had to get rid of my thirty-two rubles, I insisted, and we managed somehow or other to distribute the money. Those who re- ceived it were mostly well-dressed, and we had not far to go to find them : they were all in the tavern. Thus ended all my benevolent enterprises ; and I left for the country, vexed with every one, as it always happens when one does something foolish and harmful. Nothing came of it all, except the train of thoughts and feelings which it called forth in me, which not only did not cease, but doubly agitated m}- mind. XII. What did it all mean ? I had lived in the country, and had entered into relations with the country-poor. It is not out of false modesty, but m order to state the truth, which is necessary in order to under- stand the run of all my thoughts and feelings, that I must WHAT MUST WE DO TBEN t 45 Bay that in the country I had done perhaps but little for the [K)or, the help which had been required of me was so small ; but even the little I had done had been useful, and had formed round me an atmosphere of love and sympathy with my fellow-creatures, in the midst of whom it might j'et be possible for me to quiet the gnawing of my conscience as to the unlawfulness of my life of luxury. On going to the city I had hoped for the same happy rela- tions with the poor, but there things were upon quite another footing. (In the city, poverty was at once less truthful, more exacting, and more bitter, than in the country. ' It was chiefly because there was so much more of it accumulated together, that it produced upon me a most harrowing impression. What I experienced at Liapin's house made my own luxuri- ous life seem monstrously evil. I could not doubt the sin- cerity and the strength of this conviction ; yet, notwithstand- ing this, I was quite incapable of carrying out that revolution which demanded an entire change in my mode of life : I was frightened at the prospect, and so I resorted to compromises. I accepted what I was told by every one, and what has been said by everybody since the world began, — that riches and luxury contain in themselves no evil, that they are given by ' God, and that it is possible to help those in need whilst con- tinuing to live luxuriously. I believed this, and wanted to do so. And I wrote an article in which I called upon all rich people to help. These all admitted themselves morally obliged to agree with me, but evidently did not wish, or could not, either do or give any thing for the poor. ^ I then began visitmg, and discovered what I had in no way expected to see. On the one hand,(j saw in these dens (as I had at first called them) men whom it was impossible for me to help, because they were working-men, accustomed to labor and privation, and therefore having a much firmer hold on life than I had. On the other hand, I saw miserable men whom I could not aid because they were just such as 1 was mj'self . The majority of the poor whom I saw were wretched, merely because they had lost the capacity, desn-e, and habit of earning their bread ; in other words, their miserj* consisted in the fact that they were just like myself. Whereas, of poor people, to whom it was possible to give immediate assistance, — those suffering from illness, cold, and hunger, — I found none,jexcept the starving Agafia ; and I became persuaded that, being so far removed from the life of those whom I 46 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f wished to succor, it was almost impossible to find such need as I sought, because (all real need was attended to by those amongst whom these unhappy creatures lived : and my prin- cipal conviction now was, that, with money, I could never reform that life of misery which these people led.) I was persuaded of this : yet a feeling of shame to leave off all I had begun, and self-deception as to my own virtues, made me continue my plan for some time longer, till it died a natural death ; thus, only with great difficulty and the help of Iv4n Fedotitch, I managed to distribute in the tavern at Rzhanoff's house the thirty-seven rubles which I con- sidered were not my own. Of course I might have continued this style of thing, and have transformed it into a kind of charity ; and, by importun- ing those who promised to give me monej-, I might have obtained and distributed more, thus comforting myself with the idea of my own excellence : but I became convinced on the one hand, that (we rich people do not wish, and are also unable, to distribute to the poor a portion of our superfluities (we have so many wants ourselves)\ and that money should not be given to any one if we really wished to do good, and not merely to distribute it at random as I had done in the Rzhanoff tavern ; so I dropped the affair entirely, and quitted Moscow, in despair, for ray own village. I intended on returning home to write a pamphlet on my experience, and to state why my project had not succeeded. I wanted to justify myself from the imputations which re- sulted from my article on the census ; I wanted also to denounce society and its heartless indifference ; and I desired to point out the causes of this town misery, and the necessity for endeavoring to remedy it, as well as those means which I thought were requisite for this purpose. I began even then to write, and fancied I had many very impoitant facts to communicate. But in vain did I rack my brain : I could not manage it, notwithstanding the superabundance of material at my command, because of the irritation under which I wrote, and because I had not yet learned by experience what was necessary to grasp the question rightly ; still more be- cause I had not become fully conscious of the cause of it all, — a verj- simple cause, which was deep-rooted in myself ; so the pamphlet was not finished at the commencement of the present year (1884-1885). In the matter of moral law we witness a strange phenomenon to which men pay too little WHAT MUST WE DO THEN ? 47 attention. If I speak to an unlearned man about geologj', astronomy, history, natural philosophy, or mathematics, he receives the information as quite new to him, and never says to me, " There is nothing new in what you tell me ; every one knows it, and I have known it for a long time." But tell a man one of the highest moral truths in the simplest manner, in such a way as it has never been befor-e formulated, and every ordinary man, particularly one who does not take any interest in moral questions, and, above all, one who dislikes them, is sure to say, " Who does not know that? It has been always known and expressed." And he really believes this. Only tliose who can appreciate moral truths know how to value their elucidation and simplification by a long and laborious process, or can prize the transition from a first vaguely understood proposition or desire to a firm and determined expression calling for a corresponding change of conduct. We are all accustomed to consider moral doctrine to be a very insipid and dull affair, in which there cannot be any thing new or interesting ; whereas, in reality, human life, with all its complicated and varied actions, which seem to have no connection with morals, — political activity, activity in the sciences, in the arts, and in commerce, — has no other object than to elucidate moral truths more and more, and to confirm, simplify, and make them accessible to all. I recollect once while walking in a street in Moscow I saw a man come out and examine the flag-stones attentivelj- ; then, choosing one of them, he sat down by it and began to scrape or rub it vigorously. " What is he doing with the pavement? " I wondered ; and, having come up close to him, I discovered he was a young man from a butcher's shop, and was sharpening his knife on the flagstone. He was not thinking about the stones when examining them, and still less while doing his work : he was merely sharpening his knife. It was necessary for him to do so in order to cut the meat, but to me it seemed that he was doing something to the pavement. In the same way mankind seems to be occupied with com- merce, treaties, wars, sciences, arts ; and yet for them one thing onl)' is important, and they do only that, — they are elucidating those moral laws by which they live. Moral laws are already in existence, and mankind has been merely re-discovering them : this elucidation appears to be 48 WHAT MUST WE DO TBENt uniinpoi'taDt and imperceptible to one who has no need of moral law, and who does not desire to live by it. Yet this is not only the chief, but ought to be the sole, business of all men. This elucidation is imperceptible in the same wa}' as the difference between a sharp knife and a blunt one is im- perceptible. A knife remains a knife ; and one who has not got to cut any thiug with it, will not notice its edge : but for one who understands that all his life depends more or less uiK>n whether his knife is blunt or sharp, every improvement in sharpening it is important ; and such a man knows that there must be no limit to this improvement, and that the knife is only really a knife when it is sharp, and when it cuts what it has to cut. The conviction of this truth flashed upon me when I began to write my pamphlet. Previously it seemed to me that I knew every thing about my subject, that I had a thorough understandiug of every thing connected with those questions which had been awakened in me by the impressions made in Liapin's house during the census ; but when I tried to sum them up, and to put them on paper, it turned out that the knife would not cut, and had to be sharpened : so it is only now after three years that I feel ray knife is sharp enough for me to cut out what I want. It is not that 1 have learned new things : my thoughts are still the same ; but they were blunt formerly ; they kept scattering in every direction ; there was no edge to them ; nor was any thing brought, as it is now, to one central point, to oue most simple and plain conclusion. XIII. I RECOLLECT that during the whole time of my unsuccess- ful endeavors to help the unfortunate inhabitants of Moscow, I felt that (l was like a man trying to help others out of a morass, who was himself all the time stuck fast in it.) Every effort made me feel the instability of that ground upon which I was standing. I was conscious that I myself was in this same morass ; but this acknowledgment did not help me to look more closely under my feet in order to ascertain the nature of the ground upon which I stood : I kept looking for some exterior means to remedy the existing evil. I felt then that my life was a bad one, and that people ought not to live so ; yet I did not come to the most natural WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f 49 and obvious conclusion, that([ must first reform my own mode of life before I should have any conception of how to reform that of others. 1 And so 1 began as it were at the wrong end. I was living in town, and I desired to improve the lives of the men there ; but I was soon convinced that I had no power to do so, and I began to ponder over the nature of town life and town misery. I said to myself over and over, " What is this town life and town misery? And why, while living in town, am I unal)le to help the town poor?" The only reply 1 found was, that 1 was powerless to do any thing for them : first, because there were too many collected together in one place ; secondly, because none of them was at all like those in the country. And again I asked myself, " Why are there so many here, and in what do they differ from the country poor ? ' ' To both these questions the answer was one and the same. There are many poor people in towns because thereCall those who have nothing to subsist on in the country are collected round the rich,) and their peculiarity consists only in that they have all come into the towns from the country(in order to get a living.) (If there are any town poor born there, whose fathers and grandfathers were town born, these ia their turn originally came there to get a living.) (Bu^ what are we to understand by the expression, " getting a living in town"? There is something strange in the expression : (it sounds like a joke^hen we refiect ou its meaning. (How is it that from the country — i.e., from places where there are woods, meadows, corn and cattle, where the earth yields the treasures of fertility — men come away in order to get a living in a place where there are none of these advantages, but only stones and dust? What, then, do these words signify, to " get a living in town ")? Such a phrase is constantly used, both by the employed and their employers, and that as if it were quite clear and intelligible. I remember now all the hundreds and thousands of town people living well or in want with whom I had spoken about their object in coming here ; and all of them, without exception, told me they had quitted their villages in order to get a living ; that according to the proverb, (" Mos- cow neither sows nor reaps, yet lives in wealth^" that in Moscow there is abundance of every thing ; and that, there- fore, ||u Moscow one may get the money which is needed in 50 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? the country for getting corn, cottages, horses, and the other essentials of life.;' But, in fact, the source of all wealth is the country ; there only are real riches, — corn, woods, horses, and every thing necessary. Why then go to towns in order to get what is to be had in the country? And why should people carry away from the country' into the towns such things as are necessary for country people, — flour, oats, horses, and cattle ? Hundreds of times have I spoken thus with peasants who live in towns ; and from my talks with them, and from my own observations, it became clear to me that (the accumula- tion of country people in our cities is partly necessary, be- cause they could not otherwise earn their livelihood, and partly voluntary, because they are attracted by the tempta- tions of a town life. ") It is true that the circumstances of( a peasan^are such, th'at,(in order to satisfy the pecuniar3' de- mands made on him iu his village, he cannot do it otherwise than by selling that corn and cattle which he very well knows will be necessary for himself ; and he is compelled, whether he will or not, to go to town in order to earn back that which was his own.^ But it is also true that he is attracted to town by the charms of a comparatively easy way of getting money, and by the luxury of lif there ; (and, under the pretext of thus earning his living, he goes there in order to have easier work and better eating, to drink tea three times a day, to dress himself smartly, and even to get drunk, and lead a dis- solute life. The cause is a simple one, for property passing from the hands of the agriculturalist into those of non-agriculturalists thus accumulates in towns. (' Observe towards autumn how much wealth is gathered together in villages. Then come the demands of taxes, rents, recruiting ; then the temptations of vodka, marriages, feasts, peddlers, and all sorts of other snares ; so that in one way or other, this property, in all its various forms (sheep, calves, cows, hoi'ses, pigs, poultry, eggs, butter, hemp, flax, rye, oats, buckwheat, pease, hemp- seed, and flax-seed), passes into the hands of strangei-s, and is taken first to provincial towns, and from them to the capi- tals. A villager is compelled to dispose of all these in order to satisfy the demands made upon him, and the temptations offered him ; and, having thus dispensed his goods, he is left in want, and must follow where his wealth has been taken ; WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 61 and there he tries to earn back the money necessary for his most urgent needs at home ;T and so, being partly carried away bj' these temptations, he himself, along with others, makes use of the accumulated wealth. Everywhere throughout Russia, and I think not only in Russia but all over the world, the same thing happens. The wealth of country producers passes into the hands of tradespeople, land-owners, government functionaries, manu- facturers ; the men who receive this wealth want to enjoy it, and to enjoy it fully they must be in town. Cin the village) in the first place, owing to the inhabitants being scatteredvLit is difficult for the rich to gratify all their desires : you do not find there all sorts of shops, banks, restaurants, theatres, and various kinds of public amuseraentsj (Secondly) another of the chief pleasures procured by wealth, — 'vanity, the desire to astonish, to make a display before others, — cannot be gratified in the country )for the same reason, its inhabitants being too scattered. There is no one in the country to appreciate luxury ; there is no one to astonish. There you may have wl t you like to embellish j-our dwelling, — pictures, bronze statues, all sorts of car- riages, fine toilets, — but there is nobody to look at them or to envy you ; the peasants do not understand the value of all this, and cannot make head or tail of it. Thirdly, luxury in the country is even disagreeable to a man who has a con- science, and is an anxiety to a timid person. One feels uneasy or ashamed at taking a milk bath, or in feeding puppies with milk, when there are children close by needing it : one feels the same in building pavilions and gardens among a people who live in cottages covered with stable litter, and who have no wood to burn. There is no one in the village to prevent the stupid, uneducated peasants from spoiling our comforts. And, (therefore, rich people gather together in towns, and settle near those who, in similar positions, have similar de- sires. ^ In towns, the enjoyment of all sorts of luxuries is cai'efully protected by a numerous police. The chief inhabit- ants of the town are government functionaries, round whom all sorts of master-workmen, artisans, and all the rich people have settled. There, a rich man has only to think about any thing in order to get it. It is also more agreeable for him to live there, because he can gratify his vanity ;(there are people with whom he may try to compete in luxury, whom he may astonish or eclipse.) But it is especially 5^^ ^ , . TTff^r MUST WE DO TEEN t ^pleasant for a wealthy man to live in town, because, where his country life was uncomfortable, and somewhat incongruous on account of his luxury, in town, on the contrary, it would be uncomfortable for him not to live splendidly, and as his equals in wealth do. What seemed out of place there, appears indispensable here. Rich people collect together in towns, and. under the protection of the authorities, peacefully enjoy all that has been brought there by the villagers. (A countryman often cannot help going to town]where a ceaseless round of feast- ing is going on, where what has been procured from the peasants is being spent ; he comes into the town(in order to feed upon those crumbs which fall from the tables of the rich ; and partly by obsei-ving the careless, luxurious, and universall}' approved mode of living of these men, he begins to desire to order his own affairs in such a manner that he, too, ma3' be able to work less, and avail himself more of the labor of others.} And at last 'he decides to settle down in the neighborhood of the wealthy, trying by every means in his power to get back from them what is necessary for him. and submitting to all the conditions which the rich enforceJ (.These country people) assist in gratifying all the fancies of the wealthy : the}' serve them in public baths, in taverns, as coachmen, and as prostitutes. They manufacture carriages, make toys and dresses, and little by little learn from tlieir wealthy neighbors how to live like them, not by real labor, but by all sorts of tricks, squeezing out from others the money they have collected, and so become depraved, and are ruined. It is then this same population, depraved by the wealth of towns, which forms that city misery which I wished to relieve, but could not.) And indeed, if one onlj' reflects upon the condition of these country folk coming to town in order to earn money to buy bread or to pay taxes, seeing everywhere thousands of rubles foolishly squandered, and hundreds very easily earned, while they have to earn their i^ence by the hardest labor,(one cannot but be astonished that there are still many of sucn people at work, and that they do not all of them have recourse to a more easy wa}' of getting money, — by trade, begging, vice, cheating, and even robbei-y.^ But it is only we who join in the ceaseless orgy'going on in the towns who can get so accustomed to our own mode of life, that (it seems quite natural to us for one fine gentleman WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 53 fTjl iV A- fc-*^ *— 7 to occupy five large rooms which are heated with such a quan- j. tit}' of firewood as would be enough for twenty families to '» warm their homes, and cook their footl with.) To drive a-, short distance, we employ two thoroughbreds and two men ; .. we cover our inlaid floors with carpets, and spend five or ten thousand rubles on a ball, or even twenty-five for a Christ- mas-tree, and so on. Yet a man who needs ten rubles in order to buy bread for his family, or from whom his last sheep is tai^en to meet a tax of seven rubles which he can- not save by the hardest labor, cannot get accustomed to all this, which we imagine must seem quite natural to the poor ; rthere are even such iiatve people as say that the poor are^ thankful to us because we feed them by living so luxuri-'' ously.) -^ ^ 17 But poor people do not lose their reasoning powers because they are poor : they reason quite in the same manner as we do. When we have heard that some one has lost a fortune at cards, or squandered ten or twenty thousand rubles, the first thought tliat comes into our minds is : How stupid aud bad this man must be to have parted with such a large sum without any equivalent ; and how well I could have emjjloyed this money for some building I have long wanted to get done, or for the improvement of my estate, and so on. So also do the poor reaso* on seeing how foolishly we waste our wealth ; all the more forcibly, because this money is needed, not to satisfy their whims, but for the chief neces- saries of life, of which they are in want. We are greatly mistaken in thinking that(^the poori while able to reason thus, still look on unconceruedl}' at the luxury around them. Theyiiiave never acknowledged, and never will, that it is right for one man to be always idling, and for another to be continually working. At first the\- are astonished at it and offended ; then, looking closer into the question, they see that this oi'der of things is acknowledged to be lawful, and they try themselves to get rid of working, and to take part in the feasting. Some succeed in so doing, and acquire similar wanton habits ; others, little by little, appraach such a condi- tion ; others break down before they reach their object, and, having lost the habit of working, fill the night-houses and the haunts of vice, i vThe year before last we took)from the village a young peasant (to be our butler's assistant.^ He could not agree with the footman, aud was sent away ; he entered the service 54 WHAT MUST WE DO TUENT of a merchant, pleased his masters, and now wears a watch and chain, and has smart boots. lu liis place we took another (peasant, a married man. He turned out a drunkard, and lost money. We took a thii-d : he began to drink, and, having drunk up all he had, was for a long time iu distress in a night-lodging-house. Our old cook took to drinking in the town, and fell ill. Last year a foot- man who used formerly to have fits of drunkenness, and who when in the village kept himself from it for five years, when living in Moscow without his wife, who used to keep him in order, began again to drink, and ruined himself.) A young boy of our village is living as butler's assistant at my brother's. His grandfather, a blind old man, came to me while I was living in the country, and asked rae to persuade this grandson to send ten rubles for taxes, because, unless this were done, the cow would have to be sold. " He keeps telling me that he has to dress himself respect- abl}'," said the old man. " He got himself boots, and that ought to be enough ; but I actually believe he would like to buy a watch ! " In these words the grandfather expressed the utmost degree of extravagance. And this was really so ; for the old man could not afford a drop of oil for his food during the whole of Lent, and his wood |vas spoilt because he had not the ruble and a quarter necessary for cutting it up. But the old man's irony turned out to be a realitj'. His grandson came to me dressed in a fine black overcoat, and in boots for which he had paid eight rubles. Lately he got ten rubles from my brother, and spent them on his boots. And my children, who have known the boy from his infancy, told me that he really considers it necessary to buy a watch. He is a ver}' good boy, but he considers that he will be laughed at for not having one. This year a housemaid, eighteen j-ears of age, formed an intimacy with the coachman, and was sent away. Our old nurse, to whom I related the case, reminded me of a girl whom I had quite forgotten. Ten years ago, during our short stay in Moscow, she formed an intimacy with a foot- man. She was also sent away, and drifted at last into a house of ill-fame, and died in a hospital before she was t\j'enty years of age. ( We have only to look around us in order to become terrified b}' that infection which (to say nothing of manufactories ' WE AT MUST WE DO THEN f 55 and workshops existing only to gratify our luxury) we di- rectly, by our luxurious town life, spread s^mong those very people whom we desire afterwards to help, j (Thus, having got at the root of that town misery which I was not able to alleviate, I saw that its first cause is in our taking from the villagers their necessaries and carrying them to town. The second cause is, that in those towns we avail ourselves of what we have gathered from the country, and, by our foolish luxury, tempt and deprave those peasants who follow us there in order to get back something of what we have taken from them in the country. \ XIV. From an opposite point of view to that previously stated, I again came to the same conclusion. Recollectiug all ray connection with the town poor during this period, I saw that (one reason wh}- I was not able to help them was tiieir insin- cerity and falseness. They all considered me not as an individual, but merely as a means to au end. I felt (J could not become intimate with them): I thought I did not perhaps understand how to do so ; but without truthfulness, no help was possible. How can one help a man who does not tell all his circumstances? Formerly I accused the poor of this, — it is so natural to accuse others ; but one word spoken by a remarkable man, namely, Sutaief, who was then on a visit at my house, cleared up the difficulty, and showed me wherein lay tiie cause of my non-success. I remember that even then what he said made a deep im- pression upon me ; but I did not understand its full meaning until aftefwards. It happened that while in the full ardor of my self-deception, I was at my sister's house, Sutaief being also there ; and my sister was questioning me about my work. I was relating it to her ; and, as is often the case when one does not fully believe in one's own enterprises, I related with great enthusiasm, ardor, and at full length, all I had been doing, and all the possible results. I was telling her how we should keep our eyes open to what went on in Mos- cow ; how we should take care of orphans and old people ; how we should afford means to impoverished villagers to return to their homes, and pave the way to reform the 56 WHAT MUST WE DO THENt depraved. I explained, that, if we sufceeeded in onr under- taking, there would not be in Moscow a single poor man who could not And help. My sister sympathized with me ; and while speaking, I kept looking now and then at Sutaief , knowing his Christian life, and the importance attached by him to works of charity, I expected sympathy from him, and 1 spoke so that he might understand me ; for, though I was addressing my sister, yet my conversation was really more directed to him. He sat immovable, dressed in his black-tanned sheepskin coat, which he, like other peasants, wore in-doors as well as out. It seemed that he was not listening to us, but was thinking about something else. His small eyes gave no re- responding gleam, but seemed to be turned inwards. Having spoken out to my own satisfaction, I turned to him and asked him what he thought about it. " The whole thing is superficial," he replied. "Why?" " The plan is an empty one, and no good will come of it," he repeated with conviction. "How is it that nothing will come of it? Why is it a useless business, if we help thousands, or even hundreds, of unhappy ones? Is it a bad thing, according to the gospel, to clothe the naked, or to feed the hungry? " " I know, I know ; but what you are doing is not that. Is it possible to help thus? You are walking in the street; somebody asks you for a few kopeks ; you give it him. Is that charity? Do him some spiritual good : teach him . . . what j-ou gave him merely says, ' L^ve me alone.' " " No ; but that is not what we were speaking of : we wish to become acquainted with the wants, and then help by money and by deeds. We will try to find for the poor people some work to do." " That would be no way of helping them." "How then? must they be left to die of starvation and cold?" " Why left to die? How many are there of them? " "How many?" said I, thinking that he took the matter so lightly from not knowing the great number of these men. " Yon are not aware, I dare say, that there are in Moscow about twenty thousand cold and hungry. And then, think of those in St: Petersburg and other towns ! " He smiled. WHAT MUST WE DO THEN t 57 " Twenty thousand ! And how many families are there in Russia alone? Would they amount to a million? " " Well ; but what of that? " "What of that?" said he, with animation, and his eyes sparkled. " Let us unite them with ourselves ; I am not rich myself, but will at once take two of them. You take a youug fellow into your kitchen : I invite him into my family. If there were ten times as many,^e should take them all into our families. You one, I another. We shall work together ; those I take to live with me will see how I work ; I will teach them to reap, and we shall eat out of one bowl, at one table ; and they will hear a good word from me, and from you also. This is charity ; but all this plan of yours is no good.') These plain words made an impression upon me. I could not help recognizing that this was true ; but it seemed to me then, that, notwithstanding the justice of what he said, my proposed plan might, perhaps, also be useful. But the longer 1 was occupied with this affair, and the closer my intercourse with the poor, the oftener I recollected these words, and the greater meaning I found in them. I, indeed, go in an expensive fur coat, or drive in my own carriage to a man who is in want of boots : he sees my house -which costs two hundred rubles a month, or he notices that (l give away, without thinking, five rubles, only because such is my fancy ■,")he is then aware that (if I give away rubles in such a manner, it is because I have accumulated so man}' of them that I have a lot to spare, which I not only am never in the habit of giving to an}- one, but which I have, without compunction, taken away from others.) What can he see in me but one of those persons who have become possessed of what should belong to him? Andfwhat other feeling can he have towards me but the desire to get back as many as pos- sible of these.rubles which were taken by me from him and from others ? ' U should like to become intimate with him, and I complain that he is not sincere ; but I am afraid to sit down upon his bed for fear of lice or some infectious disease ; I am also afraid to let him come into my room ; and when he comes to me half-dressed, he has to wait, — if fortunate, in the en- trance-hall, but oftener in the cold porch. And then I say that it is all his fault that I cannot become intimate with him, and that he is not sincere.) Let the most hard-hearted man sit down to dine upon 58 WBAT MUST WE DO THEN t Y people who h five courses among hungry people who have little or nothing to eat except black bread, and no one could have the heart to eat while hungry people are around him licking their lips. Therefore, (in order to eat well, when living among half- starving men, the first thing necessary is to hide ourselves from them, and to eat so that they may not see us. This is the very thing we do at present. ) Without prejudice I looked into our own mode of life, and became aware that it was not by chance that closer inter- course with the poor is difficult for us, but that we ourselves are intentionally ordering our lives in such a way as to make this intercourse impossible. And not only this; but, on look- ing at our lives, or at the lives of rich people from without, I saw that all that is considered as the summum bonum of these lives consists in being separated as much as possible from the poor, or is in some way or other connected with this desired separation. In fact,[all the aim of our lives, beginning with food, dress, dwelling, cleanliness, and ending with our education, con- sists in placing a gulf between us and them. And in order to establish this distinction and separation we spend nine- tenths of our wealth in erecting impassable barriers.) The first thing a man does who has grown rich is to leave oflE eating with others out of one bowl. He arranges plates for himself and his family, and separates himself from the kitchen and the servants. He feeds his servants well, in order that their mouths may not water, and he dines alone. But eating alone is dull. He invents whatever he can to im- prove his footl, embellish his table ; and the very manner of taking food, as at dinner-parties, becomes for him a matter of vanity, of pride. His manner of eating his food is a means of separating himself from other people. For a rich man it is out of the question to Invite a poor person to his table. One must know how to hand a lady to table, how to bow, how to sit, to eat, to use a finger-bowl, all of which the rich alone know how to do. The same holds good with dress. If a rich man, in order to cover his body and protect it from cold, wore ordinary dress, — a jacket, a fur coat, felt shoes, leather boots, an undercoat, trousers, a shirt, — he would require very little ; and, having two fur coats, he could not help giving one away to somebody who had none. But the wealtliy man begins with wearing clothes which consist WHAT MUST WE DO TBEN t 59 of many separate parts, and can be of use only on particular occasions, and therefore are of no use for a poor man. The man of fashion must have evening dress-coats, w:iistcoat9, frock-coats, patent-leather shoes : his wife, bodices and dresses (which, according to fashion, arc made of many parts), high-heeled shoes, hunting and travelling jackets, and so on. All these articles can be of use only to people in a condition far removed from poverty. And thus dressing also becomes a means of isolation. Fashions make their appearance, and are among the chief things which separate the rich man from the poor one. The same thing shows itself more plainly still in our dwell- ings. I In order for one person to occupy ten rooms, we must manage so that he may not be seen by people who are living by tens in one room. ] (The richer a man is, the more difiScult it is to get at him ; the more footmen there are between him and people not rich, the more impossible it is for him to receive a poor guest, to let him walk on carpets, and sit on satin-covered chairs.) The same thing happens in travelling. A peasant who drives in a cart or on a carrier's sledge must be very hard- hearted if he refuses to give a pedestrian a lift ; he has enough room, and can do it. But the richer the carnage is, the more impossible it is to put an^- one in it besides the owner of it. Some of the most elegant carriages are so narrow as to be termed '•■ egotixts." The same thing applies to all the modes of living expressed by the word "cleanliness." Cleanliness! Who does not know human beings, especially women, who make a great virtue of cleanliness? Who does not know the various phases of this cleanliness, which have no limit whatever when it is procured by the labor of others? Who among self-made men has not experienced in his own person with what pains he carefully accustomed himself to this cleanli- ness, which illustrates the saying,^" White bands are fond of another's labor"? ' I To-day cleanliness consists in changing one's shirt daily, and to-morrow it will be changed twice a day.) At first, one has to wash one's hands and neck every day, then one will have to wash one's feet every day, and afterwards it will be the whole body, and in peculiar methods. ( A clean table- cloth serves for two days, then it is changed every day, and afterwards two table-cloths a day are used. To-day the 60 WHAT MUST WE DO TUENt footman is required to have clean hands : to-morrow he must wear gloves, aud clean gloves, and he must hand the letters on a clean tray.) And there are no limits to this cleanliness, which is of no other use to any one except to separate us from others, and to make our intercourse with them impossible, while cleanli- ness is obtained through the labor of others. Not only so ; but when I had deeply reflected upon this, I came to the conclusion that(what we term education is a sim- ilar thing.) Language cannot deceive : it gives the right ap- pellation to ever}' thing. 'The common people call education fashionable dress, smart conversation, white hands, and a cer- tain degree of cleanliness, i Of such a man they say, when distinguishing him from others, that he is an educated man. (in a little higher circle, men py education denote the same tilings, hut add playing on the piano, the knowledge of French, good Russian spelling, and still greater cleanliness. In the still higher circle, education consists of all this, with the addition of Knglish, and a diploma from a high government estalilisliment, and a still greater degree of cleanliness. But in all these shades education is in substance quite the same.) It consists in those forms and various kinds of information which separate a man from his fellow-creatui-es. ( Its object is the same as that of cleanliness : to separate us from the crowd, in order that thej', hungry and cold, may not see how we feast. But it is impossible to hide ourselves, and our efforts are seen through. ) vAnd so I became aware that the cause of the impossibility for us rich men to help the town poor was nothing more or less than the impossibility of our having closer intercourse with them, and that this we ourselves create by our whole life, and by all the uses we make of our wealth. I became persuaded that between us rich men and the poor there stood, erected by ourselves, a barrier of cleanliness and edu- cation which arose out of our wealth, and that, in order to be able to help them, we have first to break down this barrier,) and render possible the realization of the means suggested by Sutaief, to take the poor into our respective homes. (And so,i as I have already said at the beginning of this chap- ter,(l came to the same conclusion from a different point of view from that to which the train of thought about town misei-y had led me : viz., th e cause of it all lay in our wealth. ) ""^ WBAT MUST WE DO THEN f 61 XV. I BEGAN again to analyze the matter from a third and purely personal point of view. Among the phenomena which particularly impressed nie during my benevolent ac- 'tivity, there was one, — a very strange one, — which I could not understand for a long time. Whenever 1 happened, in the street or at home, to give a poor person a trifling sum without entering into conversation with him, I saw, or imagined 1 saw, on his face an expres- sion of pleasin-e and gratitude ; and -I myself experienced an agreeable feeling at this form of charity. I saw that I had done what was expected of me. But when I stop|)ed and began to question the man about his past and present life, entering more or less into particulars, I felt it was impossible to give him any thing ; and I always began to fiuger the mono}- in my purse, and, not knowing how much to give, I always gave more under these circumstances : but, nevertheless, I saw that the poor man went away from me dissatisfled. Wiien I entered into still closer intercourse with him, my doubts as to how much I should give increased ; and, no matter what I gave, the recipient seemed more and more gloomy and dis- satisfied. As a general rule, it almost always happened that if, upon nearer acquaintance with the poor man, I gave him three rubles or moie, I always saw gloominess, dissatisfaction, and even anger depicted on his face ; and sometimes, after hav- ing received from me ten rubles, he has left me without even thanking me, as if I had offended him. In such cases I was always uncomfortable and ashamed, and felt myself guilty. When I watched the poor person dur- ing weeks, months, or years, helped him, and expressed my views, and became intimate with him, then our intercourse became a torment, and I saw that the man despised me. And I felt that he was i-ight in doing so. When in the street a beggar asks me, along with other passers-by, for three kopeks, and I give it him, then, in his estimation. I am a kind and good man who gives " one of the threads wiiicli go to make the shirt of a naked one : " he expects nothing more than a thread, and, if I give it, he sincerely blesses me. But if I stop and speak to him as man to man, show him that I wish to be more than a mere passer-by, and, as it often 62 WHAT MUST WE DO TBENf happened, he sheds tears in relating his misfortune, then he sees in me not merely- a eliauce helper, but that which I wish him to see, — a kind man. If 1 am a kind man, then my kindness cannot stop at twenty kopeks, or at ten rubles, or ten thousand. One cannot be a second-rate kind man. Let us suppose that I give him much ; that I put him straight, dress him, set him on his legs so that he can help himself, but, from some reason or other, either from an accident or his own weakness, he again loses the great-coat and cloth- ing and money I gave him, he is again hungiy and cold, and he again comes to me, why should I refuse him assistance? For if the end of my benevolent activity was merely the at- tainment of some definite, material object, such as giving him so many rubles, or a certain great-coat, having given them I could be easy in my mind ; but the end I have in view is to be a benevolent man ; that is, to put myself in the position of every other man. All understand kindness thus, and not otherwise. And therefore, if such a man should spend in drink all you gave him twenty times over, and be again hungry and cold, then, if you are a benevolent man, you cannot help giving him more money, you can never leave off doing so wiiile you have more than he has ; but if you draw back, you show that all you have done before was done by you not because you are benevolent, but because you wish to appear so to others and to him. And it was from my having to back out of such cases, and by ceasing to give, by seem- ing to put a limit to my kindness, that I felt a painful sense of shame. What was this feeling, then? I had experienced it in Liapin's house and in the country, and when I happened to give money or any thing else to the poor, and in my adven- tures among the town people. One case which occurred to me lately reminded me of it forcibly, and led me to discover its cause. It happened in the country. I wanted twentj' kopeks to give to a pilgrim. I sent my son to borrow it from somebod}'. He brought it to the man, and told me that he had borrowed it from the cook. Some daj's after other pilgrims came, and I was again in need of twenty kopeks. I had a ruble. I recollected what I owed the cook, went into the kitchen, hoping that she would have some more coppers. I said, — " I owe you twenty kopeks : here is a ruble." WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? .63 I had not yet done speaking when the cook called his wife from the adjoining room : " Parasha, take it," he said. > I, thinking she had understood what I wanted, gave hery the ruble. I must tell you that the cook had been living at our house about a week, and I had seen his wife, but had never spoken to her. I just wished to tell her to give me the change, when she briskly bowed herself over my hand, and was about to kiss it, evidently thinking I was giving her the ruble. I stammered out something and left the kitchen. I felt ashamed, painfully ashamed, as I had not felt for a long time. I actually trembled, aud felt that I was making a wry face ; and, groaning with shame, 1 rau away from the kitchen. Th is feeling which I fancied I had not deserved, and which came over me quite unexpectedly, impressed me particularly, because it was so long since I had felt any thing like it, and also because I fancied that I had been living in a way there was no reason for me to be ashamed of. This surprised me greatly. I related the case to my family, to mj- acquaintances, and tliey all agreed that they also would have experienced the same. And I began to reflect : why is it that I felt so? The answer came from a case vrliich had formerly occurred to me in Moscow. I reflected upon it, aud understood this shame which I have always experienced when I happen to give any thing besides trifling alms to beggars and pilgrims, which I am accustomed to give, and which I consider not as charit}', but politeness. If a man asks you for a light, you must light a match if you have it. If a man begs for three or twent}- kopeks, or a few rubles, 3'ou must give if you have them. It is a question of politeness, not of charity. The following is the case I referred to. I have already spoken about two peasants with whom I sawed wood three years ago. One Saturday evening, in the twilight, I was walking with them back to town. They were going to their master to receive their wages. On crossing a bridge we met an old man. He begged, and I gave him twenty kopeks. I gave, thinking what a good impression my alms would make upon Semyou, with whom I had been speaking on religious questions. Semyon, a peasant from the province of Vladimir, who bad a wife and two children in Moscow, also turned up the lappet of his kaftan, aud took out his purse ; and, after having 64 WHAT MUST WE DO TBENt looked over his money, he picked out a three-kopek piece, gave it to the old man, and asked for two kopeks back. The old man showed him in his hand two three-kopek pieces and a single kopek. Semyon looked at it, was about to take one kopek, but, changing his mind, took off his cap, crossed himself, and went away, leaving the old man the three-kopek piece. I was acquainted with all Semyon's pecuniary circum- stances. He had neither house nor other property. When .he gave the old man the three kopeks, he possessed six rubles and fifty kopeks, which he had been saving up, and this was all the capital he had. My property amounted to about six hundred thousand rubles. I had a wife and children, so also had Semyon. He was younger than I, and had not so many children ; but his children were young, and two of mine were grown-up meu, old enough to work, so that our circumstances, independently of our property, were alike, though I was in this respect even better off than he. He gave three kopeks, I gave twenty. What was, then, the difference in our gifts ? What should I have given in order to do as he had done? He had six hundred kopeks ; out of these he gave one, and then another two. I had six hundred thousand rubles. In order to give as much as Sem- yon gave, I ought to have given three thousand rubles, and asked the man to give me back two thousand ; and, in the event of his not having change, to leave iiim these two thousand also, cross myself, and go away calmly, conversing about how people live in the manufactories, and what is the price of liver at the Smolensk market. I thought about this at the time, but it was long before I was able to draw from this case the conclusion which inevi- tably follows from it. This conclusion seems to be so un- common and strange, notwithstanding its mathematical accu- racy, that it requires time in order to get accustomed to it. I could not help thinking there was some mistake in it, but there is none. It is only the dreadful darkness of prejudice in which we live. This, wlien I arrived at it and recognized its inevitable- ness, explained to me the nature of my feelings of shame in the presence of the cook's wife, and before all the i)oor to whom I gave and still give money. Indeed, what is that money which I give to the poor, and which the cook's wife WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 65 thought I was giving her? In the majority of cases it forms such a minute part of my income that it cannot be expressed in a fraction comprehensible to Semyon or to a cook's wife, — it is in most cases a millionth part or thereabout. I give so little that my gift is not, and cannot be, a sacrifice to me : it is only a something with which I amuse myself when and how it pleases me. And this was indeed how my cook's wife had understood me. If I gave a stranger in the street a ruble or twenty kopeks, why should I not give her also a ruble ? For her, such a distribution of money was the same thins; as a greutleman throwing gingerbread nuts into a crowd. It is the amusement of people who possess much " fool's money." I was ashamed, because the mistake of the cook's wife showed me plainly what ideas she and all poor people must have of me. " He is throwing awa}' a ' fool's money ;' " that is, money npt earned by him. And, indeed, (what is my money, and how did I come by it? One part of it I collected in the shape of rent for my land, which I had inherited from my father. The peasant sold his last sheep or cow in order to pa}- it to me. (Another part of my money I received for the books I had written. If my books are harmful, and yet sell, they can only do so by some seductive attraction, and the money which I receive for them is badly earned money ; but if my books are useful, the thing is still worse. 1 do not give - them to people, but say, " Give me so many rubles, and I will sell them to you."l ■^ And as in the former case a peasant sells his last sheep, here a poor student or a teacher does it : each poor person who buys denies hims^f some necessary thing in order to give me this money. (And now I have gathered much of such money, and what am I doing with it? I take it to town, give it to the poor only when they satisfy all my fancies, and come to town to clean pavements, lamps, or boots, to work for me in the factories, and so on .J And with this money I draw from them all I can. I try to give them as little as I can, and take from them as much as possible. And now,(quite unexpectedly, I begin to share all this said money with these same poor persons for nothing, but not indiscriminately, only as fancy prompts me.) Why should not every poor man expect that his turn might come to-day to be one of such with whom I amuse myself by giving them my " fool's money " ? 66. ' . WHAT MCST WE DO THEN f Thus every one regards me as did the cook's wife. And I had gone astray with the notion that this was charity, — this taking away thousands with one hand, and throwing kopeks with the other to those I seleqt. No wonder I was ashamed. But,i before beginning to do good, I must leave off the evil, and put myself in a position in which I should cease to cause it. But all my course of life is evil. If I were to give away a hundred thousand, I have not yet put myself in a condition in which I could do good, because I have still five hundred thousand left.) '' V^It is only when I j)ossess nothing at all that I shall be able to do a little good ;Tsuch as, for instance, the poor prostitute did who nursed a sick woman and her child for three days. Yet this seemed to me to^be but so little ! And I ventured to think of doing good 1 \ One thing only was true, which I at first felt on seeing the hungry and cold people outside Liapin's house, — that I was guilty of that;] and that to live as I did was impossible, utterly impossible. This alone was true. But what was to be done? This question for any one interested, I will answer with full particulars, if God permit me, in the following chapters. XVI. It was difficult for me at last to own this ; but when T did get thus far, I was terrified at the delusion in which I had been living. I had been head over ears in the mud, and I had been trj-ing to drag others out of it. What is it that I really want? I want to do good ; I want to so contrive that no human beings should be hungry and cold, and that men may live as it is proper for them to live. I desire this ; and 1 see that in consequence of all sorts of violence, extortions, and various expedients in which I too take part, the working people are deprived of the necessary things, and the non-working community, to whom I also be- long, monopolize the labor of others. I see that tiiis use of other people's labor is distributed thus : that (the more cun- ning and complicated the tricks employed by the man him- self (or by those from whom he has inherited his property), the more largely he employs the labors of other people, and the less he works himself. First come the millionnaires ; then the wealthy bankers. WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f 67 merchants, land-ownere, government functionaries ; then the smaller bankers, merchants, government functionaries, land- owners, to whom 1 belong ; then shopmen, publicans, usurers, police sergeants and inspectors, teachers, sacristans, clerks ; then, again, house-poi'ters, footmen, coachmen, water-carters, cabmen, pedlers ; and then, last of all, the workmen, factory hands and peasants, the number of this class in proportion to the former being as ten to one. I see that the lives of nine-tenths of the working people essentially require exertion and labor like everj- other natural mode of living ; but that, in consequence of the tricks by which the necessaries of life are taken away from these people, their lives become ever}' year more difficult, and more beset with privations ; and our lives, the lives of the non- laboring community, owing to the co-operation of sciences and arts, which have this very end in view, become every year more sumptuous, more attractive and secure. I see that in our days the life of a laboring man, and especially the lives of old people, women, and children, of the woiking-classes, are quite worn away by increased labor, not in proi)ortion to their nourishment, and that even the very first necessaries of life are not secui'ed to them. I see that side b side with these the \lves of the non-laboring class, to which I belong, are each year more and more filled up with superfluities and luxury, and are becoming continually more secure : the lives oftthe wealthy)have attained to that degree of security of which in olden times men dreamed only in fairy-tales, — to the condition of the owner of the magic purse with an " inexhaustible ruble ; " to such a state when a^man^not only is entirely- free from the law of labor for the sustenance of his life, but has the possibility of enjoying without working all the goods of this life, and of bequeath- ing to his children, or to any he chooses, this purse with the " inexhaustible ruble." I see that the productions of the labor of men pass over more than ever from the masses of laborers to those of non- laborers ; that the pyramid of the social structure is, as it were, being rebuilt, so that the stones of the foundation pass to the top, and the rapidity of this passage increases in a kind of geometric progression. I see that there is going on something like that which would have taken place in an ant-hill, if the society of ants should have lost the sense of the general law, and some of the 68 WBAT MUST WE BO THEN t ants were to take the productions of labor out of the foun- dations and carry them to the top of the hill, making the foundation narrower and narrower, thus enlarging the top, and by that means making their fellows pass also from the foundation to the top. I see that instead of an ideal, as exemplified in a laborious life, men have created the ideal of a purse with an " inex- haustible ruble." The rich, I among their number, arrange this ruble for ourselves by various artifices ; and, in order to enjoy it, we locate ourselves in towns, in a place where noth- ing is produced, but every thing is swallowed up. The poor laboring man, swindled in order that the rich may have this magic ruble, follows them to town ; and there he also has recouise to artifices, either arranging matters so that he may work little and enjoy much, thus making the condition of workingmen still more heavy, or, not having attained to this state, he ruins himself, and drifts into the continually and rapidly increasing number of hungry and cold tenants of night-houses. I belong to the category of those men who, by the means of these various devices, take away from the working people the necessaries of life, and who thus create, as it were, for themselves, the inexhaustible fairy ruble, which tempts in turn these unfortunate ones. Tl wish to help men ; and therefore^it is clear that, first of all, I ought on the one side to cease to plunder them as I am doing now, and on the other I must leave otf tempting them. But I, by means of most complicated, cunning, and wicked contrivances practised for centuries, have made my- self the owner of this said rubl^; that is, have got into such a condition that I may, while never doing any thing myself, compel hundreds and thousands of people to work for me, and am really availing myself of this privileged monopoly, notwithstanding that all the time I imagine I pity these men, and wish to help them. It is as if I were sitting on the neck of a man, and, having quite crushed him down, I compel him to carry me, and will not alight from off his shoulders, while I assure myself and others that I am very sorry for him, and wish to ease his con- dition by every means in my power except by getting off his back. Surely this is plain. If I wish to help the poor, that is, to make the poor cease to be poor, I ought not to create these WHAT MUST WE DO THEN t 69 same poor. Yet I give money according to my fancy to those who have gone astray, and take away tens of rubles from men who have not yet done so, thereby maiving them poor, and at the same time making them depraved) This is very clear ; but at first it was for me exceedingly difficult to understand, without any modification or reserve which would justify my position. However, as soon as I came to see my own error, all that formerly appeared strange, complicated, clouded, and inexplicable, became quite simple and intelligible to me ; and the line of conduct which ensued became both clear and satisfactory to my conscience by the following considerations. Who am I that desire to better men's condition ? I desire it ; and yet I get up at noon, after having played at cards in a brilliantly lighted saloon during all the previous night, I, an enfeebled aud eflFeminate man, who thus require the help and services of hundreds of people, I come to hcl|) them ! — these men who rise at five, sleep on boards, feed upon cab- bage and bread, understand how to plough, to reap, to i)ut a handle to an axe, to wiite, to harness horses, to sew ; men who, by their strength and perseverance and self-restraint, are a hundred times stronger than I who come to help them. What could I have experienced in mj- intercourse with these people hut shame? The weakest of them, — a drunk- ard, an inhabitant of Rzhanofif's house, he whom they call " the sluggard," — is a hundred times more laborious than I ; his balance, so to say, — in other words, the relation between what he takes from men and what he gives them, — is a tiiou- sand times more to his credit than mine, when I count What I receive from others, and what I give them in return. And to such men I go in order to assist them. I go to help the poor. But of the two, who is the poorer? No one is poorer than myself. I am a weak, good-for-noth- ing parasite, who can only exist in very peculiar conditions, who can live only when thousands of people labor to support this life which is not useful to any one. And I, this very caterpillar which eats up tlie leaves of a tree, wish to help the growth and the health of the tree, and to cure it. All my life is thus spent : I eat, talk, and listen ; then I eat, w^rite, or read, which are only talking and listening in another form); I eat again, and play; then eat, talk, and listen, and finally eat aud go to sleep : and thus every day is 70 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? spent ; I neither do any thing else, nor understand how to do it. And in order/that I may enjoy this life, it is necessary that from morning till night, house-porters, dvorniks, cooks, male and female, footmen, coachmen, and laundresses, should work, to say nothing of the manual labor necessary in order that the coachmen, cooks, footmen, and others, may have the instruments and the articles by which, and upon which, they work for me, — axes, casks, brushes, dishes, furniture, glasses, wax, shoe-black, kerosene, hay, wood, and food. And all these men and women work hard all the day, and every day, in order that I may talk, eat, and sleep.A And I, this useless man, imagined that I was able to bene- fit others, they being the very same people who were serving me. That I did not benefit anj* one, and that I was ashamed of myself, is not so astonishing as the fact that such a foolish idea ever came into my mind. (The woman who nursed the sick old man helped him ; the peasant's wife, who cut a slice of her bread earned by her from the very sowing of the corn that made it, helped the hungry one ; Semyon, who gave three kopeks which he had earned, assisted the pilgrim, because these three kopeks really represented his labor ; but I had served nobody, worked for no one, and knew very well that m^' money did not represent my labor.) And so I felt that in money, or in money's worth, and in the possession of it, there was some- thing wrong and evil ; that the money itself, and the fact of my having it, was one of the chief causes of those evils which I had seen before me, and I asked myself, What is money? XVII. Monet! What, then, is money? It is answered, money represents labor. I meet educated people who even assert that money represents labor per- formed by those who possess it. I confess that I myself formerly shared this opinion, although I did not very clearly understand it. But now it became necessary for me to learn thoroughly what money was. In order to do so, I addressed myself to science. Science says that money in itself is neither unjust nor pernicious ; that money is the natural result of the conditions of social life, and is indispensable, first, for convenience of ex- WHAT MUST WE BO TBEN t 71 change ; secondly, as a measure of value ; thirdly, for saving ; and fourthly, for payments. The evident fact that when I have in my pocket three rubles to spare, which I am not in need of, I have only to whistle, and in every civilized town I obtain a hundred peo- ple ready for these three rubles, to do the worst, most dis- gusting, and humiliating act I require ; and this comes not from money, but from the very complicated conditions of the economical life of nations. (The dominion of one man over others comes) not from money, but from the circumstance that a workingman does not receive the full value of his labor ; and the fact that he does not get the full value of his labor, depends upon the nature of capital, rent, and wages, and upon complicated connections between them and production itself, and between the distribution and consumption of wealth.^ In plain language, it means that people who have money may twist around their finger those who have none. But science says that this is au illusion ; that in every kind of production three factors take part, — land, savings of labor (capital), and laboi ; and that the dominion of the few over the many, proceeds from the various connections be- tween these factors of production, — because tlie two first factors, land and capital, are not in the hands of working people : from this fact, and from the various combinations resulting therefrom, proceeds this domination. Whence comes the great power of money which strikes us all with a sense of its injustice and cruelly? Why is one man by the means of money to have dominion over others? Science says, It comes from the division of the agents of production, and from the consequent complicated combina- tions which oppress the workingman. This answer has always appeared to me to be strange, not only because it leaves one part of the question unnoticed, namely, the signification of money, but also because of the division of the factors of production, which to an unin- formed man will always appear artificial, and not in accord- ance with reality. It is asserted that in every production three agents come into operation, — land, capital, and labor; and along with this division it is understood that property (or its value in mone^-) is naturally divided among those who possess one of these agents ; thus, rent, — the value of the groiuid, — belongs to the land-owner ; interest to the capi- talist ; and labor to the workingman. 72 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f Is it really so? First, is it true that in every production three agencies operate? Now, while I ani writing this,(around me proceeds the production of hay. (Of what is this production com- posed? I am told, of the land which produces the grass, of capital, — scythes, rakes, pitch-forks, carts, — which are necessary for the housing of haj-, and of labor. But I see thatothis is not true. Besides the land, there is the sun and '■ tain ; besides social order, which has been keeping these meadows from damage caused b}- letting stray cattle graze upon them, the prudence of workmen, their knowledge of language, and many other agencies of production, which, for some unknown reason, are not taken into consideration by political economy. The power of the sun is as necessary as the land. I may instance the position of men in which (as, for instance, in a town) some of tliem assume the right to keep out the sun from others by means of walls or trees. Why, then, is this sun not included among the agents of production? Rain is another means as necessary as the ground itself. The air too. I can picture to myself the position of men without water and pure air, because other men assume to themselves the right to monopolize these, which are essentially necessary to all. Public security is likewise a necessary element ; food and dress for workmen are similar means in production ; this last is even recognized by some economists. Education, the knowledge of language which creates the possibility of reasonable work, is likewise an agent. I could fill a volume by enumerating such combinations, unnoticed by science. Why, then, are three only to be chosen and laid as a foun- dation for the science of political economy ? Why are the rays of the sun, rain, food, knowledge, not equally recog- nized? Why only the land, the instruments of labor, and the labor itself ? Simply because the right of men to enjoj* the rays of the sun, rain, food, speech, and audience, are challenged only on rare occasions ; but the use of laud, and of the instruments of labor, are constantly challenged in society. This is the true foundation for it ; and the division of these agents for production, into three, is quite arbitrarj-, and is not involved in the nature of things. But it may perhaps be urged, that this division is so suitable to man, that, WBAT MUST WE DO THENf 73 wherever economical relationships form themselves, there these appear at once and alone. Let us see whether it i^ really so. First of all, I look at what is around me, — at\^ussian colonists, of wliom millions have for long existed.] They come to a land, settle themselves on it, and begin to labor ; and it does not enter into the mind of any one of them, that a man who does not use the land could have any claim to it, and the land does not assert any rights of its own ; on the coutrar}', the colonists conscien- tiously recognize the communism of the land, and that it is right for every one of them to plough and to mow wherever he likes. For cultivation, for gardening, for building bouses, the colonists obtain various implements of labor: nor does it enter the mind of any one of them, that these iustruments of labor may bring profit in themselves, and the capital does not assert any rights of its own ; but, on the contrary, the colonists conscientiously recognize that all interest for tools, or borrowed corn or capital, is unjust. They(work upon a free land, labor with their own tools, or with those borrowed without interest, each for himself, or all together, for common business ; and in such a community, it is impossible to prove either the existence of rent or interest accruing from capital, or remuneration for labor.) Speaking of such a community, I am not indulging my fancy, but am describing what has always taken place, not only among primitive Russian colonists, but among so-called intellectual men, who are not few, and who have settled in Russia and in America. I am describing what appears to every one to be natural and reasonable. Men settle on land, and each undertakes to do such business as suits him ; and each, having earned what is necessarj', does his own work. ~And when these men find it more convenient to labor together, they form a workmen's association ; but neither in separate households, nor in associations, will there appear separate agents of production, till men artificially and forcibly divide them. But there will be labor, and the ne- cessary conditions of labor, — the sun which warms all, the air which men breathe, water which they drink, land on which they labor, clothes on the body, food in the stomach, stakes, shovels, ploughs, machines, with which men work ; and it is evident that neither the rays of the sun, nor the 74 WBAT MUST WE DO THENf clothes on the body, nor the stakes with which the man labors, nor the spade, nor the plough, nor the machine with which he works in the workmen's association, can belong to any one else but to those who enjoy the rays of the sun, breathe tlie air, drink the water, eat the bread, clothe their bodies, and labor with the spade or with the machine, because all this is necessary only for those who make use of it. And when men act thus, we see that they act reasonably. Therefore, observing the economical conditions which are created among men, 1 do not see that the division into three is natural. I see, on the contrary, that it is neither natural nor reasonable. But perhaps the setting apart of these three does not take place in primitive societies of men ; but that when the population increases, and cultivation begins to ' develop, it is unavoidable, and we cannot but recognize the fact that this division has taken place in European society. Let us see whether it is really so. We are told tliat in European society this division of agen- cies has taken place ; that is, that one man possesses land, another possesses insti-uments of labor, and the third are without land and instruments. We have grown so accus- tomed to this assertion that we are no longer struck by the strangeness of it. If we will but reflect upon this expression, we cannot help seeing, not only the injustice, but even the absurdity, of it. Under the idea of a laboring man are included the land upon which he lives, and the tools with which he woi-ks. If he were not living on the land, and had no tools, he would not be a laboring man. There has never been, and can never be, such a man without land and without tools, without scythe, cart, and horse ; there cannot be a bootmaker without a house for his work standing upon ground, without water, air, and tools with which he works. (if a laborer has no land, horse, or scythe, and a boot- maker is without a house, water, or awl, then it means that some one has driven him from the ground, or taken it away from him, or cheated him out of his scythe, cart, horse, or awl ; but it does not at all mean that there can be a country laborer without a scythe, or a bootmaker without tools) So you cannot imagine a fisherman remaining on dry land without fishing implements, unless he has been driven away from the water by some one who has taken away from him his necessarj" implements for fishing ; so also(we cannot pic- WHAT MUST WE DO THEN t 75 'tore to ourselves a workman without the ground upon which he lives, and without tools for his trade, unless somebody, has driven him from the former, or robbed him of the latter.' There ma.y be such men, hunted from one place to another, and such who, having been robbed, are compelled perforce to woi'k for another man, and do things unnecessary for themselves ; but this does not mean that such is the nature of production, aud therefore the land aud the tools cannot be considered as separate agents in the work. But (if we are to consider as the agents of production all that is claimed by other people, and what a workingman may be deprived of by the violence of others, why not count among them the claim upon the person. of a slave? Why not count claims on the rain aud the raj's of the sun? We might meet with a man who would build a waH and thus keep the sun from his neighboi) ; another maj- come who will turn the course of a river into his own pond, and by that means con- taminate its water ; or an individual who would claim a fellow- man as his own proiierty ; butv^none of these claims, al- though tliey may be enforced by violence, can be recognized as a foundation for calculating the agents of production ; and therefore it is as equally unjust to consider the exclusive sn- ' joyment of the rays of the sun, or of the air or water, or the persons of others, as geparate agents in production. There may be men who will assert their rights to the land and to the tools of a workingman, as there were men who asserted their rights to the persons of others, and as tliere may be men who would assert their rights to the exclusive use of the rays of the sun, or to the use of water and air; there may be men who would drive away a workingman from place to place, taking from him by force the products of his labor as they are produced, and the very instruments for its production, who might c ompel him to work , not for h imself, bu t for his master, as occurs in the factorfes ; — all this is possible : but a workingman wittioul lauu auu tools is still an impossibility ^ just as tliere does not exist a man who would willingly become the property of another, notwith- standing that men have asserted their right to him for many generations. Just as a claim on the person of another man could not deprive a slave of his innate right to seek his own welfare, and not that of his master ; so, too, the claim for the ex- clusive possession of the land and tools of others cannot 76 WHAT MUST WE DO TBEN f deprive the workingman of his right, like that of every man, to live upon the land, and to work with his own tools, or those of his community, as he considers most useful for himself. (All that science can say )in examining the present econom- ical question,(is this : that in Europe there exist claims of some men to the land and the tools of working men, in con- sequence of which, for some of these workingmen (but by no means for all of them), the proper conditions of produc- tion are violated, so that they are deprived of land. and implements of labor, and are compelled to work with the tools of others ; but by no means is it established that this casual violation of the law of production is that very law itself. ') In saying that this isolation of the agents of produce is the fundamental law of production, the economist is doing the very thing a zoologist would do, who, upon seeing a great many siskins, with their wings cut, and kept in little cages, drawing water-barrels out of an imaginary well, would assert this was the most essential condition for the life of birds, and that their life is composed of these conditions. However many siskins there may be kept in pasteboard houses with their wings cut, a zoologist cannot acknowledge these houses to be tiie natural home of the birds. However great the number of working-people there may be driven from place to place, and deprived of their productions as well as the tools for their labor, the natural right of man to live upon the land, and to work with his own tools, is that which he needs, and it will remain so forever. We have some who lay claim to the land and to the tools of workingmen, just as there existed in former ages the claim of some men over the persons of others ; but there may be no real division of men into lords and slaves as was an- ciently established, nor can there exist any division in the agents of production, in land and capital, as economists want to establish at present. CThese very unlawful claims of some men over the liberty of others, science calls the natural condition of production.] Instead of taking its fundamental principles from the natural properties of human societies, science took them from a par- ticular case ; and, desiring to justify this case, it recognized the right of some men to the land by which other men earned their living, and to the tools with which other men worked ; WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f 77 in other words, it recognized as a right that which had never existed, and cannot exist, and(which is in itself a contradic- tion, because the claim of the land-owner to the land on which he does not labor, is in essence nothing more than the right to use the land which he does not use ; the claim on the tools of others is nothing more than a man assuming a right to work with implements with which he does not work.) Science, by isolating the agents of production, declares that the natural condition of a workingman — that is, of a man in the true sense of the word — is that unnatural condition in which he exists at present, as in ancient times, by the division of men into citizeus and slaves, when it was asserted that the unnatural condition of slavei'y was the natural con- dition of life. This very division accepted by science onlj' in order to justify the existing injustice, and the adjudging this division to be the foundation of all its inquiries, has for its result that scieuce vainly tries to give some explanation of existing phenomena ; and denying the clearest and plainest answers to the questions that arise, gives answers which have no meaning in them at all. The question of economical science is this : What is the reason of the fact that some men by means of money acquire an imaginary right to the land and capital, and may make slaves of those men who have no mone}'? The answer which presents itself to common sense would be, that it is the result of money, the nature of which is to enslave men. But science denies this, and says, Tliis arises, not from the nature of money, but from the fact that some men have land and capital, and others have neither. (We ask why per- sons who possess land and capital oppress such as possess neither? and we are answered, Because they do possess land and capital, j But this is just what we are inquiring about. Is not deprivation of land and tools enforced slavery ? Life ceases not to put this essential question : and even science herself notices it, and tries to answer it, but does not succeed in doing so ; proceeding from her own fundamental principles, she only turns herself round, as in a magic circle. In order to give itself a satisfactory answer to the above question, science has first of all to denj- that wrong division of the agents of production, to cease to acknowledge the result of the phenomena as being the cause of them ; and she 78 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN T has to seek, first, the more obvious, and then the remoter, causes of those phenomena which make up the whole. Science must answer the question, What is the reason that some men are deprived of land and tools while others possess both? or, Why is it that land and tools are taken away from persons who labor upon the land, aud work with the tools? As soon as science puts this question to herself, she will at once get new ideas which will transform all the previous ideas of that sham science, which has been moving in an unalterable circle of propositions, as, for instance, the mis- erable condition of working-people proceeding from the fact that it is miserable. For simple-minded persons, it must seem unquestionable that the obvious reason of the oppres- sion of some men by others is this money. But science, denying this, says that money is only a medium of exchange, which has nothing in common with oppression or slavery. Let us see whether it is so or not. ' Whence comes money ? How is it that a nation always has money, alRl UIRkT WTiat circumstances is it that a nation need not use money ? There is a small tribe in Africa, and one in Australia, who live as lived the Sknepies and the Drevlyans in olden times. These tribes lived and ploughed, bred cattle, and culti- vated gardens. We became acquainted with them only at t!ie dawn of history. And histoi^ begins with recording the fact that some invaders appear on tlie stage. And invaders always do the same thing : they take away from the abori- gines every thing thej' can take, — cattle, corn, and stuffs; even make prisoners, male and female, and carry them away. After some years the invaders appear again ; but the peo- ple have not got over the consequences of their misfortune, and there is scarcely any thing to take from them, so the invaders invent another and better means of makiug use of their victims. These means are very simple, and naturally present them- selves to the miud of every man. The first is personal slavery. There is a drawback to this, seeing the enforces of it have to put every thing into working order, and feed all the WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f 79 slaves : hence, naturally, there appears the second. The peo- ple are left on their own land, which becomes the recognized property of the invaders, who portion it out among the lead- ing military men, in order that by means of these men they may utilize the labor of the people. But this, too, has its drawback. It is not convenient to these officers to have an oversight over all the productions of the conquered people, and thus the third means is introduced, which is as primitive as the two former ones ; and this is the levying of a certain obligatory tax which the conquered have to pay at stated periods. The object of a conquest is to take from the conquered as much as possible of the products of their lal)or. It is evident, that, in order to do this, the conquerors must take such articles as are the most valuable to the conquered, and which at the same time are not cumbersome, and are con- venient for keeping. — skins of animals and gold. And the conqueror lays upon the family or the tribe a tax in these skins or gold, which is to be paid at fixed times ; and by means of this tribute, he utilizes the labor of the con- quered people in the most convenient way. Almost all the skins and all the gold are taken away from their original possessors, and therefore these are compelled to sell all they have amongst themselves to obtain gold and skins for their masters ; that is, they have to sell their prop- erty and their labor. This very thing happened in ancient times, in the Middle Ages, and occurs now too. In the ancient world, when the subjugation of one people by another was frequent, and owing to the equality of men not being acknowledged, per- sonal slavery was the most widely spread means for compel- ling the service of others, and was the centre of gravity in this compulsion. In the Middle Ages, feudalism — land- ownership and the servitude connected with it — partly takes the place of personal slavery, and the centre of compulsion is transferred from persons to land : in modern times, since [ the discovery of America, the development of commerce, I and the influx of gold, which is accepted as a universal medium of exchange, the tribute in money with the increase of the state power becomes the chief instrument for enslav- ing men, and upon it are now built all economical relation- ships. In " The Literary Miscellany " is printed an article by Pro- 80 WBAT MUST WS DO THEN? fessor Yanjoul, in which he describes the recent history of the Fiji Islands. If I were trying to find the most pointed illus- tration of iiow in our time the forcible requirement of money became the chief instrument of the enslaving of some men by others, I could not imagine any thing more striking and convincing than this trustworthy history, — history based upon documents of facts, which are of recent occurrence. In the South-Sea Islands in Polynesia lives a race called Fiji. The group on which they live, says Professor Yanjoul, is composed of small isles, which all together occupy a space of about forty thousand square miles. Only half of these islands are inhabited by one hundred and fifty thousand natives, and fifteen hundred white men. The natives had been reclaimed from a savage state a long time ago, and are distinguished among other natives of Polynesia by their intellectual capacities ; and they appear to be a nation capable of labor and development, which they have also proved by the fact that in a short period of time they became good workmen and breeders of cattle. The inhabitants were well-to-do, but in the year 1859 the condition of this new state became despei-ate : the na- tives of Fiji, and their representative, Kokab, were in need of money. Tiie money, forty-five thousand dollars, was wanted by the Government of Fiji for the payment of a con- tribution or indemnification, which was demanded of them by the United States of America for violence done by Fijis to some citizens of the American Republic. For this purpose the Americans sent a squadron, which unexpectedly took possession of some of the best islands, under the pretext that they would hold them as a guaranty, and threatened to bombard and ruin the towns if the indem- nification were not paid over, upon a certain date, to the representatives of America. The Americans were among the first colonists who, to- gether with missionaries, came to the Fiji Islands. They chose and (under one pretext or another) took possession of the best pieces of land on the islands, and established there cotton and coffee plantations. They hired wliole crowds of natives, binding them by contracts unknown to this half -civilized race ; or acted through special contractors or purveyors of human merchandise. Misundei'standings between such master-planters and the natives, whom they considered almost as slaves, were un- WHAT MUST WE DO TBEN t 81 avoidable : it was some of these quarrels which served as a pretext for the American indemnification. Notwithstanding their prosperity the Fijis had preserved almost up to the present time the forms of so-called natural econom3-, which existed in Europe during the Middle Ages : money was scarcely in circulation among the natives, and their trade had almost exclusively the character of barter ; — one merchandise was exchanged for another, and a few social taxes and those of the state were taken out in produc- tions. What were the Fiji-Islanders with their King Kokab to do when the Americans required from them forty-five thousand dollars under the most terrible threat in the event of non-paj-ment? To the Fijis the very figures appeared to be something inconceivable, to say nothing of the money itself, which they had never seen in such large quantities. After deliberating with other chiefs, Kokab made up his mind to apply to the Queen of England, at first asking her to take the islands under her protection, and then plainly under her rule. But the English regarded this request circumspectly, and were in no hurry to assist the half-savage monarch out of his difficulty. Instead of giving a direct answer, they sent, in I860', special commissioners to make inquiries about the Fiji- Islanders, in order to be able to decide whether it was worth while to annex them to the British Possessions, and to lay out money to satisfy the American claims. Meanwhile the American Government continued to insist upon payment, and held as a pledge in their de facto domin- ion some of the best parts, and, having looked closely into the national wealth, raised their former claim to ninety thou- sand dollars, and threatened to increase it still if Kokab did not pay at once. Being thus pushed on every side, the poor king, unac- quainted with European means of credit accommodation, in accordance with the advice of European colonists, began to try to raise money in Melbourne, among the merchants, cost what it might, if even he should be obliged to yield up all his kingdom into private hands. And so in Melbourne, in consequence of his application, a commercial society was formed. This joint-stock company, which took the name of the Polynesian Company, formed with the chiefs of the Fiji-Islandei-s a treaty upon terms tlie most advantageous to itself. It took upon itself the debt to 82 WHAT MUST WE DO THENt the American Government, and pledged itself to pay it by several instalments ; for-this the company received, accord- ing to the first treaty, one, and then two hundred thousand acres of the best land, selected by themselves ; the perpetual immunity from all taxes and dues for all its factories, opera- tions, and colonies, and the exclusive right for a long period to establish in the Fiji Islands issuing-banks, with the privi- lege of printing unlimited number of notes. Since this treaty, definitively concluded in the year 1868, there appeared in the Fiji Islands, along with their local government with Kokab at the head, another powerful authority, — a commercial factory, with large estates over all the islands, exercising a decided influence upon the govern- ment. Up to this time the wants of the government of Kokab had been satisfied with the payment in natural productions, which consisted of various duties and a small custom tax on goods imported. Witli tiie conclusion of tlie treaty, and the form- ing of the influential Polynesian Company, the king's financial circumstances had changed. A considerable part of the best land in his dominion had passed into the hands of the company, his income from the land therefore dimiuisiied ; on the other hand, the income from the custom taxes also diminished, because the company obtained for itself an import and export of all kinds of goods free of custom duties. The natives — ninety-nine per cent of all the population — had always been bad payers of custom duties, because they scarcely bought any of the European productions, ex- cept some stuffs and hardware ; and now, from the freeing from custom duties, along with the Polynesian Company, of manj- well-to-do Europeans, the income of King Kokab was reduced to nil, and he was obliged to take steps to resusci- tate it if possible. He began to consult his white friends as to how he was to avert the calamity, and they advised him to create the first direct tax in the country ; and, in order, I suppose, to have less trouble about it, in money. The tax was established in the form of a general poll-tax, amounting to one pound for every man, and to four shillings for every woman, throughout the islands. As we have already said, on the Fiji Islands there still ex- ist a natural economy and a trade by barter. Very few WBAT MUST WE DO THEN? 83 natives possess money. Their wealth consists chiefly of various raw productions and cattle ; whilst tlie new tax re- quired the possession in a family of considerable sums of money at fixed times. Up to that date a native had not been accustomed to any individual burden in the interests of his government, except personal obligations ; all the taxes which had to be paid, were paid by the community or village to which he be- longed, and from the common fields from which he received his principal income. One alternative was left to him, — to try to raise money from the European colonists ; that is, to address himself either to the merchant or to the planter. To the first he was obliged to sell his productions on the merchant's own terms, because the tax-collector required money at a certain fixed date, or he had even to raise money by selling his expected production, which enabled the mer- chant to take iniquitous interest. Or he had to address him- self to the planter, and sell him his labor ; that is, to become his workman : but the wages on the Fiji Islands were very low, owing, I suppose, to the exceptionally great offer of services. Thej' did not exceed one shilling per week for a grown-up man, or two pounds twelve shillings a year ; and therefore, in order merely to get the money necessary for the payment for himself, not to speak of his family, a Fiji had to leave his house, his family, and his own land, and often go far away to another island, and there enslave himself to tlie planter for at least half a year in order to get the one pound necessary for the payment of the new tax ; and as for the payment of taxes for his whole family, he had to look for it to some other means. We can understand what was the result of such a state. From a hundred and fifty thousand of his subjects, Kokab collected in all, six thousand pounds ; and now there began a forcible extortion of taxes unknown till then, and a series of violent measures. The local administration, which had been formerly incor- ruptible, soon made common cause with the European planters, who began to have their own way with the country. For non-payment, the Fijis were summoned to the court and were sentenced, not onlj- to pay the expenses, but also to be sent to prison for not less than half a year. This prison 84 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? was really the plantations of the first white man who chose to pay the tax-money and the legal expenses of the con- demned. Thus the white settlers received cheap labor to any amount. First this compulsory labor was fixed at not longer than half a year ; but afterwards the bribed judges found it possible to pass sentence for eighteen months, and then to renew the sentence. Very quickl}', in the course of a few years, the picture of the social condition of the inhabitants of Fiji was quite changed. Whole districts, formerly flourishing, lost half of their population, and were greatly impoverished. All the male population, except the old and infirm, was working away from their homes for European planters, in order to get money necessary for the payment of taxes, or in consequence of the law court. The women on the Fiji Islands had scarcely ever worked in the fields ; therefore, in the absence of the men, all farming was neglected, and went to ruin. In the courae of a few years, half of the population of Fiji was transformed into the slaves of the colonists. In order to ease their situation, the B^iji-Islanders again appealed to England. A new petition was got up, sub- scribed by a great manj' eminent persons and chiefs, praying to be annexed to England ; and this was handed to the British consul. Meanwhile, England, thanks to her learned expedi- tion, had time not only to investigate the affairs of the islands, but even to survey them, and duly to appreciate the natural riches of this fine corner of the globe. Owing to all these circumstances, the negotiations this time were crowned with full success ; and in 1874, to the great dissatisfaction of the American planters, England officially took possession of the Fiji Islands, and added them to its colonies. Kokab died, and his heirs had a small pension assigned to them. The administration of the islands was intrusted to Sir Hercules Bobinson, the governor of New South Wales. In the first year of its annexation to England, the Fiji-Islanders had not had any self-government, but were under the direc- tion of Sir Hercules Bobinson, who had appointed an admin- istrator for them. Taking the islands into their hands, the English Government had to undertake the diflicult task of gratifying various expectations raised by them. WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 85 The natives, of course, first of all expected the abolition of the bated poll-tax ; one part of the white colonists (the Americans) looked with suspiciou upon the British rule ; and another part (those of English origin) expected all kinds of confirmations of their power over the natives, — permission to enclose the land, and so on. The English Government, how- ever, proved itself equal to the task ; and its first act was to abolish forever the poll-tax, which had created the slavery of the natives in the interest of a few colonists. But here, Sir Hercules Robinson had at once to face a difficult dilemma. It was necessary to abolish the poll-tax, which had made the Fijis seek help of the English Government ; but, at the same time, according to English colonial policy, the colonies had to support themselves ; they had to find their own means for covering the expenses of the government. With the abolition of the poll-tax, all the incomes of the Fijis (from custom duties) did not amount to more than six thousand pounds, while the government expenses required at least seventy thousand a year. And now Sir Hercules Robinson, having abolished the money tax, thought of a labor tax ; but it did not yield the sum necessary for feeding him and his assistants. Matters did not mend until a new governor had been appointed, — Gordon, — who, in order to get out of the inhabitants the money necessary for keeping him and his functionaries, resolved not to demand money until it had come sufficiently into general circulation on the islands, but to take from the natives their productions, and to sell them himself. This tragical episode in the lives of the Fijis is the clearest and best proof of what is the true meaning of money in our time. In this case every thing is illustrated, the first funda- mental condition of slavery, — the gun, threats, murders, and plunder, and lastly, money, the means of subjugation, which has taken the place of all other. That which in an historical sketch of economical development has to be inves- tigated during centuries, here when all the forms of monetary violence have fully developed themselves, had been concen- trated into a space of ten years. The drama begins thus : the American Government sends ships with loaded guns to the shores of the islands, whose inhabitants they want to enslave. The pretext of this threat is monetary ; but the beginning of the tragedy is the levelling of guns against all the 86 WHAT MUST WE DO THENf inhabitants, — wives, children, old people, andmen, — though they have not committed any crime. " Your money or your life," — forty-five thousand dollars, then ninety thousand or slaughter. But ninety thousand are not to be had. And now begins the second act : it is necessary- to forego a slaughter, which would be bloody, terrible, and concentrated, in a short period ; it is necessary to substitute a suffering less perceptible which can be laid upon all, and will last longer ; and the natives with their representative seek to substitute for slaughter a slavery of money. They borrow money, and the planned means of enslaving men by money at once begins to operate like a disciplined army. In five years the thing is done, — men have not only lost their right to utilize their own land and their property, but also their liberty, — they have become slaves. Here begins act three. The situation is too painful ; and the unfortunate ones are told they may change their master, and become slaves of another : there is not a thought about freedom from the slavery brought about b3' the means of money. And the people call for another master, to whom they give themselves up, asking him to improve their condition. The English come and see that dominion over these islands gives them the possibility of feeding their already too greatly multiplied parasites, and the English Government takes possession of these islands and their inhabitants ; but it does not take them in the form of personal slaves ; it does not take even the land, nor distribute it among its assistants. These old ways are not necessary now : only one thing is necessary, — taxes which must be large enough on the one hand to prevent the workingmen from freeing themselves from virtual slavery, and on the other hand to feed luxuri- ously a great number of parasites. The iniiabitants must pay seventy thousand pounds sterling, — that is the funda- mental condition upon which England consents to free the Fijis from the American despotism, and this is just what was wanting for the final enslaving of the inhabitants. But it turned out that the Fiji-Islanders cannot under any circum- stances pay these seventy thousand pounds in their present state. The claim is too great. The English temporarily modify it, and take a part of it out in natural productions in order that in time, when money has come into circulation, they may receive the full sura. They do not behave like the former company, whose conduct WBAT MUST WE DO TBENt 87 we may liken to the first coming of savage invaders into an uncivilized land, wiien they want only to take as much as possible and then decamp : but England behaves like a more clear-sighted enslaver ; she does not kill at one blow the goose with the golden eggs, but feeds her in order that she may continue to lay them. England at first relaxes the reins for her own interest that she may hold them forever after- wards, and so has brought the Fiji-Islanders into that state of permanent monetary thraldom in which all civilized European people now are, and from which theu: chance of escape is not apparent. This phenomena repeats itself in America, in China, in Central Asia ; and it is the same in the history of the con- quest of all nations. Money is an inoffensive means of exchange when it is not collected with violence, or when loaded guns are not directed from the seashore against the defenceless inhabitants. As soon as it is taken by force of arras, the same thing must unavoidably take place which occurred on the Fiji Islands, and has always and everywhere repeated itself. Such men as consider it their lawful right to utilize the labor of others, and who have the means of doing so, will achieve this by means of forcibly demanding such sums of money as will compel the oppressed to become the slaves of the oppressors. And moreover, that will happen which occurred between the English and the Fijis, — the extortioners will always, in their demand for money, rather exceed the limit to which the amount of the sum required must rise in order that the enslaving may take place more effectually. The3- will respect this limit only while they have moral sense and suffi- cient money for themselves : they will overstep it when they lose their moral sense or require funds. As for governments, they will always exceed this limit, — first, because for a government there exists no moral sense of justice ; and secondly, because, as we all know, every government is in the greatest want of money, caused by wars and the necessity of giving gratuities to their allies. All governments are insolvent, and cannot help following a maxim expressed by a Russian statesman of the eighteenth century, — that the peasant must be sheared of his wool lest it should grow too long. All governments are hopelessly in debt, and this debt on an average (not taking in considera- 88 WHAT MUST WE DO THENt tion its occasional diminution in England and America) is growing at a terrible rate. So also grow the budgets ; that is, the necessity of struggling with other extortioners, and of giving presents to those who assist in extortion. Wages do not increase, not because of the law of rent, but because taxes collected with violence exist, in order to take away from men their superfluities, so that they may be compelled to sell their labor to satisfy them, the utilizing of their labor being the aim of raising them. And their labor can only be utilized when on a general average the taxes required are more than the working-peo- ple are able to give without depriving themselves of all means of subsistence. The rising of wages would put an end to the possibility of enslaving ; and therefore, as long as violence exists, wages can never rise. This simple and plain mode of action by some men towards others, political economists term the iron law; the instrument by which such action is performed, they call a medium of exchange ; and money is this inoffensive medium of exchange necessary for men in their transactions with each otlier. Why is it, then, that, whenever there is no violent demand for money taxes, there has never been, and can never be, money in its true signification ; but, as among the Fiji- Islanders, the Phoenicians, the Kirghis, and generally among men who do not pay taxes, as among the Africans, there is either a direct exchange of produce or arbitrarj* standards of value, as sheep, hides, skins, and shells? A definite kind of money, whatever it may be, will always become, not a means of exchange, but a means of ransom- ing from violence ; and it begins to circulate among men oniy when a definite standard is compulsorily required from all. It is only then that everybody equally wants it, and only then it receives any value. Further, it is not the thing that is most convenient for exchange that receives any value., but that which is re- quired by the government. If gold is demanded, gold becomes valuable : if knuckle-bones were demanded, they, too, would become valuable. If it were not so, why, then, has the issue of this means of exchange always been the prerogative of the government? The Fiji-Islanders, for instance, have arranged among themselves their own means of exchange ; well, then, let them be free to exchange what WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 89 and how they like, and you, men possessing power, or the means of violence, do not interfere with this exchange. But instead you coin money, not allowing any one else to do so ; or, as is the case with us, you merely print some notes, engraving upon them the heads of the tsars, sign them with a particular signature, and threaten to punish every falsification of them, distribute this money to your assistants, and require everybody to give you such money or such notes with such signatures, and so many of them that a workingman must give away all his labor in order to get these very notes or coins ; and then you want to convince us that this money is necessary for us as a means of exchange. All men are free, and none of them oppresses the others by keeping them in slavery ; but there exist only money in society and an iron law, in consequence of which rent increases, and wages diminish down to a minimum. That half (nay, more than half) of the Russian peasants, in order to pay direct and indirect taxes and land taxes, enslave them- selves to labor for the laud-owners, or for manufacturers, does not at all signify (which is obvious) ; for the violent collec- tion of poll-taxes and indirect and land taxes which are paid in money to the government and to its assistants, — the land- owners, — compels the workingman to be in slavery to those who collect money ; but it means that this money, as a means of exchange, and an iron law, exist. Before the serfs were free, I could compel Ivdn to do any work ; and if he refused to do it, I could send him to the police-sergeant, and the latter would give him the rod till he submitted. And if I compelled Iv^n to overwork himself, and did not give him either land or food, the mat- ter would go up to the authorities, and I should have to answer for it. But now that men are free, I can compel IvAn and Peter and Sidor to do every kind of work ; and if they refuse to do it, I give them no money to pay taxes, and they will be flogged till they submit : besides this, I may also make a Ger- man, a Frenchman, a Chinaman, and an Indian, work for me by that means, so that, if they do not submit, I shall not give them money to hire land, or to buy bread, because they have neither land nor bread. And if I make them overwork them- selves, or kill them with excess of labor, nobody will say a word to me about it ; and, moreover, if I have read books on 90 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? political economy, I shall be strongly persuaded that all men are free, and that money does not create slavery ! Our peas- ants have long known that with a ruble one can hurt more than with a stick. But it is only political economists who do not want to see it. To say that money does not create bondage, is to say that half a century ago servitude did not create slavery. Politi- cal economists say that money is an inoffensive medium of exchange, notwithstanding the fact that, in consequence of possessing it, one man may enslave the other. Why, then, was it not said half a century ago that servitude was, in it- self, an inoflfensive medium of reciprocal services, notwith- standing the fact that by no lawful means could one man enslave another? Some men give their manual labor ; and the work of others consists in taking care of the physical and intellectual wel- fare of the slaves, and in superintending their efforts. And, I fancy, some have really said this. XIX. If the object of this sham, so-called science of Political Economy had not been the same as that of all other sciences of law, — the justification of violence, — it could not have avoided noticing the strange phenomenon that the distribu- tion of wealth, and the depriving of some men of land and capital, and the enslaving of some men by others, depend upon money, and that it is only by means of money that some men utilize the labor of others ; in other words, enslave them. I repeat it, a man who has money, may buy up and -mo- nopolize all the corn, and kill others with starvation, com- pletely oppressing them, as it has frequently happened before our own eyes on a very large scale. It would seem that we ought to look out for the connection of these occurrences with money ; but science, with full as- surance, asserts that money has no connection whatever with the matter in question. Science says. Money is as much an article of merchan- dise as anything else which has the value of its production, only with this difference, — that this article of merchandise is chosen as the more convenient medium of exchange for WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 91 establishing values, for saving, and for making payments. One man has made boots, another has grown wheat, the third has bred sheep ; and now, in order to exchange more conveniently, they put into circulation money, which repre- sents the equivalent of labor ; and by this medium they exchange the soles of boots for a loin of mutton, or ten pounds of dour. Students of this sham science are very fond of picturing to themselves such a state of affairs ; but there has never been such a condition in the world. Such an idea about society is like the idea about the primitive, prehistorical, perfect hu- man state, which the philosophers cherished ; but there has never existed such a state. In all human societies where there has been money, there has been also the violence of the strong and the armed over the weak and the defenceless ; and wherever there has been violence, there the standard of value, — money, — be it what it may, — either cattle or hides, or skins or metals, — must have lost unavoidably its significance as a medium of ex- change, and received the meaning of a ransom from violence. ( Without doubt, money possesses the inoffensive properties which science enumerates; but these properties it would have only in a society in which there was no violence, in an ideal state ; but in such a society, money would not be found as a general measure of value ; it has never existed, and could never exist, in a society which had not come under the general violence of the state. In all societies known to us where there is money, it re- ceives the signification of the medium of exchange only because it serves as a means of violence. And its chief object is to act thus, and not as a mere mediumj /Where there is violence, money cannot be a regular medium of exchange, because it cannot be a measure of value. And it cannot be a measure of value, because, as soon as in a society one man can take away from another the productions of his labor, this measure is directly violated. If horses and cows, bred by one man, and violently taken away by others, were brought to a market, it is plain that the value of horses and cows there would no longer correspond with the labor of breeding them ; and the value of all other things would also change in accordance with this change, and money would not determine their value.) Besides, if one man may acquire by force a cow or a horse < 92 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? or a house, he may by the same force acquire money itself, and with this money acquire all kinds of produce. If, then, money itself is acquired by violence, and spent to purchase things, money entirely loses its quality as a medium of ex- change. The oppressor who takes away money, and gives it for the production of labor, does not exchange any thing, but by the means of labor takes away all that he wants. But let us suppose that such an imaginary and impossible state of society really existed, in which, without a general violence of the state exercised over men, money is in circu- lation, — silver or gold serving as a measure of value and as a medium of exchange. All the savings in such a society are expressed by money. There appears in this society an oppressor in the shape of a conqueror. Let us suppose that this oppressor takes away the cows, horses, clothes, and the houses of the inhabitants, but, as it is not convenient for him to be in possession of all this, he will therefore naturally think of taking from these men that which represents among them all kinds of value, and is exchanged for all kinds of things, — money. And at once in this community, money will receive for the oppressor and his assistants another signification : its character ns a medium of exchange will therefore cease in such a societj'. \ The measure of the value of all things will always depend ___^pon the pleasure of the oppressor. The articles most necessary for him, and for which he gives more money, will receive a greater value, and vice versa; 80 tliat, in a community exposed to violence, money receives at once its chief meaning, — it becomes a means of violence and a ransom from violence, and it will retain among the oppressed people its signification as a medium of exchange, only so far as it is convenient for the oppressor. Let us picture the whole affair in a circle, thus : — The serfs supply their landlord vrith linen, poultry, sheep, and daily labor. The landlord substitutes money for these goods, and fixes the value of various articles sent in. Those who have no linen, corn, cattle, or manual labor to offer, may bring a definite sum of money. It is obvious, that, in the society of the peasants of this landlord, the price of various articles will always depend upon the landlord's pleasure. The landlord uses the articles . WHAT MUST WE DO THEN t 93 collected among his peasants, and some of these articles are more necessary for him than others : accordingly, he fixes the prices for them, more or less. It is clear that the mere will and requirements of the landlord must regulate the prices of these articles among tlie paj'ers. If he is in want of corn, he will set a high price for a fixed quantity of it, and a low price for linen, cattle, or work ; and therefore those who have no corn will sell their labor, linen, and cattle to others, in order to buy corn to give it to the landlord. If the landlord chooses to substitute mone^' for all kinds of claim, then the value of tilings will again depend, not upon the value of labor, but first upon the sum of money which the landlord will require, and secondly upon the articles produced by the peasants which are more necessary to the landlord, and for which he will allow a higher price. The money-claim made b^- the landlord upon the peasants would cease only to have any influence ui)on the prices of the articles when the peasants of this landlord sliould live sepa- rate from other people and have no connection with anj' one besides themselves and the landlord ; and seeondlj', when the landlord employs money, not in purchasing things in his own village, but elsewhere. It is only under these two conditions that the prices of things, though changed nominally, would remain relatively the same, and money would have the signifi- cation of a measure of value and of a medium of exchange. But if the peasants have any business connections with the inhabitants surrounding them, the prices of the articles of their produce, as sold to their neighbors, would depend upon the sum of money required from them by their landlord. (If from their neighbors less money is required than from them, then their productions would be sold cheaper than the productions of their neighbors, and vice versa.) And again, the money-demand made by the landlord upon his peasants would cease to have any influence upon the prices of the arti- cles, only when the sums collected by the landlord were not spent in buying the productions of his own peasants. But if he spends money in purchasing from them, it is plain that the prices of various articles will constantly vary among them according as the landlord buys more of one thing than another. Suppose one landlord has fixed a very high poll-tax, and his neighbor a very low one : it is clear that on the estate of the first landlord every thing will be cheaper than on the 94 WHAT MUST WE DO TEENt estate of the second, and that the prices on either estate will depend only upon the augmentation and diminution of the poll-taxes. This is one influence of violence upon value. Another, arising out of the first, consists in the relative value of all things. Suppose one landlord is fond of horses, and pays a high price for them : another is fond of towels, and offers a high figure for them. It is obvious that on the estate of either of these two landlords, the horses and the towels will be dear, and the prices for these articles will not be in proportion to those of cows or of corn. If to-morrow the collector of towels dies, and his heirs are fond of poultry, then it is obvious that the price of towels will fall, and that of poultry will rise. Wherever there is in society the mastery of one man over another, there the meaning of money as the measure of value at once yields to the will of the oppressor, and its meaning as a medium of exchange of the productions of labor is replaced by another, that of the most convenient means of utilizing the labor of others. The oppressor wants money neither as a medium of ex- change, — for he will talte vrhatever he wants without exchange, — nor as a measure of value, — for he will himself determine the vahie of every thing, — but only for the con- venience it affords of exercising violence ; and this convenience consists in the fact that money may be saved up, and is the most convenient means of holding in slavery the majority of mankind. It is not convenient to carry away all the cattle in order always to have horses, cows, and sheep whenever wanted, because they must be fed ; the same holds good with corn, for it may be spoiled ; the same with slaves ; sometimes a man may require thousands of workmen, and sometimes none. Money demanded from those who have not got it, makes it possible to get rid of all these inconveniences, and to have every thing that is required : this is why the oppressor wants money. Besides this, he wants money in order that his right to utilize another's labor may not be confined to certain men, but may be extended to all men who likewise require it. When there was no money in circulation, each landloi-d could utilize the labor only of his own serfs ; but when they agreed to demand from their peasants money which they had not, they were all enabled to appropriate without distinction the labor of the men on every estate. WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 95 Thus the oppressor fiads it more convenient to press all his claims uix)u another's labor in the shape of money, and for this sole object is it desired. To the victim from whom it is taken away, money cannot be of use, either for the pur- pose of exchange, seeing he exchanges without money, as all nations have exchanged who had no government ; nor for a measure of value, because this is fixed without him ; nor for the purpose of saving, because the man whose productions are taken away cannot save ; neither for payments, because an oppressed man will always have more to pay than to re- ceive ; and if he does receive any thing, the payment will be made, not in money, but in articles of merchandise in either case ; whether the workman takes goods out of his master's shop as remuneration for his labor, or whether he bu3s the necessaries of life with all his earnings in other shops, the money is required from him, and he is told by his oppressors that if he does not pay it, they will refuse to give him land or bread, or will take away his cow or his horse, or condemn him to work, or put him in prison. He can only free himself from all this by selling the productions of his toil, his own labor, or that of his children. And this he will have to sell according to those prices which will be established, not by a regular exchange, but by the authority which demands money of him. Under the conditions of the influence of tribute and taxes upon the prices which everywhere and always repeat them- selves, as with the land-owners in a narrow circle, so also with the state on a larger scale (in which the causes of the modification of prices are as obvious to us, as it is obvious how the hands and feet of puppets are set in motion, to those who look behind the curtain and see who are the wire- pullers) : under these circumstances, to say that mone\' is a medium of exchange and a measure of value, is at least astonishing. XX. All slavery is based solely on the fact that one man can deprive another of his life, and by threatening to do so compel him to do his wUl. We may see for certain that whenever one man is enslaved by another, when against his own will, and according to the will of another, he does certain actions, which are contrary to his inclination, the 96 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN t cause, if traced to its source, is nothing more nor less than a result of this threat. If a man gives to others all his labor, has not enough to eat, has to send his little children from home to work hard, leaves his family, and devotes all his life to a hated and unnecessary task, as hapi>ens before our own eyes in the world (which we term civilized because we ourselves live in it), then we may certainly say that he does so only because not to do so would be equivalent to loss of life. And therefore in our civilized world, where the majority of people, amidst terrible privations, perform hated labors unnecessary to themselves, the greater number of men are in slavery based upon the threat of being deprived of their existence. Of what, then, does this slavery consist? And wherein lies this power of threat ? In olden times the means of subjugation and the threat to kill were plain and obvious to all : the primitive means of enslaving men consisted then in a direct threat to kill with the sword. An armed man said to an unarmed, "I can kill thee, as thou hast seen I have done to thy brother, but I do not want to do it: I will spare thee, — first, because it is not agreeable for me to kill thee ; secondly, because, as well for me as for thee, it will be more convenient that thou shouldst labor for me than that I should kill thee. Therefore do all I order thee to do, but know that, if thou refusest, I will take thy life." So the unarmed man submitted to the armed one ; and did every thing which he was ordered to do. The unarmed man labored, the armed threatened. This was that per- sonal slaver}' which appeared first among all nations, and which still exists among primitive races. This means of enslaving always begins the work ; but when life becomes more complicated, it undergoes a change. With the complication of life, such a means presents great inconveniences to the oppressor. He, in order to appropri- ate the labor of the weak, has to feed and clothe them, and keep them able to work, and so the number of slaves is diminished : besides, this compels the enslaver to remain continually with the enslaved, driving him to work b}' the threat of murdering him. And thus is developed another means of subjugation. Five thousand years ago (as we find in the Bible) this WHAT MUST WE DO TBEN t 97 novel, convenient, and clever means of oppression was dis- covered by Joseph the Beautiful. It is similar to that employed now in the menageries for taming restive horses and wild beasts. It is hunger ! This contrivance is thus described in the Bible : — Genesis xli. 48 : And he gathered up all the food of the seven years, which were in the land of Egypt, and laid up the food in the cities : the food of the field, which was round about every city, laid he up in the same. 49. And Joseph gathered corn as the sand of the sea, very much, until he left numbering ; for it was without number. 53. And the seven years of plenteousness, that was in the land of Egypt, were ended. 54. And the seven years of dearth began to come, ac- cording as Joseph had said : and the dearth was in all lands ; but in all the land of Egypt, there was bread. 55. And when all the land of Egypt was famished, the people cried to Pharaoh for bread : and Pharaoh said unto all the Egyptians, Go unto Joseph ; what he saith to you, do. 56. And the famine was over all the face of the earth : And Joseph opened all the storehouses, and sold unto the Egyptians ; and the famine waxed sore in the land of Egypt. 57. And all countries came into Egypt to Joseph for to buy corn ; because that the famine was so sore in all lands. Joseph, making use of the primitive means of enslaving men by the threat of the swoi'd, gathered corn during the seven years of plenty in expectation of seven years of famine, which generally follow j'ears of plenty, — men know all this without the dreams of Pharaoh, — and then by the pangs of hunger he more securely and conveniently made all the Egyptians and the inhabitants of the sun-ounding coun- tries slaves to Pharaoh. And when the people began to be famished, he arranged matters so as to keep them in his power forever. Genesis xlvii. 13 : And there was no bread in all the land ; for the famine was very sore, so that the land of Egypt and all the land of Canaan fainted by reason of the famine. 98 WBAT MUST WE DO THEN? 14. And Joseph gathered up all the money that was found in the land of Egypt, and in the land of Canaan, for the corn which they bought : and Joseph brought the money into Pharaoh's house. 15. And when money failed in the land of Egypt, and in the land of Canaan, all the Egyptians came unto Joseph, and said. Give us bread : for why should we die in th3- pres- ence? for the money faileth. 16. And Joseph said. Give your cattle; and I will give you for your cattle, if money fail. 17. And they brought their cattle unto Joseph: and Joseph gave them bread in exchange for horses, and for the flocks, and for the cattle of the herds, sind for the asses : and lie fed them with bread for all their cattle for that year. 18. When that year was ended, they came unto him the second year, and said unto him. We will not hide it from my Lord, how that our money is spent ; my lord also hath our herds of cattle ; there is not ought left in the sight of my lord, but our bodies, and our lands : 19. Wherefore shall we die before thine eyes, both we and our land? bn^- us and our land for bread, and we and our land will be servants unto Pharaoh : and give us seed, that we may live, and not die, that the land be not desolate. 20. And Joseph bought all the land of Egypt for Pha- raoh ; for the Egyptians sold every man his field, because the famine prevailed over them : so the land became Pharaoh's. 21. And as for the people, he removed them to cities from one end of the borders of Egypt even to the other end thereof. 22. Only the land of the priests bought he not ; for the priests had a portion assigned them of Pharaoh, and did eat their portion which Pharaoh gave them : wherefore they sold not their lands. 23. Then Joseph said unto the people, Behold, I have bought you this day and your land for Pharaoh : lo, here is seed for you, and ye shall sow the land. 24. And it shall come to pass in the increase, that ye shall give the fifth part unto Pharaoh, and four parts shall be your own, for seed of the field, and for your food, and for them of your households, and for food for j'our little ones. 25. And they said. Thou hast saved our lives : let us find grace in the sight of mj' lord, and we will be Pharaoh's seiTEuts. WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 99 26. And Joseph made it a law over the land of Egypt unto this day, that Pharaoh should have the fifth part ; except the land of the priests only, which became not Pharaoh's. Formerly, in order to appropriate labor, Pharaoh had to use violence towards them ; but now, when the stores and the land belonged to Pharaoh, he had only to keep these stores by force, and by means of hunger compel men to labor for him. All the land now belonged to Pharaoh, and he had all the stores (which were taken away from the people) ; and there- fore, instead of driving them to work individually by the sword, he had only to keep food from them, and they were enslaved, not by the sword, but by hunger. In a year of scarcity, all men may be starved to death at Pharaoh's will ; and in a year of plenty, all may be killed who, from casual misfortuues, have no stores of corn. And thence comes into operation the second means of enslaving, not directly with the sword, — that is, by the strong man driving the weak one to labor under threat of killing him, — but by the strong one having taken away from the weak the stores of corn which, keeping by the sword, he compels the weak to work for. Joseph said to the hungry men, " I could starve you to death, because I have the corn ; but I will spare your life, but only under the condition tliat you do all I order you for the food which I will give j'ou." For the first means of enslaving, the oppressor needs only soldiers to I'ide to and fro among the inhabitants, and under threat of death make them fulfil the requirements of their master. Aud thus the oppressor has only to pay his soldiers ; but with the second means, besides these the oppressor must have different assist- ants for keeping and protecting the land and stores from the starving people. These are the Josephs and his stewards and distributers. And the oppressor has to reward them, and to give Joseph a dress of fine linen, a gold ring, and servants, and corn and silver to his brothers and relatives. Besides this, from the very nature of this second means, not only the stewards and their relations, but all those who have stores of corn, become participators in this violence, just as by the first means, based upon crude force, every one who has arms becomes a part- ner in tyranny ; so by this means, based upon hunger, every 100 WE AT MUST WE DO THEN t one who has stores of provision shares in it, and has power over those who have no stores. The advantage of this means over the former for the op- pressor, consists, first and chiefly, in the fact that he need no longer compel the worltingmen by force to do his will, for they themselves come to him, and sell themselves to him ; secondly, in the circumstance that fewer men escape from his violence : the drawback is, that he has to employ a greater number of men. For the oppressed the advantage of it consists in the fact that they are no longer exposed to rough violence, but are left to themselves, and can always hope to pass from being the oppressed to become oppressors in their turn, which they sometimes really do by fortunate circumstances. The drawbacic for them is, that they can never escape from participating in the oppression of othei-s. This new means of enslaving generally comes into opera- tion together with the old one ; and the oppressor lessens the one and increases the otiier, according to bis desires. But tliis does not fully satisfy the man who wishes to have as little trouble and care as possible, and to take away as much as possible of the productions of labor of as many working-people as he can find, and to enslave as many men as possible ; and, therefore, a third means of oppression is evolved. This is the slavery of taxation, and, like the second, it is based upon hunger ; but to the means of subduing men by depriving them of bread, is added the privation of other necessaries of life. The oppressor requires from the slaves such a quantity of money which he himself has coined, that, in oi-der to obtain it, the slaves are compelled to sell not only stores of corn in greater quantity than the fifth part which was fixed by Joseph, but the first necessaries of life as well, — meat, skins, wool, clothes, firewood, even their dwellings ; and therefore the oppressor always keeps his slaves in his power, not only by hunger, but by hunger, thirst, cold, and other privations. And then the third means of slaverj' comes into operation, a monetary, a tributary one, consisting in the oppressor say- ing to the oppressed, " I can do with each of 3'ou just what 1 like ; I can kill and destroy you by taking away the land by which you earn your living ; I can, with this money which you must give me, buy all the corn upon which yon feed, and sell it to strangers, and at any time annihilate you by starva- WHAT MUST WE DO TEEN T 101 tion ; I can take from you all that you have, — your cattle, your houses, your clothes ; but it is neither convenient nor agreeable for me to do so, and therefore 1 let you alone, to work as you please ; only give me so much of the money which I demand of j-ou, either as a poll-tax, or according to the quantity of your food and drink, or your clothes or your houses. Give me this money, and do what you like among yourselves, but know that I shall neither protect nor main- tain widows nor orphans nor invalids nor old people, nor such as have been burned out : I shall only protect the regular circulation of this money. This right will always be mine to protect only those who regularly give me the fixed number of these pieces of money : as to how or where you get it, I will not in the least trouble myself." And so the o|)pressor dis- tributes these pieces of money as an acknowledgment that his demand has been complied with. The second means of enslaving consists in that, having taken away the fifth part of the harvest, and collected stores of corn, the Pharaoh, besides tlie personal slavery by the sword, receives, by his assistants, the possibility of dominion over the working-people during the time of famine, and over some of them forever from misfortunes which happen to them. The third means consists in this : Pharaoh requires from the working-people more money than the value of the fifth part of corn which he took from them ; he, together with his assistants, gets a new means of dominion over the working- class, not merely during the famine and their casual misfor- tunes, but permanentlj-. By the second means, men retain stores of corn which help them to bear indifferent harvests and casual misfortunes without going into slavery ; by the third, when there are more demands, the stores, not of corn only, but of all other necessaries of life, are taken away from them, and at the first misfortune a workingman, having neither stores of corn, nor any other stores which he might have exchanged for corn, falls into slavery to those who have money. For the first, an oppressor need have only soldiers, and share the booty with them ; for the second, he must have, besides the protectors of the land and the stores of corn, coUectora and clerks for the distribution of this corn ; for the third, he must have, besides the soldiers for keeping the laud and bis property, collectors of taxes, assessora 102 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN t of direct and indirect taxation, supervisors, custom-house clerks, managers of money, and coiners of it. The organization of tiie third means is much more com- plicated tliaa that of the second. By the second, the getting in of corn may be leased out, as was the case in olden tiroes and is still in Turkey ; but by putting taxes on men, there is need of a complicated administration, which haa. to in- sure that the taxes are rightly levied. And therefore, by the third means, the oppressor has to share the plunder with a still greater number of men than by the second ; besides, according to the very nature of the thing, all those men of the same or of the foreign country who possess money, become sharers with the oppressed. The advantage of this means over the first and second consists in the following fact : chiefly that by it there is no need of waiting for a year of scarcity, as in the time of Joseph, but years of famine are established forever, and (whilst by the second method the part of the labor which is taken away depends upon the harvest, and cannot be augmented ad libitum, because if tliere is no corn, there can be nothing to take) by the new monetary method the requirement can be brought to any desired limit, for the demand for money can always be satisfied, because the debtor, in order to satisfy it, will sell his cattle, clothes, or houses. The chief advantage of this means to the oppressor consists in the fact that b}- it he can take away the greatest quantit}' of labor and in the most convenient way ; for a money-tax, like a screw, may easily and convenient!}- be screwed up to the utmost limit, and golden eggs be obtained though the bird that lays them is all but dead. Another of its advantages for the oppressor is that its violence reaches all those also who, bj' possessing no land, escaped from it formerly by giving only a part of tlieir labor for corn ; and now besides that part which they give for corn, they must give another part for taxes. A draw- back for the oppressor is, that he has to share the plunder with a still greater number of men, not only with his direct assistants, but also with all those men of his own country, and even foreign countries, who maj' have the money which is demanded from the slaves. Its advantage for the oppressed is only that he is allowed greater independence : he may live wherever he chooses, do whatever he likes ; he may sow or not sow ; he has not WHAT MUST WE DO TBENt 103 to give any account of his labor ; and if he has money, he may consider himself entirely free, and constantly hope, though only for a time, when he has money to spare, to obtain not only an independent position, but even to become an oppressor himself. The drawback is, that, on a general average, the situation of the oppressed becomes much worse, and they are de- prived of the greater part of the productions of their labor, because by it the number of those who utilize the labor of others increases, and therefore the burden of keeping them falls upon a smaller number of men. This third means of enslaving men is also a very old one, and comes into oper- ation with the former two without entirely excluding them. All three have always been in operation. All may be likened to screws, which secure the board which is laid upon the working-people, aud which presses them down. The fundamental, or middle screw, without which the other screws could not hold, which is first screwed up, and which is never slackened, is the screw of personal slavery, the enslaving of some men by others uuder threat of slaughter ; the second, which is screwed up after tlie first, is that of enslaving men by taking away the land and stores of pro- visions from them, such abduction being maintained under threat to murder ; and the third screw is slavery enforced by the requirement of certain coins ; and this demand is also maintained under threat of murder. These three screws are made fast, and it is only when one of them is tightened that the two others are slackened. For the complete enslaving of the workingman, all three are neces- sary ; and in our society, all three are in operation together. The first means by personal slavery under the threat of mur- der by the sword has never been abolished, and never will be so long as there is oppression, because all kinds of oppres- sion are based upon this alone. "We are all very sure that personal slaverj- is abolished in our civilized world ; that the last remnant of it has been annihilated in America and in Russia, and tliat it is only among barbarians that real slavery exists, and that with us it is no longer in being. We forget only one small circumstance, — those hundreds of millions of standing troops, without which no state exists, and with the abolition of which all the economical organiza- tion of each state would inevitably fall to pieces. Yet what are these millions of soldiers but the personal slaves of those 104 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? who rule over them ? Are not these men compelled to do the will of their commanders, under the threat of torture and death, — a threat often carried out? the difference consisting only in the fact that the submission of these slaves is not called slavery, but discipline ; the only difference being that slaves are so from their birth, and soldiers only during a more or less short period of their so-called service. Personal slavery, therefore, is not onlj' not abolished in our civilized world, but, under the general system of recruit- ing, it has become confirmed of late years ; and as it has always existed, so it has remained, having only somewhat changed from its original form. And it cannot but exist, because, so long as there is the enslaving of one man by another, there will be this personal slavery too, that which under threat of the sword maintains the serfdom of land- ownership and taxes. It may be that this slavei^, that is, of troops, is neces- sary, as it is said, for the defence and the glory of the country ; but this kind of utility is more thau doubtful, be- cause we see how often in the case of unsuccessful wars it serves only for the subjugation and shame of the country ; but the expediency of this slavery for maintaining that of the land and taxes is unquestionable. If Irish or Russian peasants were to take possession of the land of the land-owners, troops would be sent to dispossess them. If you build a distillery or a brewery, and do not pay ex- cise, then soldiers will be sent to shut it up. Refuse to pay taxes, the same thing will happen to you. The second screw is the means of enslaving men by taking away from them the land and their stores of provisions. This means has also been always in existence wherever men are oppressed ; and, whatever changes it may undergo, it is evei7 where in operation. Sometimes all the land belongs to the sovereign, as is the case in Turkey, and there one-tenth is given to the state treasury. Sometimes a part of the land belongs to the sove- reign, and taxes are raised upon it. Sometimes all the land belongs to a few people, and is let out for labor, as is the case in England. Sometimes more or less large portions of the land belong to the land-owners, as is the case in Russia, Germany, and France. But wherever there is enslaving, tliere exists also the appropriation of the land by the op- WBAT MUST WE DO THEN t 105 pressor. This screw is slackened or tightened according to the condition of the other screws. Thus, in Russia, when personal slavery was extended to the majority of working-people, there was no need of land- slavery ; but the screw of personal slavery was slackened in Russia only when the screws of land and tax slavery were tightened. In England, for instance, the land slavery is pre-eminently in operation, and the question about the nationalizing of the land consists only in the screw of taxation being tightened in order that the screw of land appropriation may be slackened. The third means of enslaving men by taxes has also been in operation for ages ; and in our days, with the extension of uniform standards of money and the strengthening of the state power, it has received only a particular influence. This means is so worked out in our daj's, that it tends to substitute the second means of englaying, — the land monopoly. Tiiis is the screw by the tightening of which the screw of land slavery is slackened, as is obvious from the politico- economical state of all Europe. We have, in our lifetime, witnessed in Russia two trans- formations of slavery : when the serfs were liberated, an is f -.iirnpfl into law, there is slavery. Whether violence finds its expression in the circumstance that princes with their courtiers come, kill, and burn down villages, or in the fact that the slave-owners take labor or money for the land from their slaves, and enforce payment by means of armed men, or by putting taxes on others, and riding armed to and fro in the villages, or in the circumstance of a Home Department collecting money through governors and police sergeants, — in one word, as long as violence is maintained by the bayonet, there will be no distribution of wealth, but it will all be accumulated among the oppressors. As a striking illustration of the truth of this assertion, the project of Mr. George as to the nationalization of the land may serve us. Mr. George proposes to recognize all the land as the prop- erty of the state, and therefore to substitute the land-rent for all the taxes direct and indirect. That is, that every one who utilizes the land would have to pay to the state the value of its rent. What would be the result? The land slavery would be y WHAT MUST WE DO TUENf 115- quite abolished witliin the limits of the state, and the land would belong to the state, — English land to Eingland, Ameri- can to America, and so on ; so that tliere would be a slavery, which would be determined by the quantity of utilized land. It might be that the condition of some laboi'ers would im- prove ; but while a forcible demand for rent remained, the slavery would remain too. The laborer, after a bad harvest, being unable to pay the rent required from him, in oi'der not to lose every thing and to retain the land, would be obliged to enslave himself to any one who happened to have the money. If a pail leaiis, there must be a hole. On looking to the bottom of the pail, we may imagine that water runs from different holes ; but how- ever many imaginai-y holes we tried to stop from without, the water would not cease running. In order to put a stop to this leakage, we must find the place out of which water runs, and stop it from the inside. The same holds good with the proposed means of stoppiug the irregular distribution of wealth, — the holes through which the wealth rnps away from the people. It is said. Organize workingmen's corporations, make / capital social property, make land social property. AH this i is only the mere stopping from the outside of those holes , from which we fancy water runs away. In order to stop wealth going from the hands of workingmen to those of non-workingmen, it is necessary to try to find out from in- side the hole through which this leakage takes place. This hole is the violence of armed over unarmed men, the violence of troops, by means of which men are carried away fi'om their labor, and the land, and the productions of labor, taken away from men. As long as there is an arm ed man with the acknowledg- Qient of his right to kill another man, whoever he may "Be"," so long will there also exist an unjust distribution of wealth, — in other words, slavery. ., // /^ ^ ^.x, '''> /<^- ' xxir. I ALWAYS wonder at the often repeated words, " Yes, it is all true in theory, but how is it in practice?" As though this theory was a mere collection of good words, needful for conversation, and not as though all practice — that is, all activity of life — was inevitably based upon it. 116 WBAT MUST WE DO THSN f There must have been in the world an immense number of foolish theories, if men employed such wonderful reasoning. You know that theory is what a man thinks about a thing, and practice is wliat he does. How can it be that a man should think that he ought to act in one way, and then do quite the reverse ? If the theory of bakiug bread consists in this, that first of all one must knead the dough, then put it by to rise, then any one knowing this would be a fool to do the reverse. But with us it has come into fashion to say, " All this is very well in theory, but how would it be in practice?" In all that has occupied me, practice has unavoidably fol- lowed theory, not mainly in order to justify it, but because it cannot help doing so : if I have understood the affair upon which I have meditated, I cannot help doing it in the way in which I have understood it. I wished to help the needy, only because I had money to spare ; and I shared the general superstition that money is the representative of labor, and, generally speaking, some- thing lawful and good in itself. But, having begun to give this mone}' away, I saw that I was only drawing bills of exchange collected by me from poor people ; that I was doing the very thing the old landlords used to do in com- ^ falling some of their serfs to work for other serfs. I saw that e very use of money, whethe r buying any thing with it, or givmg it away gratis, is a drawing of bills of exchange on poor people, or passing them to othei-s to be drawn by them. And therefore I clearly understood the foolishness of what I was doing, in helping the poor by exacting mouej* from them. I saw that money in itself was not only not a good thing, but obviously an evil one, depriving men of their chief good, labor, and the utilizing of their labor, and that this very good I cannot give to any one, because I am myself deprived of it : I have neither labor, nor the happiness of utilizing mj' labor. It might be asked by some, " What is there so peculiarly important in abstractly discussing the meaning of money? " But this argument which I have opened, is not merely for the sake of discussion, but in order to find an answer to the vital question, which had caused me so much suffering, and on which my life depended, in order to discover what I was to do. WHAT MUST WE DO THEN t 117 As soon as I understood what riches are, what money is, at once it became plain and unquestionable to me what all men must do. In reality I merely came to realize what I have long known, — that truth which has been transmitted to men from the oldest times, by Buddha, by Isaiah, by Laotse, and by Socrates, and particularly clearly and defini- tively by Jesus Christ, and his predecessor John the Baptist. John the Baptist, in answer to men's question, "What shall we do then?" answered plainly and briefly, "He that hath two coats, let him impart to him that hath none ; - and he that hath meat, let him do likewise " (Luke iii. r 10,11). The same thing, and with still greater clearness, said Christ, — blessing the poor, and uttering woes on the rich. He said that no man can serve God and mammon. He forbade his disciples not only to take money, but also to have two coats. He said to the rich young man that he could not enter into the kingdom of God, because he was rich, and that it is easier for a camel to go through the needle's eye, than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God. He said that he who would not leave every thing — his houses and children and his fields — in order to follow him, was not his disciple. He spoke a parable about a rich man who had done nothing wrong (like our own rich people), but merely dressed well, ate and drank well, yet by this lost his own soul ; and about a beggar named Lazarus, who had done nothing good, and who had saved his soul by his beggar's life. This truth had long been known to me ; but the false teaching of the world had so cunninglj* hidden it, that it became a theory in the sense which men like to attach to this word, — that is, a pure abstraction. But as soon as I succeeded in pulling down in my consciousness the sophistry of the world's teaching, then theory became one with practice, and the reality of my life became its unavoidable result. I understood that man, besides living for his own good, must work for the good of others ; that if we were to draw our comparison from the world of animals, as some men. are so fond of doing in justifying violence and contest by the law of the struggle for existence, we must take this 118 WBAT MUST WE DO THEN t comparison also from the lives of social animals like bees ; and therefore man, saying nothing of his love to his neigh- bors, incumbent upon him, as well by reason as by his very nature, is called upon to serve his fellows and their common object. I understood that this is the natural law of man, by fulfilling wliich he can alone fulfil his calliug, and therefore be happy. I understood that this law has been, and is being, violated by the fact that men b^' violence (as robber- bees) free themselves from labor, and utilize the labor of others, using this labor not for the common purpose, but for the personal satisfaction of their constantly increasing lusts, and also, like robber-bees, they perish therebj'. I understood that the misfortune of men comes from the slavery in which some men are kept by others. I understood that this slavery is brought about in our days by the violence of militar}' force, by the appropriation of land, and by the exaction of money. And, having understood the meaning of all these three instruments of modern slavery, I could not help desiring to free myself from any share in it. When I was a landlord, possessing serfs, and came to understand the immorality of such a position, I, along with other men who had understood the same thing, tried to free myself from it. Failing to do so, I endeavored to assert my claims as a slave-owner as little as possible, and to live, and to let other people live, as if such claims did not exist, and at the same time, by trying every means, to suggest to other slave-owners the unlawfulness and inhumanity of their im- aginarj* rights. I cannot help doing the same now with reference to exist- ent slavery ; that is, I try as little as possible to assert my claims while I am unable to free myself from such power of claim which gives me land-ownership and money, raised by the violence of military force, and at the same time by all means in my power to try to suggest to other men the unlawfulness and inhumanity of these imaginary rights. The share, in (enslaving meny from the stand-point of a slave-owner,( consists in utilizing the labor of others : it is quite the same, whether the enslaving is based upon a claim to the person of the slave, or upon the possession of land or money. ) And therefore, if a man really does not like slavery, ana does not desire to be a partaker in it, the first WHAT MUST WE DO THEN t 119 thing which he must do is this : ^either utilize men's labor 1 by serving the government, nor possess land or money. The refusal of all the means in use for utilizing another's labor will unavoidably bring such a man to the necessity, on the one hand, of lessening his wants, and, on the other, of doing himself what formerly was done for him by otliers. ) And this so simple inference at once puts an end to all three causes which prevent our helping the poor, which I discov- ered in seeliing the cause of ray non-success. _ The first cause wasThe accumulaffon 'oT^eople in towns, and the absorption there of the productions of the country. All that a man needs is not to desire to utilize another's labor by serving the government, possessing land and money, and then, according to his strength and ability, to satisfy unaided his own wants, and the idea of leaving his village would never enter his mind, because in the country it is easier for him personally to satisfy his wants, while in a town every thing is the production of the labor of others ; in tlie coun- try a man will always be able to help the needy, and will not experience that feeling of being useless, which I felt in the town when I wanted to help men, not with my own, but with other men's labors. The second cause was the estrangement between the poor and the rich. A man need only not desire to utilize other men's labor by serving the government, possessing laud and money, and he would be compelled himself to satisfy his wants, and at once involuntarily that barrier would be pushed down which separates him from the working-people, and he would be one with the people, standing shoulder to shoulder with them, and seeing the possibility of helping them. The third cause was shame, based upon the consciousness of the immorality of possessing money with which I wanted to help others. A man needs only not to desire to utilize another man's labor by serving the government, possessing land and money, and he will never have that superfluous "fool's money," the fact of possessing which made those who wanted money ask me for pecuniary assistance, which I was not able to satisfy, and called forth in me the conscious- ness of my unrighteousness. 120 WBAT MUST WE DO TBENt xxin. I SAW that the cause of the sufferings and deprav ity ol men lies in the fact that some men are in bondage lo oihers ; ana therefore T cam e to tfie obvious conclusion, that if I want to help men, I have first of all to leave off causing those very misfortunes which I want to remedy, — in other words, I must not share in the enslaving of men. I was led to the enslaving of men by the circumstance that from my infancy I had been accustomed not to work, but to utilize the labor of others, and I have been living in a society which is not only accustomed to this slavery, but justifies it by all kinds of sophistry, clever and foolish. I came to the following simple conclusion, that,(in order to avoid causing the sufferings and depravity of men, I ought to make other men work for me as little as possible, and to work myself as much as possible.) It was by this roundabout way that I arrived at the inevi- table conclusion to which the Chinese arrived some thousand years ago, and which they express thus : "If there is one idle man, there must be another who is starving^" I came to that simple and natural conclusion, (that if I pity the exhausted horse on whose back I ride, the first thing for me to do, if I really pity him, is to get off him, and walk.^ This answer, which gives such complete satisfaction to the moral sense, has been alwaj's before my eyes, as it is before the eyes of every one, but we do not all see it. In seeking to heal our social diseases we look everywhere, — in the governmental, anti-governmental, scientific, and phil- anthropic superstitions, — and yet we do not see that which meets the eyes of every one. We fill our drains with filth, and require other men to clean them, and pretend to be very sorry for them, and we want to ease their work, and are in- venting all soiis of devices except one, the simplest ; namely, that we should ourselves remove our slops so long as we find it necessar3- to produce them in our rooms. For one who really suffers from the sufferings of other men surrounding him, there exists a most clear, simple, and easy means, the only one sufficient to heal this evil, and to confer a sense of the lawfulness of one's life. This means is that which John tlie Baptist recommended when he answered the question, "What shall we do then?" and which was WHAT MUST WE DO THENt 121 confirmed by Christ, not to have more than one coat, and not to possess money, — that is, not to profit by another man's labor ; and in order not to utilize another's labor, we must do with our own hands all that we can do. This is so plain and simple ! But this is plain and simple and clear, only when our wants are also plain, and when we ourselves are still sound, and not corrupted to the backbone by idleness and laziness. I live in a village, lie by the stove, and tell my neighbor, who is my debtor, to light it. It is obvious that I am lazy, take my neighbor away from his own work, and I at last feel ashamed of it ; and besides, it grows dull for me to be always lying down when my muscles are strong, and accustomed to work, and I go to fetch the wood myself. But slavery of all kinds has been going on so long, so many artificial wants have grown about it, so manj* people with different degrees of familiarity with these wants are in- terwoven one with another, through so many geuerations men have been spoiled and made effeminate, such compli- cated temptations and justifications of luxury and idleness have been invented by men, that for one who stands on the top of the pyramid of idle men, it is not at all so easy to understand his sin as it is for the peasant, who compels his neighbor to light his stove. Men who stand at the top find it most diflficult to under- stand what is required of them. They become giddy from the height of the structure of lies on which they stand when they look at that spot on the earth to which they must de- scend, in order to begin to live, not righteouslj', but only not quite inhumanly ; and that is why this plain and clear truth appears to these men so strange. A man who employs ten sei-vants in livei-y, coachmen and ( cooks, who has pictures and pianos, must certainly regard ,' as strange and even ridiculous '^he simple preliminai-y duty^ i of, I do not say a good man, but(of every man who is not a ( beast, to hew that wood with which his food is cooked and ■ by which he is warmed ; to clean those boots in which he \ carelessly stepped into the mud; to bring that water with j which he keeps himself clean, and to carry away those slops ' in which he has washed himself. J But besides the estrangement of men from the truth, there is another cause which hinders men from seeing the duty of doing the most simple and natural pliysical work ; that is 122 WHAT MUST WE DO TEEN? the complicity and interweaving of the conditions in which a rich man lives. This morning I entered the corridor in which the stoves are heated. A peasant was heating the stove which wanned my son's room. I entered his bedroom : he was asleep, and it was eleven o'clock in the morning. The excuse was, " To- day is a holiday ; no lessons." A stout lad of eighteen years of age, having over-eaten himself the previous night, is sleep- ing until eleven o'clock ; and a peasant of his age, who had already that morning done a quantity of work, was now light- ing the tenth stove. " It would be better, perhaps, if the peasant did not light the stove to warm this stout, lazy fel- low ! " thought I ; but I remembered at once that this stove also warmed the room of our housekeeper, a woman of forty years of age, who had been working the night before till three o'clock in the morning, to prepare every thing for the supper which my son ate ; and then she put away the dishes, and, notwithstanding this, got up at seven. She cannot heat the stove herself : she has no time for that. The peasant is heating the stove for her too. And under her name mj- lazj' fellow was being warmed. True, the advantages of all are interwoven ; but without much consideration the conscience of each will say. On whose side is the labor, and on whose the idleness ? But not only does conscience tell this, the account-book also tells it : the more money 9pe sp ends ^ the more peonle work . The less one spends, the more one wft rfr" PP°'h °°'*' My luxurious life gives means of living to others. ( Where should my old footman go, if I were to discharge him ? What ! everj' one must do evei-y thing for himself? Make his coat as well as hew his wood? And haw about division of labor? And industry and social undertakings? And^ last of all, come the most horrible of words, — civilization, science, art ! ) XXIV. Last March I was returning home late in the evening. On turning into a by-lane, I perceived on the snow, in a distant field, some black shadows. I should not have noticed this, but for the policeman, who stood at the end of tlie lane, and cried in the direction of the shadows, "Vasili, why don't you come along? " WBAT MUST WE DO TMENt 123 " She won't move," answered a voice ; and thereupon the shadows came towards the policeman. I stopped and aslied him, — "What is the matter?" He said, " We have got some girls from Rzhanoff's house, and are taking them to the police-station ; and one of them lags behind, and won't come along." A night-watchman in sheepskin coat appeared now, leading a girl, who slouched along, while he prodded her from behind. I, the watchman and the policeman, were wearing winter-coats : she alone had none, having only her gown on. In the dark, I could distinguish only a brown dress, and a kerchief round her head and neck. She was short, like most starvelings, and had a broad, clumsy figure. " We aren't going to stay here all night for you, you hag I Get on, or I'll give it you! " shouted the policeman. He ■ was evidently fatigued, and tired of her. She walked some paces, and. stopped again. The old watchman, a good-natured man (I knew him), pulled her by the hand. " I'll wake you up ! come along ! " said he, pretending to be angi-y. She staggered, and began to speak, with a creaking, hoarse voice, " Let me be ; don't you push. I'll get on myself." " You'll be frozen to death," he returned. " A girl like me won't be frozen : I've lots of hot blood." She meant it as a joke, but her words sounded like a curse. By a lamp, which stood not far from the gate of my house, she stopped again, leaned back against the paling, and began to seek for something among her petticoats with awkward, frozen hands. They again shouted to her ; but she only muttered, and continued searching. She held in one hand a crumpled cigarette, and matches in the other. I remained behind her : I was ashamed to pass by, or to stay and look at her. But I made up my mind, and came up to her. She leaned with her shoulder against the paling, and vainly tried to light a match on it. I looked narrowly at her face. She was indeed a starveling, and appeared to me to be a woman of about thirty. Her complexion was dirty ; her eyes small, dim, and bleared with drinking ; she had a squat nose ; her lips were wry and slavering, with downcast angles ; from under her kerchief- fell a tuft of dry hair. Her figure was long and flat ; her arms and legs short. 124 WEAT MUST WE DO TEEN t I stopped in front of her. She looked at me and smiled, as if she knew all that I was thinking about. I felt that I ought to say something to her. I wanted to show her that I pitied her. "Have you parents?"! asked. She laughed hoarsely, then suddenly stopped, and, lifting her brows, began to look at me steadfastly. " Have you parents? " I repeated. She smiled with a grimace which seemed to say, " What a question for hira to put ! ' ' " I have a mother," she said at last ; " but what's that to you?" " And how old are you? " "I am over fifteen," said she, at once answering a ques- tion she was accustomed to hear. " Come, come ! go on ; we sliall all be frozen for you ; the deuce take you ! " shouted the policeman ; and she edged off from the paling, and staggered on along the lane to the police- station : and 1 turned to the gate, and entered my house, and asked whether my daughters were at home. I was told that they had been to an evening party, had enjoyed themselves much, and now were asleep. The next morning I was about to go to the police-station to inquire what had become of this unhappy girl ; and I was ready to start early enough, when one of those unfortunate men called, who from weakness have dropped out of the gentlemanly line of life to which they have been accustomed, and who rise and fall bj' turns. I had been acquainted with him three years. During this time he had several times sold every thing he had, — even his clothes; and, having just done so again, he passed his nights temporarily in Rzhanoff's house, and his days at my lodgings. He met me as I was going out, and, without listening to me, began at once to tell me what had happened at Rzhanoff's house the night before. He began to relate it, yet had not got through one-half when, all of a sudden, he, an old man, who had gone through much in his life, began to sob, and, ceasing to speak, turned his face away from me. This was what he related. I ascertained the truth of his story on the spot, where 1 learned some new particulars, which I shall relate too. A washerwoman thirty years of age, fair, quiet, good-look- ing, but delicate, passed her nights in that night-lodging on the ground-floor in No. 32, where my friend slept among WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f 125 various shifting night-lodgers, men and women, who for five kopeks slept with each other. The landlady at this lodging was the mistress of a boat- man. In summer her lover kept a boat ; and in winter they earned their living by letting lodgings to night-lodgers at three kopeks without a pillow, and at five kopeks with one. The washerwoman had been living here some months, and was a quiet woman ; but lately thej' began to object to her because she coughed, and prevented the other lodgers from sleeping. An old woman in particular, eighty years old, half silly, and also a permanent inmate of this lodging, began to dislike the washerwoman, and kept annoying her, because she disturbed her sleep ; for all night she coughed like a sheep. The washerwoman said nothing. She owed for rent, and felt herself guilty, and was therefore compelled to endure. She began to work less and less, for her strength failed her ; and that was why she was unable to pay her rent. Slie had not been to work at all the whole of the last week ; and she had been making the lives of all. and particularly of the old woman, miserable by her cough. Four days ago the landlady gave her notice to leave. She already owed sixty kopeks, and could not pay them, and there was no hope of doing so ; and other lodgers complained of her cough. When the landlady gave the washerwoman notice, and told her she must go away if she did not pay the rent, the old woman was glad, and pushed her out into the yard. The washerwoman went away, but came back again in an hour, and the landlady had not the heart to send her away again. . . . During the second and the third day the landlady left her there. " Where shall I go? " she kept saying. On the third day, the landlady's lover, a Moscow man, who knew all the rules and regulations, went for a policeman. The policeman, with a sword and a pistol slung on a red cord, came into the lodging, and quietly and politely turned the washerwoman out into the street. It was a bright, sunny, but frosty day in March. The melting snow ran down in streams, the house-porters were breaking the ice. The hackney sledges bumped on the ice- glazed snow, and creaked over the stones. The washer- woman went up the hill on the sunny side, got to the church, and sat down in the sun at the church-porch. But when the 126 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f sun began to go down behind the houses, and the pools of water began to be covered over with a thin sheet of ice, the washerwoman felt chilly and terrified. She got up and slowly walked on. . . . Where? Home, — to the only house in which she had been living lately. While she was walking there, several times resting herself, it began to get dark. She approached the gate, turned into it, her foot slipped, she gave a shriek, and fell down. One man passed by, then another. " She must be drunk," they thought. Another man passed, and stumbled up against her, and said to the house-porter, " Some tipsy woman is lying at the gate. I very nearly broke my neck over her. Won't you take her away ? " The house-porter came. The washerwoman was dead. Such was what my friend related to me. The reader will perhaps fancy I have picked out particular cases in the prostitute of fifteen years of age and the story of this washerwoman ; but let him not think so : this really happened in oue and the same night. I do not exactly re- member the date, only it was in March, 1884. Having heard my friend's story, I went to the police-sta- tion, intending from there to go to Rzhanoff's house to learn all the particulars of the washerwoman's story. The weatlier was fine and sunny ; and again under the ice of the previous night, in the shade, you could see the water running ; and in the sun, in the square, everj- thing was melt- ing fast. The trees of the garden appeared blue from over the river ; the sparrows that were reddish in winter, and un- noticed then, now attracted people's attention by their mer- riness ; men also tried to be merry, but they all had too many cares. The bells of the churches sounded ; and blending with them from the barracks were heard sounds of shooting, — the hiss of the rifle-balls, and the crack when they struck the target. I entered the police-station. There some armed men — policemen — led me to their chief. He, also armed with a sword, sabre, and pistol, was busy giving some orders about a ragged, trembling old man who was standing before him, and from weakness could not clearly answer what was asked of him. Having done with the old man, he turned to me. I inquired about the girl of last night. He first listened to me attentively, then he smiled, not only because I did not know why they were taken to the police-station, but more particu- WHAT MUST WE DO THEN t 127 laxly at my astoDishment at her youth. "Goodness! there are some of twelve, thirteen, and fourteen years of age often," said he, in a lively tone. To my question about my friend of yesterday, he told me that she had probably been already sent to the committee (if I understood him right) . To my question where such passed the night, he gave a vague answer. The one about whom I spoke, he did not remember. There were so many of them every day. At Rzhanoflf's house, in No. 32, I already found the clerk reading prayers over the dead laundry- woman. She had been brought in and laid on her former pallet ; and the lodgers, all starvelings themselves, contributed money for the prayers, the coflSn, and the shroud ; the old woman had dressed her, and laid her out. The clerk was reading something in the dark ; a woman in a cloak stood holding a wax taper ; and with a similar wax taper stood a man (a gentleman, it is fair to state) , in a nice great-coat, trimmed with an Astrachan collar, in bright goloshes, and he had on a starched shirt. That was her brother. He had been hunted up. I passed by the dead to the landlady's room, in order to ask her all the particulars. She was afraid of my questions, — afraid probably of being charged with something ; but by and by she grew talkative, and told me all. On passing by again, I looked at the dead body. All the dead are beauti- ful ; but this one was particularly so, and touching in her coflSn, with her clear, pale face, with closed, swollen eyes, sunken cheeks, and fair, soft hair over her high forehead ; her face looked wearj', but kind, and not sad at all, but rather astonished. And indeed, if the living do not see, the dead may well be astonished. On the day I wrote this, there was a great ball in Moscow. On the same night I left home after eight o'clock. 1 live in a locality surrounded by factories ; and I left home after the factory whistle had sounded, and when, after a week of in- cessant work, people were freed for their holiday. Factory- men passed by me, and I by them, all turning their steps to the public-houses and inns. Many were already tipsy : many more were with women. Every morning at five I hear each of the whistles, which means that the labor of women, children, and old people has begun. At eight o'clock another whistle, — this means half 128 WHAT MUST WE DO TBEN t an hour's rest ; at twelve the third whistle, — this means an hour for dinner. At eight o'clock the fourth whistle, indi- cating cessation from work. By a strange coincidence, all the three factories in my neighborhood produce only the artides necessary for balls. In one factory, — the one nearest to me, — they make nothing but stockings ; in the other opposite, silk stuffs ; in the third, perfumed and pomades. One may, on hearing these whistles, attach to them no other meaning than that of the indication of time. "There, the whistle has sounded : it is time to go out for a walk." But one may associate with them also the meaning they in reality have, — that at the first whistle at five o'clock in the morning, men and women, who have slept side b}' side in a damp cellar, get up in the dark, and hurry away into the noisy building, and take their part in a work of which they see neither cessation nor utility for themselves, and work often so in the heat, in suffocating exhalations, with very rare intervals of rest, for one, two, or three, or even twelve and more hours. They fall asleep, and get up again, and again do this work, meaningless for themselves, to which they are compelled exclusively by want. And so it goes on from one week to another, interrupted only by holidays. And now 1 saw these working-people freed for one of these holidays. They go out into the street: everywhere there are inns, public-houses, and gay women. And they, in a drunken state, pull each other by the arms, and carry along with them girls like the one whom I saw conducted to the police-station : they hire hackney-coaches, and ride and walk from one inn to another, and abuse each other, and totter about, and say they know not what. Formerly, when I saw the factory people knocking about in this way, I used to turn aside with disgust, and almost reproached them ; but since I hear these daily whistles, and know what they mean, I am only astonished that all these men do not come into the condition of utter beggars, with whom Moscow is filled ; and the women into the position of the girl whom I had met near my house. Thus I walked on, looking at these men, observing how they went about the streets till eleven o'clock. Then their movements became quieter : there remained here and there a few tipsy people, and I met some men and women who were being conducted to the police-station. And now, from WHAT MUST WE DO TUEN f 129 every side, carriages appeared, all going in one direction. On the coach-box sat a coachman, sometimes in a sheepskin coat ; and a footman, — a dandy with a cockade. Well-fed trotters, covered with cloth, ran at the rate of fifteen miles an hour : in the carriages sat ladies wrapped in shawls, and taking great care not to spoil their flowers and their toilets. All, beginning with the harness on the horses, carriages, gutta-percha wheels, the cloth of the coachman's coat, down to the stockings, shoes, flowers, velvet, gloves, scents, — all these articles have been made by those men, some of whom fell asleep on their own pallets in their mean rooms, some in night-houses with prostitutes, and others in the police- station. The ball-goers drive past these men, in and with things made by them ; and it does not even enter into their minds that there could possibly be any connection between the ball they are going to and these tipsy people, to whom their coachmen shout out so angrily. With quite easy minds, and assurance that they are doing nothing wrong, they enjoy themselves at the ball. Enjoy themselves ! From eleven o'clock in the evening till six in the morning, in the very depth of the night, while with empty stomachs men are lying in night-lodgings, or dying as the washer- woman had done ! The enjoyment of the ball consists in women and girls uncovering their bosoms, putting on artificial protuberances, and altogether getting themselves up in a way that no girl and no woman who is not yet depraved would, on anj' account, appear before men ; and in this half-naked condition, with uncovered bosoms, and arms bare up to the shoulders, with dresses puffed behind and tight round the hips, in the bright- est light, women and girls, whose first virtue has always been modesty, appear among strange men, who are also dressed in indecently tight-fitting clothes, and with them, to the sound of exciting music, embrace each other, and pivot round and round. Old women, often also half naked like the younger ones, are sitting looking on, and eating and drink- ing : the old men do the same. No wonder it is done at night, when every one else is sleeping, so that no one may see it ! But this is not done in order to hide it ; there is nothing indeed to hide ; all is very nice and good ; and by this 130 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f e njoyme nt, _in which is swallowed up the painful labor of thousands, not only is nobody harmed, Fut by this very thing poor people are fed! The ball goes on very merrily, may be, but how did it come to do so? When we see in society or among ourselves one who has not eaten, or is cold, we are ashamed to enjoy ourselves, and cannot begin to be merry until he is fed, saying nothing of the fact that we cannot imagine that there are such people who can enjoy themselves by means of any thing which produces the sufferings of others. We are disgusted, and we do not understand the enjoy- ment of naughty boys who have squeezed a dog's tail into a piece of split wood. How is it, then, that in our enjoy- ments we become blind, and do not see that cleft in which we have pinched those men who suffer for our enjoyment? We know that each woman at this ball whose dress costs a hundred and fifty rubles was not born at the ball, but she has lived also in the country, has seen peasants, knows her own nurse and maid, whose fathers and brothers are poor, for whom earning one hundred and fifty rubles to build a cot- tage with is the end and aim of a long, laborious life ; she knows this ; how can she, then, enjoy herself, knowing that on her half-naked body she is wearing the cottage which is the dream of her housemaid's brother? But let us suppose she has not thought about this : she cannot help knowing that velvet and silk, sweetmeats and flowers, and laces and di'esses, do not grow of themselves, but are made by men. It would seem she could not help knowing that men make all this, and under what circumstances, and why. She can- mot help knowing that her dressmaker, whom she has been 'scolding to-day, has made th is dress not at all ou t of love to lief, thereforeTshe cannot "Eelp~lcnowing that aiL.thesg, things were made — her laces, flowers, and velvet — from sheer want. But perhaps she is so blinded that she does not think of all this. Well, but, at all events, she could not help know- ing that five people, old, respectable, often delicate men and women, have not slept all night, and have been busy on her account. This, also, she could not help knowing, — that on this night there were twent3'-eight degrees of frost, and that her coachman — an old man — was sitting iu this frost all night, upon his coach-box. WUAT MUST WE DO THEN f 131 If these young women and girls, from the hypnotic influ- ence of the ball, fail to see all this, we cannot judge them. Poor things ! they consider all to be good which is pro- nounced so by their elders. How do these elders explain their cruelty? They, indeed, always answer in the same way : "I compel no one ; what I have, I have bought ; foot- men, chambermaids, coachman, I hire. There is no hg,nB._ in engaging and in buying. I compel none ; I hire ; what wrong is luere lia tlat? " Some days ago I called on a friend. Passing through the first room, I wondered at seeing at a table two females, for I knew my acquaintance was a bachelor. A skinny, yellow, elderly-looking woman, about thirty, with a kerchief thrown over her shoulder, was briskly doing something over the table with her hands, jerking nervously, as if in a fit. Opposite to her sat a little girl, who was also doing something, jerking in the same waj-. They both seemed to be suffering from St. Vitus's dance. I came nearer and looked closer to see what they were about. Thej' glanced up at me, and then continued their work as attentively as before. Before them were spread tobacco and cigarettes. They were making cigarettes. The woman rubbed the tobacco fine between the palms of her hands, caught it up by a machine, put on the tubes, and threw them to the girl. The girl folded the papers, put them over the cigarette, threw it aside, and took up another. All this was performed with such speed, with such dex- terity, that it was impossible to describe it. I expressed ray wonder at their quickness. " I have been at this business fourteen years," said the woman. "Is it hard work?" " Yes : my chest aches, and the air is choky with tobacco." But it was not necessary for her to have said so : you need onlj" have looked at her or at the girl. The latter had been at this business three years ; but any one not seeing her at this work would have said that she had a strong constitution, which was already beginning to be broken. My acquaintance, a kind-hearted man of liberal views, hired these women to make him cigarettes at two rubles and a half a thousand. He has money, and he pays it away for this work : what harm is there in it? My acquaintance gets up at twelve. His evenings, from 132 WHAT MOST WE DO TBENf six to two, he spends at cards or at the piano ; he eats and drinks ; other people do all the work for him. He has de- vised for himself a new pleasure, — smoking. I can remem- ber when he began to smoke. Here are a woman and a girl, who scarcely earn their living by transforming themselves into machines, and pass all their lives in breathing tobacco, thus ruining their lives. He has money which he has not earned, and he prefers playing at cards to making cigarettes for himself. He gives these women money, only under the condition that they continue to live as miserably as they have been living, in making cigarettes for him. I am fond of cleanliness ; and I give money, only under the condition that the washerwoman washes my shirts, which I change twice a day ; and the washing of these shirts having taxed the utmost strength of the washerwoman, she has died. What is wrong in this ? Men who buy and hire will continue doing so whether I do, or do not ; they will force other people to make velvets and dainties, and will buy tiiem whether I do, or do not ; so also they will hire people to make cigarettes and to wash shirts. Wh3' should I, then, deprive myself of velvets, sweetmeats, cigarettes, and clean shirts, when their production is already set in going. A crowd, maddened with the passion of destruction, will employ this very reasoning. It leads a pack of dogs, when one of their number runs against another and knocks it down, to attack it and tear it to pieces. Others have already be- gun, have done a little mischief ; why shouldn't I, too, do the same ? What can it possibly signify if I wear a dirtj- shirt, and make my cigarettes myself? Could that help any one? Ask men who desire to justify themselves. Had we not wandered so far from truth, it would be need- less to answer this question ; but we are so entangled that such a question seems natural to us, and, therefore, though I feel ashamed, I must answer it. What difference would it be if I should wear my shirt a week instead of one daj-, and make my cigarettes myself, or leave off smoking altogether? The difference would be this, — that a certain washerwoman, and a certain cigarette-maker, would exert themselves less, and what I gave formerly for the washing of my shirt, and for the making of my cigarettes, I may give now to that or to another woman ; and working-people who are tired by their WBAT MUST WE DO THEN f 133 work, instead of overworking themselves, will be able to rest and to have tea. But I have heard objections to this, so averse are the rich and the luxurious to understand their position. They reply, " If I should wear dirty linen, leave off smok- ing, and give this money away to the poor, then this money would be all the same taken away from them, and my drop will not help to swell the sea." I am still more ashamed to answer such a reply, but at the same time I must do so. If I came among savages who gave me chops which I thought delicious, but the next day I learned (perhaps saw myself) that these delicious chops were made of a human prisoner who had been slaiu in order to make them ; and if I think it bad to eat men, however de- licious the cutlets may be. and however general the custom to eat men among the persons with whom I live, and however small the utility to the prisoners who have been prepared for food my refusal to eat them may be, I shall not and can not eat them. Maybe I shall eat human flesh when urged by hunger ; but I shall not make a feast of it, and shall not take part in feasts with human flesh, and shall not seek such feasts, and be proud of my partaking of them. XXV. Bdt what is to be done, then? Is it we who are to blame? And if not, who is ? We say. It is not we who have done all this ; it has been done of itself ; as children say when they break any thing, that it broke itself. We say that, as towns are already in existence, we, who are living there, must feed men by buying their labor. But that is not true. It need only be observed how we live in the country, and how we feed peo- ple there. Winter is over : Easter is past. In town the same or- gies of the rich go on, — on the boulevards, in gardens, in the parks, on the river, music, theatres, riding, illuminations, fire-works ; but in the countrj- it is still better, — the air is purer; the trees, the meadows, the flowers, are fresher. We must go where all is budding and blooming. And now the majority of rich people, who utilize other men's labor. 134 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? go into the country to breathe the purer air, to look at the meadows and woods. And here in the country among humble villagers, who feed upon bread and onions, work eighteen hours eveiy day, and have neither sufficient sleep nor clothes, rich people take up their abode. No one tempts these people : here are no factories, and no idle hands, of which there are so many in town, and which we imagine we feed by giving them work to do. Here people never can do their own work in time during the summer ; and not only are there no idle hands, but much property is lost for want of hands ; and an immense number of men, children, old people, and women with child, overwork themselves. How, then, do rich people order their lives here? Thus: If there happens to be an old mansion, built in the time of the serfs, then this house is renewed and embellished : if there is not, one is built of two or three stories. The rooms, which are from twelve to twenty and more in number, are all about sixteen feet high. The floors are inlaid ; in the windows are put single panes of glass, expensive carpets on the floors ; expensive furniture is procured, — a sideboard, for instance, costing from twenty to sixty pounds. Near the mansion, roads are made; flower-beds are laid out; there are croquet-grounds, giant-strides, reflecting-globes, conservatories, and hot-houses, and always luxurious stables. All is painted in colors, prepared with the very oil which old people and children lack for their porridge. (If a rich man can afford it, he buys such a house for himself ; if he cannot, he hires one : but however poor and however liberal a man of our circle may be, he always takes up his abode in the country in such a house, for building and keeping which it is necessary to take away dozens of working-people who have not cn ough'tiiBe to "d o •tfaet)' pwn~ business" iii "the " field in order to earn tueir living."] Here" we cannot say that factories are already in existence and will continue so, whether we make use of their work or no ; we cannot say that we are feeding idle hands ; here we plainly establish the factories for making things neces- sary for us, and simply make use of the surrounding people ; we divert the people from work necessary for them, as for us and for all, and by such system deprave some, and ruin the lives and the health of others. There lives, let us say, in a village, an educated and respectable family of the upper class, or that of a govern- WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f 135 ment officer. All the members of it and the visitors assem- ble towards the middle of June, because up to June tbey had been studying and passing their examinations : they assemble when mowing begins, and they stay until Septem- ber, until the harvest and sowing time. The members of the family (as almost all men of this class) remain in the country from the beginning of the urgent work, — harvest- time, — not to the end of it, indeed, because in September the sowing goes on, and the digging up of potatoes, but till labor begins to slacken. During all the time of their stay, around them and close by, the peasants' summer work has been proceeding, the strain of which, however much we may have heard or read of it, however much we may have looked at it, we can form no adequate idea without having experi- enced it ourselves. And the members of the family, about ten persons, have been living as they did in town, if possible still worse than in town, because here in the village they are supposed to be resting (after doing nothing), and offer no pretence in the way of work, and no excuse for their idleness. In the middle of the summer, when people are forced from want to feed on kvas, and bread and onious, begins the mowing-time. Gentlefolks, who live in the country, see this labor, partly order it, partly admire it ; enjoy the smell of the drying hay. the sound of women's songs, the noise of the scythes, and the sight of the rows of mowers, and of the women raking. They see this as well near their house as when they, with young people and children, who do nothing all the day long, drive well-fed horses a distance of a few hundred yards to the bathing-place. The work of mowing is one of the most important in the world. Nearly every year, from want of hands and of time, the meadows remain half cut, and may remain so till the rains begin ; so that the degree of intensity of the labor decides the question whether twenty or more per cent will be added to the stores of men, or whether this hay will be left to rot and spoil while yet uncut. And if there is more hay, there will be also more meat for old people, and milk for children ; thus matters stand in gen- eral ; but in particular for each mower here is decided the question of bread and milk for himself, and for his children during the winter. Each of the working-people, male and female, knows it : 136 WHAT MUST WE DO THENt even the children know that this is an important business, and that one ought to work with all one's strength, carry a jug with kvas for the father to the mowing-place, and, shift- ing it from one hand to another, run barefoot as quickly as possible, a distance of perhaps a mile and a half from the village, in order to be in time for dinner, that father may not grumble. Every one knows, that, from the mowing to the harvest, there will be no interruption of labor, and no time for rest. And besides mowing, each has some other business to do, — to plough up new land, and to harrow it ; the women have cloth to make, bread to bake, and the washing to do ; and the peasants must drive to the mill and to market ; they have the official affairs of their community to attend to ; they have also to provide the local government officials with means of locomotion, and to pass the night in the fields with the pastured horses. AH, old and young and sick, work with all their strength. The peasants work in such a way, that, when cutting the last rows, the mowers, weak people, growing youths, old men, are so tired, that, having rested a little, it is with great pain they begin anew : the women, often with child, work hard too. It is a strained,. incessant labor. All work to the utmost of their strength, and use not only all their provisions, but what they have in store : during harvest-time all the peasants grow thinner, although they never were very stout. There is a small company laboring in the hayfleld, three peasants, — one of them an old man ; another his nephew, who is married ; and the third the village bootmaker, a thin, wiry man. Their mowing this morning decides their fate for the coming winter, whether they will be able to keep a cow and pay taxes. This is their second week's work. The rain hindered them for a while. After the rain had left off, and the water had dried up, they decided on making hayricks ; and in order to do it quicker, they decided that two women must rake to each scythe. With the old man came out his wife, fifty years of age, worn out with labor and the bearing of eleven children, deaf, but still strong enough for work ; and his daughter, thirteen years of age, a short but brisk and strong little girl. With the nephew ca,me his wife, — a tall woman, as strong as a peasant ; and his sister-in-law, — a soldier's wife, who was with child. With the bootmaker came his wife, — a WHAT MUST WE DO THEN t 137 strong working-woman ; and her mother, — an old woman about eightj', who for the rest of the year used to beg. They all draw up in a line, and work from morning to evening in the burning sun of June. It is steaming hot, and a thunder-shower is threatening. Every moment of work is precious. They have not wished to leave off working, even in order to fetch water or kvas. A small boy, the grandson of the old woman, brings them water. The old woman is evidently anxious only on one point, — not to be obliged to cease working. She does not let the rake out of her hands, and moves about with great difficulty. The little boy, quite bent under the jug with water, heavier than he himself, walks with short steps on his bare feet, and carries the jug, with many shifts. The little girl takes on her shoulders a load of hay, which is also heavier than herself ; walks a few paces, and stops, then throws it down, having no strength to carry it farther. The old man's wife rakes together unceasingly, her kerchief loosened from her disordered hair ; she carries the hay, breatliing heavily, and staggering under the burden : the cobbler's mother is only raking, but this also is beyond her strength ; she slowly drags her ill-shod feet, and looks gloomily before her, like one at the point of death. The old man purposely sends her far away from the others, to rake about the ricks, in order that she may not attempt to com- pete with them ; but she does not leave off working, but continues with the same dead, gloomy face as long as the others. The sun is already setting behind the wood, and the ricks are not yet in order : there is much still to be done. All feel that it is time to leave off working, but no one says so ; each waiting for the other to suggest it. At last, the bootmaker, realizing that he has no more strength left, proposes to the old man to leave the ricks till to-morrow, and the old man agrees to it ; and at once the women go to fetch their clothes, their jugs, their pitchforks ; and the old woman sits down where she was standing, and then lays herself down with the same fixed stare on her face. But as the women go away, she gets up groaning, and, crawling along, follows them. Let us turn to the country-house. The same evening, when from the side of the village were heard the rattle of the scythes of the toil-worn mowers who were returning from work, the sounds of the hammer against the anvil, the cries 138 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? of women and girls who had just had time to put away their rakes, and were already running to drive the cattle in, — with these blend other sounds from the country-house. Drin, drin, drin ! goes the piano ; a Hungarian song is heard through the noise of the croquet-balls ; before the stable an open carriage is standing, harnessed with four fat horses, which has been hired for twenty shillings to bring some guests a distance of ten miles. Horses standing by the carriage rattle their little bells. Before them hay has been thrown, which they are scattering with their hoofs, the same hay which the peasants have beeu gatheriug with such hard labor. In the yard of this mansion there is movement ; a healthy, well-fed fellow in a pink shirt, presented to him for his service as a house-porter, is calling the coachmen, and telling them to harness and saddle some horses. Two peasants, who live here as coachmen, come out of their room, and go in an easy manner, swinging their arms, to saddle horses for the ladies and gentlemen. Still nearer to the house the sounds of another piano are heard. It is the music-mistress, who lives in the family to teach the chil- dren, practising her Schumann. The sounds of one piano jangle with those of another. Quite near the house walk two nurses ; one is young, another old ; they lead and carry children to bed ; these children are of the same age as those who ran from the village with jugs. One nurse is English : she cannot speak Russian. She was engaged to come from England, not from being distinguished by some peculiar qual- ities, but simply because she does not speak Russian. Far- ther on is another person, a French woman, who is also engaged because she does not know Russian. Farther on a peasant, with two women, is watering flowers near the house : another is cleaning a gun for one of the young gentlemen. Here two women are carrying a basket with clean linen, — they have been washing for all these gentlefolks. In the house two women have scarcely time to wash the plates and dishes after the company, who have just done eating ; and two peasants in evening clothes are running up and down the stairs, serving coffee, tea, wine, seltzer-water, etc. Up- stairs a table is spread. A meal has just ended ; and an- other will soon begin, to continue till cock-crow, and often till morning dawns. Some are sitting smoking, playing cards ; others are sitting and smoking, engaged in discours- ing liberal ideas of reform ; and others, again, walk to and WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 139 fro, eat, smoke, and, not knowing what to do, have made up their mind to take a drive. The household consists of fifteen persons, healthy men and women ; and thirty persons, healthy working-people, male and female, labor for them. And this takes place there, where every hour, and each little boy, are precious. This will be so, also, in July, when the peasants, not having had their sleep out, will mow the oats at night, in order that it may not be lost, and the women will get up before dawn in order to finish their threshing in time ; when this old woman, who had been exhausted during the harvest, and the women with child, and the little children, all will again over- work themselves, and when there is a great want of hands, horses, carts, in order to house this corn upon which all men feed, of which millions of poods are necessary in Russia in order that men should not die : during even such a time, the idle lives of ladies and gentlemen will go on. There will be private theatricals, picnics, hunting, drinking, eating, piano-playing, singing, dancing, — in fact, incessant orgies. Here, at least, it is impossible to find any excuse from the fact that all this had been going on before : nothing of the kind had been in existence. We ourselves carefully create such a life, taking bread and labor away from the work-worn people. We live sumptuously, as if there were | no connection whatever between the dying washerwoman, child-prostitute, women worn out by making cigarettes, and ^ by all the intense labor around us which is inadequate to/ their unnourished strength. ( We do not want to see the fact J that if there were, not our idle, luxurious, depraved lives, ( there would not be this labor disproportioned to J;he strength | of people, and that if there were not this Jabor we could not/ go on living in the same way. ) ~" ^ It appeal's tcTus thaFtlieir sufferings are one thing, and our lives another, and that we, living as we do, are innocent and pure as doves. We read the description of the lives of the Romans, and wonder at the inhumanity of a heartless Lucul- lus, who gorged himself with fine dishes and delicious wines while people were starving : we shake our heads, and wonder at the barbarism of our grandfathers, — the serf-owners, — who provided themselves with orchestras and theatres, and employed whole villages to keep up their gardens. From the height of our greatness we wonder nt their inhumanity. We read the words of Isaiah v. 8, Woe unto them that join 140 WBAT MUST WE DO THEN? house to house, that lay field to field, till there be no room, and ye be made to dwell alone in the midst of the land. 11. Woe unto them that rise up early in the morning, that they may follow strong drink ; that tarry late into the night, till wine inflame them ! 12. And the harp, and the lute, the tabret, the pipe, and wine, are in their feasts : but they regard not the work of the Lord, neither have they considered the operation of his hands. 18. Woe unto them that draw iniquity with cords of vanity, and sin as it were with a cart rope. 20. Woe unto them that call evil good, and good evil ; that put darkness for light, and light for darkness ; that put bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter ! 21. Woe unto them that are wise in their own eyes, and prudent in their own sight ! 22. Woe unto them that are mighty to drink wine, and men of strength to mingle strong drink : 23. Which justify the wicked for reward, and take away the righteousness of the righteous from him ! We read these words, and it seems to us that they have nothing to do with us. We read in the Gospel, Matthew iii. 10 : And even now is the axe laid unto the root of the tree : every tree therefore that briugeth not forth good fruit is hewn down, and cast into the fire. And we are quite sure that the good tree bearing good fruit is we ourselves, and that those words are said, not to us, but to some other bad men. We read the words of Isaiah vi. 10 : Make the heart of this people fat, and make their ears heavy, and shut their eyes ; lest they see with their eyes, and hear with their ears, and understand with their heart, and turn again, and be healed. 11. Then said I, Lord, how long? And he answered. Until cities be waste without inhabitant, and houses with- out man, and the land become utterly waste. We read, and are quite assured that this wonderful thing has not happened to us, but to some other people. But it is for this very reason we do not see that this has happened to, and is taking place with, us. We do not hear, we do not see, and do not understand with our heart. But why has it so happened? WHAT MUST WE DO THENt 141 XXVI. How can a man who considers himself to be, we will not say a Christian, or an educated and humane man, but simply a man not entirely devoid of reason and of conscience, — how can he, I say, live in such a way, t hat, not taking part in t he struggle of all mankind for life, he only swallows up tliu labor oi others, struggliug tor existence, and Dy Lla uwii cFaliim lucreasfis the labor of those who struggle, and the number of those who perish in struggle ? And such men abound in our so-called Christian and cul- tured world ; and not onl}- do they abound in our world, but t he very ideal of the men of our Christia n, cultured world, is to get^ the largest amount oi property-, — that is, wealfli, — w'EIcTi secures all comforts and idleness of_life_by freeing its possessors from the struggle for existence, and enablfug them, as much as possible, to profit by the labor of those brothers of theirs who perish in that struggle. How could men iiave fallen into such astounding error? How could they have come to such a state that the}' can neither see nor hear nor understand with their heart that which is so clear, obvious, and certain ? One need only think for a moment in order to be terrified at the contradiction of our lives to what we profess to believe, we, whether we be Christian, or only humane, edu- cated people. Be it God or a law of nature that governs the world and men, good or bad, the position of men in this world, so long as we know it, has always been such that naked men, withont wool on their bodies, without holes in which to take refuge, without food which they might find in the field like Robinson Crusoe on his island, are put into a position of a continual and incessant struggle with nature in order to cover their bodies by making clothes for themselves, to protect themselves by a roof over their heads, and to earn food in order twice or thrice a day to satisfy their hunger, and that of their children and of their parents. Wherever and whenever and to whatever extent we observe the lives of men, whether in Europe, America, China, or Russia ; whether we take into consideration all mankind, or a small portion, whether in olden times in a nomad state, or in modern times with steam-engines, steam< 142 WHAT MUST WE DO TUEJf f I ploughs, sewing-machines, and electric light, — we shall see \\ one and the same thing going on, — that men, working cou- \l stantly and incessantly, are not able to get clothes, shelter, M and food for themselves, their little ones, and the old, and fl that the greatest number of men as well in olden times as now perish from want of the necessaries of life and from overwork. Wherever we may live, if we draw a circle around us, of a hundred thousand, or a thousand or ten, or even one mile's circumference, and look at the lives of those men who are inside our circle, we shall find half-starved children, old people male and female, pregnant women, sick and weak persons, working beyond their strength, and who have neither food nor rest enough to support them, and who, for this reason, die before their time : we shall see others full- growu, who are even killed by dangerous and hurtful tasks. Since the world has existed, we find that men with great efforts, sufferings, and privations liave been struggling for their common wants, and have not been able to overcome the difficulty. Besides, we also know that every one of us, wherever and however he may live, nolens volens, is everj- day, and every hour of tlie day, absorbing for himself a part of the labor done by mankind. Wherever and however he lives, his house, the roof over him, do not grow of themselves ; the firewood in his stove does not get there of itself ; the water did not come of itself either ; and the baked bread does not fall down from the sky ; his dinner, his clothes, and the covering for his feet, all this has been made for him, not only by men of past generations, long dead, but it is being done for him now by those men of whom hundreds and thousands are fainting away and dying, in vain efforts to get for themselves and for their children sufficient shelter, food, and clothes, — means to save themselves and their children from suffering and a premature death. All men are struggling with want. They are struggling 80 intensely that always around them their brethren, fathers, mothers, children, are perishing. Men in this world are like those on a dismantled or water-logged ship, with a short allowance of food ; all are put by God, or by nature, in such a position that they must husband their food, and unceasingly war with want. _^ WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 143 Each interruption in tliis work of every one of us, each absorption of tlie labor of others useless for the common welfare, is ruinous, alike for us and them. How is it that the majority of educated people, without ( laboring, are quietly absorbing the labors of others, neces- ) sary for their own lives, and are considering such an exist- / ence quite natural and reasonable? If we are to free ourselves from the labor proper and natural to all, and lay it on others, at the same time not considering ourselves to be traitors and thieves, we can do so only by two suppositious, — first, that we (the men who take no part in common labor) are different beings from workingmen, and have a peculiar destiny to fulfil in society (like drone7bees, which have a different function from the working-bees); or second ly^ that the business which we (men freed from TEe struggle for existence) are doing for other men is so useful for all that it undoubtedly compen- sates for that harm which we do to others in overburdening them. In olden times, men who utilized the labor of others asserted, first, that they belonged to a different race ; and secondly, that they had from God a peculiar mission, — car- ing for the welfare of others ; in other words, to govern and teach them : and therefore, they assured others, and partly believed themselves, that the business they did was more useful and more important for the people than those labors by which they profit. This justification was sufficient so long as the direct interference of God in human affairs, and the inequality of human races, was undoubted. But with Christianity, and the consciousness of the equality and unity of all men proceeding from it, this justification could no longer be expressed in its previous form. It was no longer possible to assert that men are born of different kind and quality, and having a different destiny ; and the old justification, though still held by some, has been little by little destroyed, and has now almost entirely disap- peared. But though the justification disappeared, the fact itself, of the freeing of some men from labor, and the appropriation by them of other men's labor, remained the same for those who had the power of enforcing it. For this existing fact, new excuses have constantly been invented, in order that, without asserting the difference of human beings, men might 144 WHAT MUST WE DO THENt be able to free themselves from personal labor with apparent justice. A great many such justifications have been in- vented. However strange it may seem, the main object of all that has been called science, and the ruling tendency of science, has been the seeking out of such excuse. This has been the object of the theological sciences, and of the science of law : this was the object of so-called philosophy, and this became lately the object of modern rationalistic science. .AH the theological subtleties which aimed at proving that a certain church is the only true successor of Christ, and that, therefore, she alone has full and uncontrolled power over the souls and bodies of men, had in view this very object. All the legal sciences — those of state law, penal law, civil law, and international law — have this sole aim : the majority of ph ilosophical theorie s, especially that of HegeTT'which reigned over the minds "'Sr'rti^ll ftrr-snch a long time, and maintained the assertion that every thing which exists is reasonable, and that the state is a necessary form of the development of human personality, had only this one object in view. Comte's positive philosophy and its outcome, the doctrine that mankind is an organism ; Darwin's doctrine of the struggle for existence, directing life and its conclusion, the teaching of divofsity of human races, the now so popular anthropology, biology, and sociology, — all have the same aim. These sciences have become favorites, because they all serve for the justification of the existing fact of some men being able to free themselves from the human duty of labor, and to consume other men's labor. All these theories, as is always the case, are worked out in the mysterious sanctums of augurs, and in vague, unintelli- gible expressions are spread abroad among the masses, and adopted by them. As in olden times, the subtleties of theology, which justified violence in church and state, were the special property- of priests ; and in the masses of the people, the conclusions, taken by faith, and ready made for them, were circulated, that the power of kings, clergy and nobility, was sacred : so afterwards, the philosophical and legal subtleties of so-called science became the property of the priests of science ; and through the masses only the ready-made conclusions, accepted WHAT MUST WE DO THEN t 145 by faith, that social order (the organization of societ}') must be such as it is, and cannot be otherwise, was diffused. So it is also now : it is only in the sanctuaries of the modern sages that the laws of life and development of or- ganisms are analyzed. Whereas in the crowd, the ready- made conclusion accepted on trust, that division of labor is a law, confirmed by science, is circulated, and that thus it must be that some are starving and toiling, and others eternally feasting, and that this very ruin of some, and feasting of others, is the undoubted law of man's life, to which we must submit. The current justification of their idleness of all so-called educated people, witii their various activities, from the railway proprietor down to the author and artist, is this : We men who have freed ourselves from the common human dut}' of taking part in the struggle for existence, are furthering progress, and so we are of great Use to all human society, of such use that it counterbalances all the harm we do the people by consuming their labor. This reasoning seems to the men of our day to be not at all like tlie reasoning by which the former non-workers justified themselves ; just as the reasoning of the Roman emperors and citizens, that but for them the civilized world would go to ruin, seemed to them to be of quite another order to that of the Egyptians and Persians, and so also an exactly similar kind of reasoning seemed in turn to the knights and clergy of the Middle Ages totally different from that of the Romans. But it only seems to be so. One need but reflect upon the justification of our time in order to ascertain that in it there is nothing new. It is only a little differently dressed up, but it is the same because it is based upon the same principle. Every justification of one man's consumption of the labor of others, while producing none himself, as with Pharaoh and his soothsayers, the emperors of Rome and those of the Middle Ages and their citizens, knights, priests, and clergy, always consists in these two assertions : First, we take the labor of the masses, because we are a peculiar people, called by God to govern them, and to teach them divine truths ; secondly, those who compose the masses cannot be judges of the measure of labor which we take from them for the good we do for them, because, as it has 146 WHAT MUST WE DO THENf been said by the Pharisees, " This multitude which knoweth not the law are accursed " (John vii. 49). The people do not understand wherein lies their good, and therefore they cannot be judges of the benefits done to them. The justification of our time, notwithstanding all apparent originality, in fact consists of the same fundamental asser- tions : First, we are a peculiar people, — w;e are an educated people, — we further progress and civilizatlon^nd Tjy~niis' fact, we procure for the masses a gFeal advantage. Sec- ondly, the uneducated crowd does not understand that advantage which we procure for them, and therefore cannot be judges of it. Tlie fundamental assertions are the same. We free our- selves from labor, appropriate the labor of others", arid"by this increase the burden of our fellows, and assert that in compensation for this we bring them a greater advantage, of which they, owing to their ignorance, cannot be judges. Is it not, tlien, the same thing? The only difference lies in this, that formerly tlie citizens, the Roman priests, the knights, and the nobility, had claims on other men's labor, and now these claims are put forward by a caste who term themselves educated. The lie is the same, because the men who justify them- selves are in the same false position. The lie consists in the fact, that, before beginning to reason about the advaijtages conferred on the people by men who have freed themselves from labor, certain men, Pharaohs, priests, or we ourselves, — educated people, — assume this position, and only afterwards excogitate a justification for it. This very position of some men who oppressed others, in former time as now, serves as a universal basis. The difference of our justification from tlie ancient ones, consists only in the fact that it is more false, and less well grounded. The old emperors and popes, if they themselves and the peo- ple believed in their divine calling, could plainly explain why they were the men to control the labor of others : they said that they were appointed by God himself for this very thing, and from God they had a commandment to teach the people divine truths revealed to them, and to govern them. But modern, educated men, who do not labor with their hands, acknowledging the equality of all men, cannot explain why they in particular and their children (for education is only by money ; that is, by power) are those lucky persons WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 147 who are called to an immaterial, easy utilitj', out of those millions who by hundreds and thousands are perishing in making it possible for them to be educated. Their only jus- tification consists in this, that they, such as they now are, instead of doing harm to the people by freeing themselves from labor, and by swallowing up labor, bring to the people an advantage unintelligible to them, which compensates for all the evil perpetrated upon them. XXVII. TnE theory by which men who have freed themselves from / personal labor justify themselves in its simplest and most exact form, is this: We men, having freed ourselves from ' work, and having by violence appropriated the labor of oth- / ers, find ourselves better able to benefit them; in other ) words, certain men, for doing the people a palpable and ) com[)reliensible harm, — utilizing by violence their labor, and ( thereby increasing tlie difficulty of their struggles with nature, / — do to them an impalpable and incomprehensible good. Tliis proposition is a very strange one ; but men, as well of former as also of modern times, who have lived on the labors of workingmen, believe it, and calm tlieir conscience by it. Let us see in what way it is justified in different classes of men, who have freed themselves from labor in our own days. I serve men by my activity in state or church, — as king, minister, archbishop ; I serve men by my trading or by in- dustry ; I serve men by my activity in the departments of science or art. By our activities we are all as necessary to the people as they are to us. So say various men of to-day, who have freed themselves from laboring. Let us consider seriatim those principles upon which they base the usefulness of their activity. There are onlj two indications of the usefulness of any activity of one man" for another: an e xterior indication. — the acknowledgment of the utility of activity by those to whom it is produced ; and an interior indication, — the desire to be of use to otliers lying at the root of the activity of the one who is trying to be of use. Statesmen (I include the Church dignitaries appointed by 148 WHAT MUST WE DO THENt the government in the category of statesmen) are of use to those whom they govern. The emperor, the king, the pres- ident of a republic, the prime minister, the minister of justice, the minister of war, the minister of public instruction, the bishop, and all under them, who serve the state, all live, having freed themselves from the struggle of mankind for existence, and having laid all the burden of this struggle upon other men, upon the ground that their non-activity compen- sates for this. Let us apply the first indication to those for whose welfare the activity of statesmen is bestowed. Do they, I ask, rec- ognize the usefulness of this activity? ; Yes, it is recognized : most men consider statesmanship necessary to them ; the majorit3- recognize the usefulness of this activity in principle ; but in all its manifestations as known to us, in all particular cases as known to us, the use- fulness of each of the institutions and of each of tbe mani- festations of this activity is not only denied by those for whose advantage it is performed, bjit.Jhey_assert that this activity is even pernicious and hurtful. There is no state function or social activity which is not considered by many men to be hurtful : there is no institution which is not con- sidered pernicious, — courts of justice, banks, local self-gov- ernment, police, clergy. Every state activity, from the minister down to the policeman, from the bishop to the sex- ton, is considered by some men to be useful, and bj- others to be pernicious. And this is the case, not onlj- in Russia, but throughout the world, in France as well as in America. All the activity of the republican party is considered per- nicious by the radical party, and vice versa: all the activity of the radical party, if the power is in their hands, is con- sidered bad by the republican and other parties. But not only is it a fact that the activity of statesmen is never con- sidered by all men to be useful, their activity has, besides, this peculiarity, that it must always be carried out b}- vio- lence, and that, in order to attain this end, there are necessary, murders, executions, prisons, taxes raised b}' force, and so on. It therefore appears, that besides the fact that the useful- ness of state activity is not recognized by all men. and is always denied by one portion of men, this usefulness has the peculiarity of vindicating itself always by violence. And therefore the usefulness of state activity cannot be WHAT MUST WE DO THENt 149 confirmed by the fact that it is recognized by those men ior whom it is performed. Let us apply the second test : let us ask statesmen them- selves, from the tsar down to the policeman, from the presi- dent to the secretary, from the patriarch to the sexton, begging for a sincere answer, whether, in occupying their respective positions, they have in view the good which they wish to do for men, or something else. In their desire to fill the situation of a tsar, a president, a minister, a police- sergeant, a sexton, a teacher, are they moved by the desire of being useful to men, or for their own personal advantage ? And the answer of sincere men would be, that their chief motive is their own personal advantage. And so it appears that one class of men, who utilize the labor of others who perish by their labors, compensate for such an undoubted evil by an activity. which is always con- sidered by a great many men to be not only useless, but pernicious ; which cannot be voluntarily accepted by men, but to which they must always be compelled, and (the aim of which is not the benefit of others, but the personal advan- tage of those men who perform it. What is it, then, that confinns the theorj- that state activity is useful for men ? Only the fact that those men who per- form it, firml3- believe it. to be useful, and that it has been always in existence); but so have always been not only use- less institutions, but very pernicious ones, like slavery, prostitution, and wars. ^ Business people (merchants, manufacturers, railway pro- prietors, bankers, land-owners) believe in the fact that they do a good which undoubtedly compensates for the harm done by them. Upon what grounds do they believe it? To the question by whom the usefulness of their activity is recog- nized," men in church and in state are able to point to the thousands and millions of working-people who in principle recognize the usefulness of state and church activity ; but to whom will bankers, distillers, manufacturers of velvet, of bronzes, of looking-glasses, to say nothing of guns, — to whom will they point when we ask them is their usefulness recognized by the majority? If there can be found men who recognize the usefulness of manufacturing chintzes, rails, beer, and such like things, there will be found also a still greater number of men who consider the manufacture of these articles pernicious. 150 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? And as for the activity of merchants who raise the prices of all articles, and that of land-owuers, nobody would even attempt to justify it. Besides, this activity is always associated with the harm done to working-people and with violence, if less direct than that of the state, yet just as cruel in its consequences : for the activities displayed in industry and in trade are entirely based upon taking advantage of the wants of working-people in every form, in order to compel workingmen to hard and hated labor ; to buj- all goods cheap, and to sell to the people the articles necessary for them at the highest possible price ; and to raise the interest on money. From whatever point we consider their activity, we see that the usefulness of busi- ness-men is not recognized by those for whom it is expended, neither in principle nor in particular cases ; and by the majority their activity is considered to be directly pernicious. If we were to apply the second test, and to ask. What is the chief motive of the activity of business-men? we should receive a still more determinate answer than tliat on the activity of statesmen. If a statesman says that besides a personal advantage he has in view the common benefit, we cannot help believing him, and each of us knows such men ; A)iit a business-man, from the very nature of his occupations, cannot have in view a common advantage, and would be ridiculous in the sight of his fellows if he were in his business aiming at something besides the increasing of his own wealth and the keeping of it. ) And, therefore, working-people do not consider the activitj- of business-men of any help to them. Their activity is associated with violence towards such people ; and its object is not their good, but always and only personal advantage ; and lo ! strange to say, these business-men are so assured of their own usefulness that they boldly, tbv the sake of this imaginary good, do an undoubted, obvious harm to workingmen by extricating themselves from laboring, and consuming the labor of the working-classes. Men of science and of art have freed themselves from laboring by putting this labor on others, and live with a quiet conscience, think- ing they bring a sufficient advantage to other men to com- pensate for it. On what is their assurance based ? Let us ask them as we have done statesmen and business-men. Is the utility of the arts and sciences recognized by all, or even by the majority', of working-peaiilei WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 151 We shall receive a very deplorable answer. The activity "^ of men in church and state is recognized to be useful in theory by almost all, and in application by the majority of those for whom it is performed ; the activity of business-men is recognized as useful by a small number of working-people ; but the activity of men of science and of art is not recog- nized to be useful by any of the working-class. The useful- ness of their activity is recognized only by those who are engaged in it, or who desire to practise it. Those who bear upon their shoulders all the labor of life, and who feed and clothe the men of science and art, cannot recognize the useful- ness of the activity of these men, because they cannot even form any idea about an activity which always appears to workingmen useless and even depraving. Thus, without any exception, working-people think the same of universities, libraries, conservatories, picture and statue galleries, and theatres, which are built at their expense. A workingman considers this activity to be so decidedly pernicious that he does not send his children to be taught ; and in order to compel people to accept this activity, it has been everywhere found necessary to introduce a law com- pelling parents to send the children to school. A workingman always looks at this activity with ill-will, and only ceases to look at it so when he ceases to be a work- ingman, and having saved money, and been educated, he passes out of the class of working-people into the class of men who live upon the necks of others. And notwithstanding the fact that the usefulness of the activity of men of science and art is not recognized, and even cannot be recognized, by any workman, these men are all the same compelled to make a sacrifice for such an activity. A statesman simply sends another to the guillotine or to prison ; a business-man, utilizing the labor of another, takes away from him his last resource, leaving him the alternative of starvation, or labor destructive of his health and life : but a man of science or of art seemingly compels nobody to do any thing ; he merely offers the good he has done to those who are willing to take it ; but, in order to be able to make his productions undesirable to the working-people, he takes away from the people, by violence, through the statesmen, the greatest part of their labor for the building and keeping open of academies, universities, colleges, schools, museums, libraries, conservatories, and for the wages for himself -and 152 WHAT MUST WS DO THENT But if we were to ask men of science and art about the object which they are pursuing in their activity, we should receive the most astonishing replies. A statesman would answer that his aim was the common welfare ; and in his answer, there would be an admixture of truth confirmed by public opinion. In the answer of the business-man, that his aim was social welfare, there would be less probability ; but we could admit even this also. But the answer of \ men of science and arty strikes one at once by its want of proof and by its effrontery. Such men f say, without bringing any proofs, just as priests used to do in olden times, that their activity is the most important of all, and the most necessary for all men), and that without it all mankind would go to ruin. They assert that it is so, notwithstanding the fact that nobody except they themselves either understands or acknowledges their activity, and(not- withstandiug the fact that, according to their own definition, true science and true art should not have a utilitarian aim.) These men are occupied with the matter they like, without troubling themselves what advantage wHI' come out of it to men ; and tiiey are always assured' that they are doing the most impoitant thing, and the most necessary for all man- kind. So that while a sincere statesman, acknowledging that the chief motive of his activity is a personal one, tries to be as useful as possible to the working-people ; while a business- man, acknowledging the egotism of his activity, tries to give it an appearance of being one of universal utility, — men of science and art do not consider it necessary to seem to shelter themselves under a pretence of usefulness :( they deny even the object of usefulness, so sure are they, not only of the usefulness, but even of the sacredness, of their own business. ) And now it turns out that the third class of men, who have freed themselves from labor, and have laid it on other men, are occupied with things which are totally incompre- hensible to working-people, and which these people consider to be trifles, and often very pernicious trifles ; and are occu- pied with these things without any consideration of their usefulness, but merely for the gratification of their own pleasure : it turns out that these men are, from some reason or other, quite assured that their activity will always produce WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 153 that without which working-people would never be able to exist. Men have freed themselves from laboring for their living, and have thrown the work upon others, who perish under it : they utilize this labor, and assert that their occupations, which are incomprehensible to all other men, and which are not directed to useful aims, compensate for all the evil they are doing to men by freeing themselves from the labor of earn- ing their livelihood, and swallowing up the labor of others. The statesman, in order to compensate for that undoubted and obvious evil which he does to man by freeing himself from the struggle with nature, and by appropriating the labor of others, does men another obvious and undoubted harm by countenancing all sorts of violence. The business-man, in order to compensate for that un- doubted and obvious harm which he does to men by using up their labor, tries to earn for himself as much wealth as possible ; that is, as much of other men's labor as pos- sible. The man of science and art, in compensating for the same undoubted and obvious harm which he does to working- people, is occupied with matters to which he feels attracted, and which is quite incomprehensible to working-people, and which, according to his own assertion, in order to be a true one, ought not to aim at usefulness. And therefore, all these men are quite sure that their right of utilizing other men's labor is secure. Yet it seems obvious that all those men who have freed themselves from the labor of earning their livelihood have no ground • for doing this. But, strange to say, these men firmly believe in their own righteousness, and live as they do with an easy conscience. There must be some plausible ground, some false belief, at the bottom of such a profound error. xxvni. And, in reality, the position in which men, living by other men's labor, are placed, is based, not only upon a certain belief, but upon an entire doctrine ; and not only on one doctrine, but on three, which have grown one upon another during centuries, and are now fused together into an awful 154 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN t deceit, or humbug as the English call it, which hides from men their unrighteousness. The oldest of these in our world, which justifies the treason of men against the fundamental duty of labor to earn their livelihood, was the Church-Christian doctrin e, according to which men, by the will ot Uod, diSer one from another, as I the sun differs from the moon and the stars, and as one star j differs from another. Some men God ordains to have domin- I ion over all ; others to have power over many ; others, still, ', over a few ; and the remainder are ordained by God to / obey. This doctrine, though already shaken to its foundations, still continues to influence some men, so that many who do not accept it, who often even ignore the existence of it, are, nevertheless, guided by it. The second is what I cannot help terming the State-philo- I sopbical doctrine. According to it, as fully developed ty \ Hegel, all that exists is reasonable, and the established order / of life is constant and sustained, not merely by men, but as / the only possible form of the manifestation of the spirit, or, ' generall3-, of the life of mankind. This doctrine, too, is no longer accepted by men who direct social opinion, and it holds its position only by the property of inertia. The last doctrine, which is now ruling the minds of men, and on which is based the justification as well of leading statesmen as also of leading men of business and of science and art, is a scientific one, not in the evident sense of the word, meaning knowledge generally, but in the sense of a knowledge peculiar in form as well as in matter, termed sci- ence in particular. On this new doctrine particularly is based in our days the justification of man's idleness, hiding from him his treason against his calling. This new doctrine appeared in Europe contemporaneously with a large class of rich and idle people, who served neither the church nor the state, and who were in want of a justifi- cation of their position. Not very long ago in France, before the revolution in Eu- rope, it was always the case that all non-working people, in order to have a right to utilize other men's labor, were obliged to have some definite occupation, — to serve in the churcli, the state, or the army. Men who served the government, governed the people ; WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f 155 those who served the church, taught the people divine truths ; and those who served the army, protected the people. Only these three classes of men — the clergy, the states- men, and the military men — claimed for themselves the right of utilizing workingmen's labor, and they could always point out their services to the people : the remaining rich men, who had not this justification, were despised, and, feel- ing their own want of right, were ashamed of their wealth and of their idleness. But as time went on, this class of rich people, who did not belong either to the clergy, to the gov- ernment, or to the army, owing to the vices of these three classes, increased in number, and became a powerful party. They were in want of a justification of their position. And one was invented for them. A centur}' had not elapsed when the men who did not serve either the state or the church, and who took no part whatever in their affairs, received the same right to live by other men's labor as the former classes ; and they not only left off being ashamed of their wealth and idleness, but began to consider tlieir position quite justified. And the number of such men has increased, and is still in- creasing in our days. And the most wonderful of all is this, that these men, the same whose claims to be freed from laboring were unrecog- nized not long ago, now consider tliemselvcs alone to be fully right, and are attacking the former three classes, — the ser- vants of the church, state, and army, — alleging their exemp- tion from labor to be be unjust, and often even considering their activity to be directly pernicious. And what is still more wonderful is this, that the former servants of church, state, and army, do not now lean upon the divineness of their calling, nor even upon the philosophy which considers the state necessary for individual development, but they set aside these supports which have so long maintained them, and are now seeking the same Suppoi-ts on which the new reigning class of men, who have fouud a novel justification, stands, and at the head of which are the men of science and art. If a statesman now sometimes, appealing to old memories, justifies his position by the fact that lie was set in it bj- God, or by the fact that the state is a form of the development of personality, he does it because he is behind the age, and he feels that nobody believes him. Id order to justify himself effectually, he ought to find now 156 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN t neither theological nor philosophical, but other new, scien- tific supports. It is necessary to point to the principle of nationalities, or to that of the development of an organism ; and to gain over the ruling class, as in the Middle Ages, it was necessary to gain over the clergy ; and as at the end of the last century, it was necessary to obtain the sanction of philosophers, as seen in the case of Frederick the Great and Catherine of Russia. If now a rich man, after the old fashion, says sometimes that it is God's providence which makes him rich, or if he points to the impoi'tance of a nobility for the welfare of a state, he does it because he is behind the times. ] In order to justify himself completely, he must point to his ) furthering progress and civilization by improving the modes 1 of production, by lowering the prices of consumption, by \ establishing an intercourse between nations. A rich man ouglit to think and to speak in scientific language, and, as the clergy formerly, he has to offer sacrifices to the ruling ! class : he must publish magazines and books, provide him- self with a picture-gallery, a musical society, a kindergarten or a technical school. The ruling class is the class of learned men and artists of a definite character. They possess com- plete justification for having freed themselves from laboring ; and upon this justification (as in former times upon the theological justification, and afterwards upon the philosophical one) all is based : and it is these men who now give the diploma of exemption to other classes. I The class of men who now feel completely justified in free- ( ing themselves from labor, is that of men of science, and j particularly of experimental, positive, critical, evolutional I science, and of artists who develop their ideas according to ' this tendency. If a learned man or an artist, after the old fashion, speaks nowadays about prophecy, revelation, or the manifestation of the spirit, he does so because he is behind the age, but lie will not succeed in justifying himself : in order to stand firm be must try to associate his activity with experimental, posi- tive, critical science, and he must make this science the fundamental principle of his activity. Then only would the science or the art with which he is occupied appear to be a true one, and he would then stand in our days on firm ground, and then will there be no doubt as to tiie usefulness he is briuging to maukind. The justification of all those who have WHAT MUST WE DO THENf 157 freed themselves from laboring is based upon experimental, critical, positive science. The theological and philosophical explanations have already had their day : they timidly and bashfully now introduce themselves to notice, and try to humor their scientific usurper, which, however, boldly knocks down and destroys the rem- nants of the past, everywhere taking its place, and with assur- ance in its own firmness lifts aloft its head. The theological justification maintained that men by their ( destination are called, — some to govern, others to obey ; some to live sumptuously, others to labor : and therefore those who believed in the revelation of God could not doubt the lawfulness of the position of those men, who, according to the will of God, are called to govern and to be rich. Tlie stale-philosophical justification used to say, The state with all its institutions and differences of classes, according to rights and possessions, is that historical form which is necessary for the right manifestation of the spirit in man- kind ; and therefore the situation which every one occupies in state and in society according to his rights and to his pos- sessions must be sucii as to insure the sound life of mankind. The scientific theory says. All this is nonsense and super- stition : the one is the fruit of the theological period of thought, and the other of the metaphysical period. For the study of the laws of the life of human societies, there is on I}- one sure method, — that of a positive, experi- mental, critical science. It is onlj' sociology based upon biology, based again upon all other positive sciences, wliich is able to give us new laws of the life of mankind. Man- kind, or human societies, are organisms either already perfect, or in a state of development subject to all the laws of the evolution of organisms. One of the first of these laws is the division of labor among the portions of the organs. If some men govern, and others obey, some live in opulence, and others in want, then this takes place, neither according to the will of God, nor because the state is the form of the manifestation of personality, but because in societies as in organisms a division of labor takes place which is necessary for the life of the whole. Some men perform in societies the muscular part of labor, and others the mental. Upon this doctrine is built the ruling excuse of the age. 158 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN T XXIX. Christ teaches men in a new way, and this teaching is written down in the Gospels. It is first persecuted, and then accepted ; and upon it at once a complete system of theological dogma is invented, which is thereafter accepted for the teaching of Christ. The system is absurd, it has nd foundation ; but by virtue of it, men are led to believe that they may continue to live in an evil way, and none the less be Christians. And this con- clusion is so agreeable to the mass of weak men, who have no affection for moral effort, that the system is eagerly ac- cepted, not only as true, but even as the Divine truth as ' revealed by God himself. And the invention becomes the groundwork on which for centuries theologians build their theories. Then by degrees these learned men diverge b}' various channels into special sj'stems of their own, and finally en- deavor to overthrow each other's theories. Tiiey begin to feel there is sometliing amiss, and cease to understand what they themselves are talking about. But the crowd still requires them to expound its favorite instruction ; and thus the theologians, pretending both to understand and believe what tliey are saying, continue to dispense it. In process of time, however, the conclusions drawn from theological conceptions cease to be necessary to the masses, who, then, peeping into the very sanctuaries of their augurs, discover them to be utterly void of those glorious and indu- bitable truths which the mysteries of theology had seemed to suggest. The same happened to philosophy, not in the sense of the wisdom of men like Confucius or Epictetus, but with profes- sional philosophy, when it humored the instincts of the crowd of rich and idle people. Not long ago in the learned world, a moral philosophy was in fashion, according to which it ap- peared that every thing that is, is reasonable ; that there is neither good nor evil ; that man has not to struggle with evil, but has merely to manifest the spirit, some in military ser- vice, some in courts of justice, and some on the violin. Many and various were the expressions of human wisdom, and as such were known to the men of the nineteenth cen- tury, — Rousseau, Pascal, Lessing, and Spinoza; and all the WnAT MUST WE DO THEN T 159 wisdom of antiquity was expounded, but none of its s3-stems laid hold of the crowd. We cannot sa}' that Hegel's success was due to the harmony of his theorj*. We had no less harmonious theories from Descartes, Leibnitz, Fichte, and Schopenhauer. There was only one reason for the fact that tliis doctrine became for a short time the belief of the civilized world, the same which had caused the success of theology ; to wit, that the deductions of this philosophical theory humored the weak side of men's nature. It said. All is reasonable, all is good ; nobod\' is to blame for any thing. And as at first with the church upon theological founda- tions, so also, with the philosophy of Hegel for a base, a Babel's tower was built (some who are behind the ago, are still sitting upon it) ; and here again was a confusion of tongues, men feeling that they themselves did not know of what they were talking, but trying to conceal their ignorance, and to keep their prestige before the crowd. When I began life, Hegelianism was the order of the day ; it was in the very air you breathed ; it found its expression in newspapers and magazines, in lectures upon history and upon law, in novels, in tracts, in art, in sermons, in conver- sation. A man who did not know Hegel, had no right to open his mouth ; those who desired to learn the truth, were studying Hegel, — every thing pointed to him; and lo! forty years have elapsed, and nothing is left of him ; there is no remembrance of him ; all is as though he had never ex- isted. And the most remarkable of all is, that as false Christianit}', so also Hegelianism has fallen, not beoause some one had refuted or overthrown it ; no, it is now as it was before, but both have only become no longer necessary for the learned, educated world. If, at the present time, any man of culture is questioned about the system of theological dogma, he will neither contra- dict nor argue, but will simply ask, " Why should I believe these dogmas? " — " What good are they to me? " So also with Hegelianism. No one of our day will argue its theses. He will only inquire, " What Spirit? " " Where did it come from?" "With what purpose?" "What good will it do me?" Not very long ago the sages of Hege- lianism were solemnly teaching the crowd ; and the crowd, understanding nothing, blindly believed all, finding the confirmation of what suited them, and thinking that what 160 WHAT MUST WE DO THENf seemed to them to be not quite clear or even contradictory, on the heights of philosophy was clearer than day : but time went on, the theory was worn out, a new one appeared in its place, the former one was no longer demanded, and again the crowd looked into the mysterious temples of the augurs, and saw there was nothing there, and that nothing had ever been there but words, very dark and meaningless. (This happened within my memoi-y.) These things happened, we are told, because they were ravings of the theological and metaphysical period ; but now we have a critical, positive science, which will not deceive us, because it is based upon induction and experience. Now our knowl- edge is no longer uncertain as it formerly was, and it is only by following it that one can find the answer to all the questions of life. But this is exactly the same that was said by the old teachers, and they certainly were no fools, and we know that among them were men of immense intellect ; and within m}' memory the disciples of Hegel said exactly the same thing, with no less assurance and no less acknowledgment on the side of the crowd of so-called educated people. And such men as our Herzen, Stankievich, Byelinsky, were no fools either. But why, then, has this wonderful thing hap- pened that clever men preached with the greatest assurance, and the crowd accepted with veneration such groundless and meaningless doctrines? The reason of it is only that these doctrines justified men in their bad mode of living. A very commonplace English writer, whose books are now almost forgotten, and recognized as the emptiest of all empty ones, wrote a tract upon population, in which he invented an imaginary law that the means of living does not increase with increase of population. This sham law the author dressed out with formulae of mathematics, which have no foundation whatever, and published it. Judged ty the lightness of mind and the want of talent displayed in this treatise, we might suppose that it would have passed unnoticed, and been forgotten as all other writings of the same author have been ; but it turned out quite differently. The author who wrote it became at once a scientific au- thority, and has maintained this high position for nearly half a century. Malthus ! The Malthusian theory, — the law of the increase of jx)pulation in geometrical progression, and the increase of means of living in arithmetical progres- WHAT MUST WE VO TUENf 161 sion, and the natural and prudent means of restraining the increase of i)opulation, — all these became scientific, un- doubted truths which have never, been verified, but, being accepted as axioms, have served for further deductions. Thus learned, educated men were deceived ; whereas in the crowd of idle men, there was a devout trust in the great laws, discovered by Malthus. How, then, did this hap- pen? These seem to be scientific deductions, which had nothing in common with the instincts of the crowd. But this is so only to those who believe science to be some- thing self-existent, like the Church, not liable to errors, and not merely the thoughts of weak men liable to mistakes, who only for importance' sake call by a pompous word, sctence, their own thoughts and words. It was only necessary to draw practical conclusions from the Malthusian theory in order to see that it was quite a human one with very de- terminate aims. The deductions which followed directly from this theory were the following : The miserable coudition of working- people does not come from the cruelty-, egotism, and un- reasonableness of rich and strong men, but it exists according to an unchangeable law which does not depend upon man, and, if anybodj' is to blame, it is the starving working- people themselves : why do these fools come into the world when they know that they will not have enough to eat? and therefore the wealthy and powerful classes are not at all to blame for any thing, and they may quietly continue to live as they have done. This conclusion, precious to the crowd of idle men, in- duced all learned men to overlook the incorrectness and total arbitrariness of the deductions ; and the crowd of edu- cated idle people, instinctively guessing to what these deductions led, greeted the theory with delight, set upon it the seal of truth, and cherished it during half a century. The reason for all this was, that these doctrines justified men in their bad mode of life. Is not the same cause at the bottom of the self-assurance of men of positive, critical, experimental science, and of the reverent regard of the crowd to what they preach ? At first it appears strange that the theorj- of evolution justifies men in their unrighteousness, and that the scientific theory has only to do with facts, and does nothing else than observe facts. But it only seems so. 162 WHAT MUST WE DO TIIENt So it had been with theological teaching ; theology seemed to be occupied only with doctrines, and to have nothing to do with the lives of men : so it had been with philosophy, which also seemed to be occupied only with facts. So it had been with the teaching of Hegel on a large scale, and with the theory of Malthus on a small one. Hegelianism seemed to be occupied merely with its logical constructions, and to have nothing to do with the lives of men ; so with the theory of Malthus, which seemed to be occupied exclusively with statistics. But it ouly seemed so. Modern science is also occupied exclusively with facts : it studies facts. But what facts ? Why such facts, and not others ? The men of modern science are very fond of speaking with a solemn assurance, " We study facts alone," imagin- ing that tbese words have some meaning. To study facts alone is quite impossible, because the num- ber of facts, which may be objects of our study, are count- less, in the strict sense of the word. Before beginning to study facts, one must have some theory, according to which facts are studied ; that is, these or those being selected from the countless number of facts. And this theory indeed exists, and is even very definitely expressed, though many of the agents of modern science ignore it ; that is, do not want to know it, or really do not know it, and sometimes pretend not to know it. Thus matters stood before with all most important beliefs. The foundations of each are alwaj-s given in theory ; and so-called learned men seek only for further deductions from various foundations given to them, though sometimes ignor- ing even these. But a fundamental the ory must always be present. So is it also now : modern science selects its facts upon the ground of a determinate theory, which sometimes it knows, sometimes does not wish to know, sometimes really does not know ; but it exists. And the theor\- is this : All mankind is an undying organism ; men are particles of the organs of this organism, having each his special calling for the service of the whole. As the cells, growing into an organism, divide among themselves the labor of the struggle for existence of the whole organism, increase one capacity, and diminish WBAT MUST WE DO TUEN f 163 another, and all together form an organ in order better to sat- isfy the wants of the whole organism ; and as among social animals, — ants and bees, — the individuals divide the labor among themselves (queen- bees lay eggs, drone-bees fecun- date, working-bees labor for the life of the whole) , — so also in mankind and in human societies there takes place the same differentiation and integration of the parts. And therefore, in order to find the law of man's life, we must study the laws of the lives and development of organisms. And in these we find the following laws : That each phenomenon is followed by more tlian one consequence ; the failure of uniformity ; the law of uniformity and diversity, and so on. All this seems to be very innocent, but we need only draw deductions from these observations of facts in order to see at once to what they are tending. These facts lead to one thing, — the acknowledgment that the existence in human societies of division of activities is organic ; that is, necessary. And they therefore induce us to consider the unjust position in which we are, who have freed ourselves from laboring, not from the point of reasonable- ness and justice, but merely as an indubitable fact which confirms a general law. Moral philosophy used also to justify every cruelty and wickedness ; but there it turned out to be philosophical, and therefore incorrect : but according to science, the same thing turns out to be scientific, and therefore unquestionable. How, then, can we help accepting such a fine theory ! We need only look at human society merely as at an object of observation, and we may quietly devour the labor of perish- ing men, calming ourselves with the idea that our activity as a dancing-master, a lawyer, a doctor, a philosopher, an actor, an investigator of the theory of mediuniism and of forms of atoms, and so on, is a functional activity of the oi^anism of mankind, and therefore there cannot be a ques- tion whether it is just that I should live doing only what is pleasant, as there can be no question whether the division of labor between a mental and a muscular cell is just or not. How, then, can we help accepting such a nice theory which enables us afterwards forever to put our conscience into our pockets, and live a completely unbridled, animal life, feeling under our feet a firm, scientific support? And it is upon this new belief that the justification of idleness and the cruelty of men is built. 164 WHAT MUST WE DO THENf .U' / ,r^r. v!i[ XXX. This doctrine had its comtuenccmeDt about half a century ago. Its chief founder was the French philosopher Comte. Comte, being a lover of systematic theory, and at the same time a man of religious tendency, was impressed by the then new physiological researches of Bichat; and he conceived the old idea, expressed in by-gone days by Meneuius Agrippa, that human societies, indeed all human-kind, may be regarded as one whole, an organism ; and men, — as live particles of separate organs, each having his definite destination to fulfil in the service of tlie whole organism. Comte was so fascinated by this idea, that he founded upon it his philosophical theory ; and tliis theory so capti- vated him, that he quite forgot that the point of departure he had started from was no more than a pretty com()arison, suitable enough in a fable, but in no way justifiable as the foundation of a science. As often happens, he t ook his pe t ky pothe sis for an axiom, and so imagined that his whole theory was based upon the most firm and positive foundations. According to his theory, it appeared that, as mankind is an organism, therefore the knowledge of what man is and what ought to be his relation to the world, is only possible through a knowledge of the properties of this organism. In order to learn these properties, man is fitted to make observations upon other lower organisms, and draw deduc- tions from their lives. Therefore, first, the true and exclusive method of science, according to Comte, is the inductive one, and science is only science when it has experiment for its basis ; secondly, the final aim and the summit of science becomes the new science concerning the imaginary organism of mankind, or tlie organic being, — mankind ; this new hypothetic science is sociology ; from this view of science, it generally turns out that all fonner knowledge was false, and that the whole history of mankind, in the sense of its self-consciousness, divides itself into three, or rather into two, periods : first, the theological and metaphysical period, from the beginning of the world to Comte ; and secondly, the modern period of true science, positive science, beginning with Comte. All this was very well, but there was a single mistake in WHAT MUST WE DO TBENt 165 it ; it was this : that all this edifice was built upon the sand, upon an a rbitr ary and incorrect assertion that mankind, collectively considered, was an organism. This assertion was arbitrary, because there is no more reason wh^-, if we acknowledge the existence of mankind to be an organism, we should refuse to allow the correctness of all the various theological propositions. It was incorrect, because to the idea of mankind, that is, of men, the definition of an organism was incorrectly added, - ■. whereas mankind lacks the essential characteristic of an organism, — a centre of sensation or consciousness. We call an elephant, as well as a bacterium, organisms, only because^!' we suppose by analogy in these beings unification of sensations or consciousness. As for human societies and mankind, they lack this essential ; and therefore, however many other general character-signs we may find out in mankind and in an organism, without this, the acknowledg- ment of mankind to be an organism is incoiTect. But notwithstanding the arbitrariness and incorrectness of the fundamental proposition of positive philosophy, it was accepted by the so-called educated world with great sympathy, because of that great fact important for the crowd, that it afforded a justification of the existing order of things by recognizing the lawfulness of the existing division of labor ; that is, of violence in mankind. It is remarkable in this respect that from the writings of Comte composed of two parts, — a positive philosophy and a positive politics, — by the learned world, only the first part was accepted, that wliich justified upon new experimental principles the exist- ing evil in human society : the second part, treating of the moral altruistic duties, following from this recognition of mankind to be an organism, was considered not only to be unimportant, but even unscientific. Here the same thing was repeated which occurred with the two parts of Kant's writings : the ' ' Critique of Pure Reason ' ' was accepted by science; but the " Critique of Practical Reason," that part which contains the essence of moral doctrine, was rejected. In the teaching of Comte, that was recognized to be scientific which humored the reigning evil. But the positive philosoj)hy, accepted by the crowd, based upon an arbitrary and incorrect supposition, was by itself too ill-grounded, and therefore too unsteady, and could not be sustained by itself. 166 WUAT MUST WE DO TBENf And now among all the idle play of ideas of so-called men of science, there also appeared a similarly- arbitrary and incorrect assertion, not a new one at all, to the effect that all living beings, that is, organisms, proceed one from another ; not only one organism from another, but one organism from many ; that during a very long period, a million of years for instance, not only a fish and a duck may have proceeded from one and the same forefather, but also one organism might have proceeded from many separate organisms ; so, for instance, out of a swarm of bees a single animal may proceed. And this arbitrary and incorrect assertion was accepted by the learned world with still greater sympathy. This assertion was an arbitrary one, because nobodj* has 'ever seen how one kind of organism is made from others ; and therefore the hypothesis about the origin of species will always remain a mere supposition, and never will become an experimental fact. This hypolliesis was incorrect because the solution of the problem of the origin of species by the theorj' that tliey liad their origin in the law of inheritance and accommodation during an infinitely long time, was not at all a solution of the problem, but the mere iteration of the question in another form. f According tc^ the solution of this problem by/^Iose^ (in opposition to which consists all the object of Comte's the- ory), it appeared that (the variety of the species of living beings proceeded from the will of God and Ills infinite om- nipotence : according to the theory of evolution, it appears that the variety of species of living beings proceeded by themselves in consequence of the infinite variety of conditions of inheritance and environment in an infinite period of time. The theori' of evolution, speaking plainly, asserts only that by chance in an infinite period of time an}- thing you like may proceed from any thing else you choose. This is no answer to the question ; it is simply the same question put differently : instead of will is put chance, and the co-efficient of the infinite is transferred from omnipotence to time. ) But this new assertion, enforced by Darwin's followers in an arbitrary and inaccurate spirit, maintained the former assertion of Comte, and therefore it became a revelation for our time, and the foundation of all sciences, even that of WHAT MUST WS DO THEN? 167 the history of philosophy and religion ; and besides, according to the ua'ioe confession of the very founder of Darwin's theory, this idea was awakened in him by the law of Malthiis ; and therefore he pointed to the struggle for existence of not only of men, but of all living beings, as to a fundamental law of every living thing. And this was exactly what was wanted by the crowd of idle people for their own justification. Two unstable theories which could not stand upon their own feet supported each other, and received a show of stability. Both the theories bore in them a sense, precious for the crowd, that for the existing evil in human societies men are not to be blamed, that the existing order is what ought to be, and thus the new theory was accepted by the crowd in the sense which was wanted by them, with full confidence and unprecedented enthusiasm. And so the new scieutific doctrine was founded upon two arbitrary and iucoi-rect propositions, which were accepted in the same way as dogmas of faith are accepted. Both in matter and form, this new doctrine is remarkably similar to the Church-Christian one. In matter, the similarity lies in the fact, that in both doctrines alike, a fantastical meaning is attached to really existing things, and this artificial meaning is taken as the object of our research. In the Church-Christian doctrine, the Christ which did really exist is screened awaj- by a whole system of fantastical tlieo- logical dogmas : in the positive doctrine, to tiie really exist- ing fact of live men is attributed the fantastical attributes of an organism. In form, the similarity of these two doctrines is remarkable, since, in both cases, a theory emanating from one class of men is accepted as the only and infallible truth. In the Church-Christian doctrine, the Church's way of understanding God's revelation to men is regarded as the sacred and only true one. In the doctrine of positivism, certain men's way of understanding science is regarded as absolutely correct and true. As the Church-Christians regard the foundation of their church as the only origin of the true knowledge of God, and only out of a kind of courtesy admit that former believers may also be regarded as having formed a church ; so in precisel3- the same manner does positive science, according to its own statement, place its origin in Comte : and its rep- resentatives, also only out of courtesy, admit the existence 168 WUAT MUST WE DO THEN t of previous science, and that only as regarding certain thinkers, as, for instance, Aristotle. Both the Church and positive science altogether exclude the ideas of all the rest of mankind, and regard all knowledge outside their own as erroneous. In our time, the old dogma of evolution comes in with new importance to help the fundamental dogma of Comte concerning the organism of mankind ; and from these two elements a new scientific doctrine has been formed. If it is not quite clear to a believer in the organism of mankind why a collection of individuals may be counted as an or- ganism, the dogma of evolution is chai'ged with tlie expla- nation. This dogma is needed to reconcile the contradictions and certainties of the fii-st: mankind is an organism, and we see that it does not contain the chief characteristic of an organism ; how must we account for it? Here the dogma of evolution comes in, and explains, Mankind is an organism in a state of development. If you accept this, you may then consider mankind as such. A man who is free from the positive superstition cannot even understand wherein lies the interest of the theory of the origin of species and of evolution ; and this interest is explained, only when we learn the fundamental dogma, that mankind is an organism. And as all the subtleties of theology are intelligible only to those who believe in its fundamental dogmas, so also all the subtleties of sociology, which now occupy the minds of all men of this recent and profound science, are intelligible only to believers. The similarity between these two doctrines holds good yet further. Being founded upon dogmas accepted by faith, these doctrines neither question nor analyze their own principles, which, on the other hand, are used as starting- points for the most extraordinary theories. The preachers of these call themseWes, in theology, san ctified ; in posi^ve knowledge, scientific ; in "both cases^iutalllble. And at the saihe time, they attain the most peremptory, mcredible, and unfounded assertions, which they give forth with the greatest pomp and seriousness, and which are with equal pomp and seriousness contradicted in all their details by others who do not agree, and yet who equally recognize the fundamental dogmas. The Basil the Great of scientific doctrine, Spencer, in one of his first writings expresses these doctrines thus : Societies WHAT MUST WE DO TUEN? 169 and organisms, says he, are alike in the following points : First, in that, being conceived as small aggregates, they imperceptibly grow np in mass, so tliat some of them become ten thousand times bigger than their originals. Secondly, in that, while in the beginning they have such simple structure that thej- may almost be considered as structureless, in their growth they develop an ever-increasing complexity of structure. Thirdly, in that, though in their early undeveloped period there docs not exist among them any dependence of particles one upon another, these particles by and by acquire a mutual dependence, which at last becomes so strong that the activity and the life of each part is possible only with the activity and the lives of all others. Fourthly, in this, that the life and the development of society is more independent and longer than the life and the development of every unit which goes to form it, and whicii are separately born and growing and acting and multiplying and dying while the political body formed of them continues to live one generation after another, developing in mass, in perfection of structure, and in functional activity. Then follow the points of difference between organisms and societies, and it is demonstrated that these differences are only seeming ones, and that organisms and societies are quite similar. For an impartial man the question at once arises, What are j'ou, then, speaking about? Why is mankind an organism, or something similar? You say that societies are similar to organisms according to these four points ; but even this comparison is incorrect. You take only a few characteristics of an organism, and you tiien apply them to human societies. You pi-oduce four points of similarity, then you take the points of difference whicii you say are only seemingly so, and you conclude that human societies may be considered as organisms. But this is nothing else than an idle play of dialectics. Upon this ground we may consider as organism every thing we choose. I take the first thing which comes to mj' mind, — a forest, — as it is planted in a field and grows up : first be- ginning as a small aggregate, it imperceptibly increases in mass. This is also the case with fields, when, after being planted the}- are gradually covered with forest-trees. Sec- ondly, in the beginning the structure of an organism is sim- ple, then the complexity increases, and so on. 170 WnAT MUST WE DO TBENt The same is the case with the forest: at fii'st there are only birch-trees, then hazel, and so on ; first all the trees grow straight, and afterwards they interlace their branches. Thirdly, the dependence of the parts increases so that the life of each part depends upon the lives and activities of all the othei-s : it is exactly the same with the forest ; the nut- tree warms the trunks (if you hew it down, tlie other trees will be frozen in winter) , the underwood keeps off wind, the seed-trees continue the species, the tall and leafy ones give shadow, and the life of each tree depends upon that of the rest. Fourthly, separate parts may die, but the whole organism continues to live. Separate trees perish, but tlie forest continues in life and growth. The same holds good with the example so often brought by the defenders of the scientific doctrine. Cut off an arm, — the arm will die : we may say remove a tree from the shadow and the ground of a forest, it will die. Anotlier remarkable similarity between this scientific doc- trine and the Church-Christian one, — as also in the case of any other theory founded upon propositions, accepted through faith, — lies in their capacity of being proof against logic. After having demonstrated that by this theory a forest may be considered as an organism, you think you have proved to the followers of the theory of organisms the incorrectness of their definition? Not at all. Their definition of an oi'ganism is so inexact and dilatable, that they can apply it to every thing they like. Yes, they will say, j'ou may consider the forest, too, as an organism. A forest is a mutual co-operationship of the in- dividuals who do not destroy each other ; an aggregate : its parts can also pass into a closer relationship, and by differen- tiation and integration it may become an organism. Then you will say, that in that case, the birds too and the insects, and the herbs of this forest, which mutually co-oper- ate and do not destroy each other, maj- be considered with the trees to be an organism. They would agree to this too. According to their theory, we may consider as an oi^anism eveiy collection of living beings which mutually co-operate, and do not destroy one another. You may estalv- lish a connection and co-operation between every thing you like, and, according to evolution, you may assert that from any thing may proceed any thing else you like, if a long enough period is granted. WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 171 It is quite impossible to prove to a believer in a theological doctrine, that his doctrine is false. But one may tell him that if one man arbitrarily asserts one dogma, another has the same riglit arbitrarily to invent and assert anotlier. One may say the same thing with yet better ground to the follow- ers of positive and evolutional science. Upon the basis of this science one could undertake to prove any thing one liked. And the strangest thing of all is, that this same positive science regards the scientific method as a condition of true knowledge, and that it has itself defined the elements of the scientific method. It professes that common sense is the scientific methotl. And yet common sense itself discloses at every step the fallacies of this doctrine. The moment those who occupied the position of saints felt that there was no longer any thing sacred left in them, like the Pope and our own iSynod, they immediately called themselves not merely sacred, but " most sacred." The moment science felt that it had given up common sense, it called itself the science of reason, the only really scieutilic science. ^/„ . ■ ' XXXI. The division of labor is the law peiTading ever}- existing thing, therefore it must exist in human societies too. That may be so ; but the question s till yt^nnjiina, whether the now ex isting d ivision of lab or in~iruman soc iety is that division which ought to be. And when men consider a certain divis- ion of labor to~Tje' reasonable and just, no science whatever can prove to men that there ought to be that which they consider to be unreasonable and unjust. The theological theory demonstrated that power is of God, and it very well may be so. But the question still remains, To whom is the power given, — to Catherine the Empress, or to the rebel Pugatchof? And no theological subtleties whatever can solve this diflTiculty. Moral Philosophy de- monstrated that a state is merely a form of the social development of the individual ; but the question still remains, Can the state of a Nero or that of a Gengis Khan be considered a form of such development? And no tran- scendental words whatever can solve the difficulty. It is the same with scientific science also. The division of labor is the condition of the life of organisms and of human 172 WBAT MUST WE DO TBENt societies ; but what have we to consider in these human socie- ties to be an organic division of labor? And however much science studies the division of labor in the molecules of a tape-worm, all these observations cannot compel men to acknowledge a division of labor to be correct which cannot be admitted by their reason and conscience. However con- vincing may be the proofs of the division of labor in the cells of investigated organisms, a man, if he has not yet lost his reason, will say it is wrong that some should only weave cloth all their life long, and that this is not a division of labor, but oppression of a human being. Herbert Spencer and others say that, as thei'e are a whole population of weavers, therefore the weaver's activity is the organic division of labor. Saying this, they use a simi- lar line of reasoning as do theologians. There is a power, and therefore it is of God, whatever it may be : there are weavers, therefore they exist as a result of the law of divis- ion of labor. There might be some sense in this if the power and the position of weavers were created by them- selves ; but we ivnow that they are not, but that it is we who create them. Well, then, we ought to ascertain whether we have established this before-mentioned power according to the will of God, or of ourselves, and whether we have called these weavers into being by virtue of some organic law, or from some other cause. Here are men earning their living by agriculture, as it is proper for all men to do : one man has arranged a smith's forge, and mendedTTis "plough ; his neighbor comes to him, and asifs him to mend his plough, too, and promises to give labor or money in return. A second comes with a similar request ; otiiei's follow ; and in the society of these men, a form of division of labor arises : thus, one man becomes a smith. Another man has taught his children well ; his neighbor brings him his children, and asks him to teach them, and thus a teacher is formed : but the smith as well as the teacher become, and continue to be, such, only because they were asked, and they remain such as long as people require their trades. If it happens that too many smiths and teachers appear, or if their labor is no longer wanted, they at once, according to common sense, throw aside their trade, and become laborers again, as it everywhere always happens where there is no cause for the violation of a right division of labor. WHAT MUST WE DO THEN T 173 Men who behave in such a waj- are directed both by their reason and their conscience ; and therefore we who are en- dowed with reason and conscience, all agree that such a division of labor is a right one. But if it were to happen that smiths, having the possibility of compelling other men to labor for them, were to continue to make hoi-seshoes when there was no longer a demand for them, and teachers were to wish to continue to teach when there was nobody to be taught, so to every impartial man endowed with rea- son and conscience, it would become obvious that such is not real division of labor, but a usurpation of other men's labor ; because such a division could no longer be tested y satisfactorily by that sole standard by which we may know whether it is right or not, — the dem and of. guch labor by rf other men, and a voluntary compensation offere d for it by » t hem. And exactly such an overplus, however, is that I which scientific science terms a division of labor. Men do that which others do not require, and thej- ask to be /fed for this, and say it is just, because it is division of labor. , That which forms the chief social evil of a people, not only ~"with us alone, is the countless number of government func- tionaries : that which is the cause of the economical misery of our days is what is called in England over-production ?■ (that is, the production of an enormous quantity of articles, ^ wanted by nobody, and which no one knows how to get rid of). All this comes simply from this strange idea about the division of labor. It would be very strange to see a boot-maker who con- sidered that men were bound to feed liira because, forsooth, he continued to produce boots wanted by no one ; but what shall we say about those men in government, church, science, and art, who not only do not produce any thing tangibly useful for the people, and whose produce is wanted by nobody, and who as boldly require to be well fed and clothed on account of the division of labor? There may be some sorcerers, for whose activity there is a demand, and to whom men give cakes and spirits ; but we cannot even imagine the existence of such sorcerers who, while their sorcery is not wanted by anybody, require to be fed simply because they wish to practise their art. And this very thing is the case iu our world with men in church and state, with men of science and art. And all this proceeds from that false conception of the division of labor 174 WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? which is defined, not by reason and conscience, but by deduc- tions to which men of science so unanimously resort. The divisionof labor, indeed, has always existed ; but it is correct only wherTman^aecIdes "w"Eerein it ought to con- sist by his reason and coiiscience, and not by his making observation upon itr"~Snd the conscience and the reason of all men solve this question in the simplest and surest way. They always decide that question by recognizing the division of labor to be a right one only when the special activity of a man is so necessary to others, that they, asking him to serve them, freel^' offer to feed him in compensation for what he will do for them. But when a man from his infancy up to his thirtieth year lives upon the shouldere of other men, promising to do, when he finishes his studies, something very useful, which nobody- has ever asked him for, and then for the rest of his life lives in the same way, promising only to do presently something which nobody asks him to do, this would not be a true division of labor, but, as it really is, only a violation by a strong man of the labor of others ; the same appropriation of other's labor b\' a strong man, which formerly theologians called divine destination ; phi- losophers, inevitable conditions of life ; and now scientitic science, the organic division of labor. All the importance of the ruling science consists in this alone. This science becomes now the dispenser of diplomas for idleness, because she alone in her temples analyzes and determines what activity is a parasitic and what an organic one in the social organism. As if men could not, each for himself, much better decide it, and more quickly, too, by con- sulting his reason and conscience. And as formerly both for the clergy and then for states- men, there could not have been any doubt as to who were most necessary for other people, so now for the men of pos- itive science it seems that there cannot be any doubt about this, that their own activity is undoubtedly an organic one : they, factors of science and art, are the cells of the brain, the most precious cells of all the human organism. Let us leave them to reign, eat and drink, and be feasted, as priests and sophists of old have done before them, as long as they do not deprave men ! Since men exist as reasonable creatures, they have dis- criminated good from evil, making use of what has been done in this direction before them by others, struggled with evil, WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f 175 seeking a true and better way, and slowly but unceasingly have been advancing in this way. And always across it vari- ous deceits stood before them, which had in view to show them that this struggle was not at all necessary for them, but that they should submit to the tide of life. There existed the awful old deceits of the Church ; with dreadful struggb and effort men little by little got rid of them : but scarcely had they done so when in the place of the old deceit arose a new one, — a state and philosophical one. Men freed themselves out of these too. And now a new deceit, a still worse one, springs up in their path, — the scientific one. This new deceit is exactly such as the old ones were : its essence consists in the substitution for reason and conscience of something external ; and this external thing is observa- tion, as in theology it was revelation. The snare of this science consists in this, that having shown to men the most bare-faced perversions of the activity of reason and conscience, it destroys in tliem confidence in both reason and conscience. Things which are the property of conscience and reason are now to be discerned by obsei-va- tion alone : these men lose the conception of good and evil, and become unable to understand those expressions and definitions of good and evil which have been worked out by all the former existence of mankind. All that reason and conscience say to themselves, all that they said to the highest representatives of men since the world has existed, all this in their slang is conditional and subjective. All this must be left behind. It is said by reason, one cannot apprehend the truth, be- cause reason is liable to error : there is another way, unmis- takable and almost mechanical, — one onght to study facts upon the ground of science, that is, upon two groundless suppositions, positivism and evolution, which are given out to be most undoubted truths. And the ruling science with mock solemnity asserts that the solving of all the questions of life is onl}' possible through studying the facts of nature, and especially those of organisms. The credulous crowd of youth, overwhelmed by the novelty of this authority, not only not destroyed, but not yet even touched by critics, rush to the study of these facts of natural sciences to that only way which, according to the assertion of the ruling doctrine, alone can lead to the elucidation of all 176 WBAT MUST WE DO THEN? questions of life. But the farther the students proceed In this study, the farther do they remove not only the possibility of solving the questious of life, but even the very thought of this solution ; the more they grow accustomed not so much to observe themselves as to believe upon their word other men's observations (to believe in cells, in protoplasm, in the fourth dimension of matter, and so on) ; tlie more the form hides from them the contents ; the more thej' lose the con- sciousness of good and evil, and the capacitj' of understand- ing those expressions and definitions of good and evil which have been worked out by all the former career of mankind ; the more the\' appropriate to themselves that special scien- tific slang of conditional expressions which have no common human meaning in them ; the farther and farther they get into the thick forest of observations which is not lighted up by any thing ; the more they lose the capacity, not only of an independent tliinking, but even of understanding otlicr men's fresh human ideas which are not included in their Talmud : but chiefly tliey pass their best years in losing the habit of life, that is, of laboring, and accustom themselves to consider their own position justified, and thus become physically good-for-notliing parasites, and mentally dislo- cate their brains, and lose all power of thought-produc- tiveness. And so by degrees, their capacities more and more blunted, they acquire self-assurance, which deprives them forever of the possibility of returning to a simple, laborious life, to any plain, clear, common, human manner of thinking. XXXII. ' The division of labor in human society has always existed, and I dare say always will exist ; but the question for us is, not whether or not it has been and will still continue, but what should gu ide us to arrange that this division may be a rlgjit one... 1 "If we take the facts of observation for our standard, we must refuse to have any standard at all : every division of labor which we see among men, and which maj' seem to ua to be a right one, we sliall consider right ; and this is what the ruling scientific science is leading us to. Division of labor ! WHAT MUST WE DO THEN t 177 Some are occupied wilh mental and spiritual, others with muscular and physical, labor. With what an assurance do men express this ! They wish to think so, and that seems to them in reality a correct ex- change of services which is only the very apparent ancient violence. CXhou, or rather you (because it is always many who have to feed one) , — you feed me, dress me, do for me all this rough labor, which I require of you, to which you are accustomed from your infancy, and I do for you that mental work to which I have already become accustomed. Give me bodily i food, and I will give you in return the spiritual. I _ ' The statement seems to be a correct one ; and it would P really be so if only such exchange of services were'free, if ; those who supply the bodily food were not obliged to supply it before they get the spiritual. The producer of the spiritual food says. In order that I may be able to give you this food, you must feed me, clothe me, and remove all filth from my house.) But, as for the producer of bodily food, he must do it without making any claims of his own, and he has to give bodily food whether he receive spiritual food or not. If the exchange were a free one, the conditions on both sides would be equal. (We agree that spiritual food is as necessary to man as bodily. The learned man, the artist, says. Before we can begin to serve men by giving them spiritual food, we want men to provide us with bodily food. But why should not the producers of this latter say. Before we begin to serve you with bodily food, we want spiritual food ; and until we receive it, we cannot labor?) You saj-, I require the labor of a ploughman, a smith, a boot-maker, a carpenter, masons, and others, in order that I may prepare the spiritual food I have to offer. Every workman might saj', too. Before I go to work, to prepare bodily food for you, I want the fruits of the spirit. In order to have strength for laboring, I require a religious teaching, the social order of common life, application of knowledge to labor, and the jo3-s and comforts which art gives. I have no time to work out for myself a teaching concerning the meaning of life, — give it to me. I have no time to think out statutes of common life which would prevent the violation of justice, — give me this too. I have no time to study mechanics, natural philosophy, 178 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN t chemistry, technology ; give me books with infonnation as to how I am to improve my tools, my ways of working, my dwelling, the heating and lighting of it. I have no time to occupy myself with poetry, with plastic art, or music ; give me those excitements and comforts necessary for life ; give me these productions of the arts. You say it is impossible for you to do your important and necessary business if you were to be deprived of the labor working-people do for you ; and I"-say, a workman may declare. It is impossible forme to do my important and neces- sary business, not less important than yours, — to plough, to cart away refuse, and clean your houses, — if I be deprived of a religious guidance corresponding to the wants of my intellect and my conscience, of a reasonable government which would secure m^- labor, of information for easing my labor, and the en jo}-ment of art to ennoble it. ( All you have offered me in the shape of spiritual food, is not only of no use to me whatever, but I caunot even understand to whom it could be of any use. And until I receive this nourislj- ment, proper for me as for every man, I caimot produce bodily food to feed you with.) What if the working-people should speak thus ? And if they said so, it would be no jest, but the simplest justice. If a workingman said this, he would be far more in the right than a man of intellectual labor ; because the labor produced by the workingman is more urgent and more necessary than that done by the producer of intellectual work, and because a man of intellect is hindered by nothing from giving that spiritual food which he proraised to give, but the working- man is hindered in giving the bodily food by the fact that he himself is short of it. What, then, should we, men of intellectual labor, answer, if such simple and lawful claims were made upon us? How should we satisfy these claims ? Should we satisfy the religious wants of the people by the catechism of Philaret, by sacred histories of Sokolof, by the literature sent out by various monasteries and St. Isaak's cathedral? And should we satisfy their demand for order by the Code of Laws, and cassation verdicts of different departments, or by statutes of committees and commissions ? And phould we satisfy their want of knowl- edge by giving them spectrum analysis, a survey of the Milky Waj', speculative geometry, microscopic investigations, controversies concerning spiritualism and mediumism, the WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f 179 activity of academies of science?) How should we satisfy their artistic wants? By Pushkin, Dostoyevsky, Turgenief, L. Tolstoi, (by pictures of French salons, and of those of our artists who represent naked women, satiu, velvet, and landscaoes, and pictures of domestic life, by the music of Wagner J and that of our own musicians ? ^All this is of no use, and cannot be of any use) because ^e, with our right to utilize the labor of the people, and absence of all duties in our preparation of their spiritual foodj^^have quite lost from sight the single destination our activity should have. We do not even know what is required by the working- man ; we have even forgotten his mode of life, his views of things, his language ; we have even lost sight of the very working-people themselves,^ and we study them like some ethnographical rarity or newly discovered continent. Now, Iwe, demanding for ourselves bodily food, have taken upon ourselves to provide the spiritual ; but in consequence of the imaginary division of labor, according to which we may not only first take our dinner, and afterwards do our work, but may during many generations dine luxuriously, and do no work, — in the way of compensation for our food we have prepared something which is of use, as it seems to us, for ourselves and for science and art, but of no use whatever for those very people whose labor we consume) under the pre- text of providing them in return with intellectual food, and not only of no use, but quite unintelligible and distasteful to them. In our blindness we have to such a degree left out of sight I the duty which we took upon us, that we have even forgotten , for what our labor is being done ; andrthe very people whom ' we undertook to serve, we have made an object of our / scientific and artistic activities. We study them and repre- sent them for our own pleasure and amusement : we have quite forgotten that it is our duty, not to study and depict, but to serve them. ) — ?V^lnive to stich a degree left out of sight the duty which we assumed, that we have not even noticed that other people do what we undertook in the departments of science and art, and that our place turns out to be occupied. It appears that, while we have been in controversy, now about the immaculate conception, and now about spontaneous generation of organisms ; now about spiritualism, and now 180 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? about the forms of atoms ; now about pangenesis, now about protoplasms, and so on, — the rest of the world none the less required intellectual food, and the abortive outcasts of science and art began to provide for the people this spiritual food by order of various speculators who had in view exclusively their own profit and gain. Now, for some forty years in Europe, and ten years in Bussia, millions of books and pictures and songs have been circulating ; shows have been opened : aud the people look and sing, and receive intellectual food, though not from those who promised to provide it for them ; and we, who justify our idleness by the need for that intellectual food which we pretend to provide for the people, are sitting still, and taking no notice. But we cannot do so, because our final justification has vanished from under our feet. We have taken upon our- selves a peculiar department : we have a peculiar functional activity of our own. We are the brain of the people. They feed us, and we have undertaken to teach them. Only for the sake of this have we freed ourselves from labor. What, then, have we been teaching them? They have waited years, tens of years, hundreds of years. And we are still convers- ing among ourselves, and teaching each other, and amusing ourselves, and have quite forgotten them ; we have so totally forgotten them, that others have taken upon themselves to teach and amuse them, and we have not even become aware of this in our flippant talk about division of labor : and it is very obvious that all our talk about the utility we offer to the people was only a shameful excuse. XXXIII. There was a time when the Church guided the intellectual life of the men of our world. The Church promised men happiness, and, in compensation for this, she freed herself from taking part in mankind's common struggle for life. And, as soon as she did so, she went astray from her call- ing, and men turned away from her. It was not the errors of the Church which caused her ruin, but the fact that her ministers had violated the law of labor with the help of the secular power in the time of Constantine, and their claim to idleness and luxury gave birth to her errors. WEAT MUST WE DO THEN f 181 As soon as she obtained this right, she began to care for herself, and not for man, whom she had taken upon herself to serve. The ministers of the Church gave themselves up to idleness and depravity. The State took upon itself to guide men's lives. The State promised men justice, peace, security, order, satisfac- tion for common intellectual and material wants, and in compensation men who served the State freed themselves from taking part in the struggle for life. And the Stale's servants, as soon as they were enabled to utilize other men's labor, have acted in the same way as the ministers of the Church. They had not in view the people ; but the state servants, from kings down to the lowest functionaries, in Rome, as well as in France, England, Russia, and America, gave them- selves over to idleness and depravity. And men lost their faith in the state, and now anarchj- is seriously advocated as an ideal. The state lost its prestige among men, only because its ministers claimed the right of utilizing for themselves the people's labor. Science and art have done the same with the assistance of the state power which they took upon themselves to sustain. They have also claimed and obtained for themselves the right of idleness, and of utilizing other men's labor, and have also been false to their calling. And their errors also proceeded only from the fact that their ministers, pointing to a falsely conceived principle of the division of laboi', claimed for themselves the right to utilize the work of the people, and so lost the meaning of their calling, making the aim of their activitj', not the utility of the people, but a mysterious activity of science and art ; and also, like their forerunners, they have given themselves over to idleness and depravity, though not so much to a fleshly, as to an intellectual, corruption. It is said, science and art have done much for mankind. This is quite true. Science and art also have done much for mankind, not be- causc, but in spite of, the fact that men of science and art, under the pretext of division of labor, live upon the shoulders of the working-people. The Roman Republic was powerful, not because its citizens were able to lead a life of depravity, but because it could number amongst them men who were virtuous. 182 WHAT MUST WE DO THENt The same is the case with science and art. Science and art have effected much for mankind, not be- cause their ministers had sometimes formerly, and have always at present, the possibility of freeing themselves from laboring, but because men of genius, not utilizing these rights, have Joj;warded the progress of manltind. The class of learned men and artists who claim, on account of a false division of labor, the right of utilizing other men's labor, cannot contribute to the progress of true science and true art, because a lie can never produce a truth. We are so accustomed to our pampered or debilitated rep- resentatives of intellectual labor, that it would seem very strange if a learned man or an artist were to plough or cart manure. We think that, were he to do so, all would go to ruin ; that all his wisdom would be shaken out of him, and the great artistic images he carries in his breast would be soiled by the manure : but we are so accustomed to our pres- ent conditions that we do not wonder at our ministers of science, that is, miuislers and teachers of truth, compelling other people to do for them that which they could very well do themselves, passing half their time eating, smoking, chat- tering in "liberal" gossip, reading newspapers, novels, visiting theatres ; we are not surprised to see our philosopher in an inn, in a theatre, at a ball ; we do not wonder when we learn that those artists who delight and ennoble our souls, pass their lives in drunkenness, in playing cards, ^n company with loose women, or do things still worse. Science and art are fine things : but just because they are fine things, men ought not to spoil them by associating them with depravity ; by freeing themselves from man's duty to serve by labor his own life and the lives of other men. Science and art have forwarded the progress of mankind. Yes ; but this was not done by the fact that men of science and art, under the pretext of a division of labor, taught men by word, and chiefly by deed, to utilize by violence the misery and sufferings of the people, in order to free them- selves from the verj' first and unquestionable human duty of laboring with their hands in the common struggle of mankind with nature. WRAT MUST WE DO THEN t 183 xxxrv. "But it is," you say, "this very division of labor, the freeing men of science and of art from the necessity of earn- ing their bread, that has rendered possible that extraordinary success in science which we see in our days. " If everybody were to plough, these enormous results would not be attained ; there would not be those astonishing successes which have so enlarged man's power over nature ; there would not be those discoveries in astronomy which so strike the minds of men and promote navigation ; there would be no steamers, railways, wonderful bridges, tunnels, steam-engines, and telegraphs, photographs, telephones, sewing-machines, phonographs, electricity, telescopes, spec- troscopes, microscopes, chloroform. Lister bandages, carbolic acid." I will not attempt to enumerate all the things of which our century is so proud. This enumeration, and the ecstasy of contemplation of ourselves and of our great deeds, you may find in almost evei-y newspaper and popular book. These raptures of self-coptemplation are so often repeated, and we are so seldom tired of praising ourselves, that we really come to believe, with Jules Verne, that science and art have never made such progress as in our time. And all this - is rendered possible only by division of labor : how can we, then, avoid countenancing it? Let us suppose that the progress of our century is indeed striking, astonishing, extraordinary ; let us suppose that we, too, are particularly lucky in living at such an extraor- dinary time : but let us try to ascertain the value of these successes, not by our own self-contentment, but by the very principle of the division of labor ; that is, by that intellect- ual labor of men of science for the advantage of the people which has to compensate for the freeing men of science and art from labor. All this progress is very striking indeed ; but owing to some unlucky chance, recognized, too, by men of science, this progress has not as yet ameliorated, but it has rather deteriorated, the condition of workingraen. Though a workingman, instead of walking, can use the railway, it is this very railway which has caused his forest to be burned, and has carried away his bread from under 184 WBAT MUST WE DO THEN f his very nose, and put him into a condition which is next door to slavery to- the railway proprietor. If, thanks to the engines and steam-machines, a working- man can buy cheap and poor calico, it will be these very engines and machines which have deprived him of his wages, and brought him to a state of entire slavery to the manufacturer. If there are telegraphs, which he is not forbidden to use, but which he does not use because he cannot afford it, then each of his productions, the value of which fluctuates, is bought up from under his very eyes by capitalists at low prices, thanks to the telegraph, before the workingman even becomes aware that the article is in demand. Though there are telephones and telescopes, novels, operas, picture-galleries, and so on, the life of the workingman is not at all improved by anj' of them, because all, owing to the same unlucky chance, are beyond his reach. So that, after all, these wonderful discoveries- and productions of art, if they have not made the life of working-people worse, have by no means improved it : on this the men of science are agreed. So that, if to the question as to the reality of the suc- cesses attained by the sciences and arts, we apply, not our rapture of self-contemplation, biit_the very standa,rd on wliich the ground of the division of labor is defended, — utility to the working-world, — we shall see that we have not yet any sound reason for the self-contentment to which we consign ourselves so willinglj-. A peasant uses the railway ; a peasant's wife buys calico ; in the cottage a lamp, and not a pine-knot, burns ; and the peasant lights his pipe with a match, — this is comfortable ; but what right have I from this to say that railways and factories have done good to the people? I If a peasant uses the railwaj', and buys a lamp, calico, and matches, he does it only because we cannot forbid his doing '■fio: we all know veiy well that railways and factories have ( never been built for the use of the people ; why, then, should the casual comfort a workingman obtains by chance, be . .brought forward as a proof of the usefulness of these insti- tutions to the people ? We all know very well that if those engineers and capi- talists who build a railway or a factory have been thinking about working-people, they have been thinking only bow WHAT MUST WE DO TBEN f 185 to make the best possible use of them. And we see they have fully succeeded in doing so as well in Bussia as in Europe and America. In every hurtful thing, there is something useful. After a house has been burned down, we may sit and warm our- selves, and light our pipes with one of the fire-brands ; but should we therefore say that a conflagration is beneficial ? Whatever we do, let us not deceive ourselves. We all know very well the motives for building railways, and for producing kerosene and matches. An engineer builds a railway for the government, to facilitate wars, or for the capitalists for financial purposes. He makes machines for manufacturers for his own advantage, and for the profit of capitalists. All that he makes or excogitates he does for tlie purpose of the government, the capitalists, and other rich people. His most skilful inventions are either directly harmful to the people, as guns, torpedoes, solitary prisons, and so on ; or they are not only useless, but quite inacces- sible to them, as electric light, telephones, and the innumer- able improvements of comfort ; or lastly, they deprave the people, and rob them of their last kopek, that is, their last labor, for spirits, wine, beer, opium, tobacco, calicoes, and all sorts of trifles. But if it happens sometimes that the inventions of men of science, and the works of engineers, are of any use to the people, as, for instance, railways, calicoes, steel, scythes, it only proves that, in this world of ours, all things are mutu- ally connected together, and that, out of ever\- hurtful activity, there may arise an accidental good for those to whom this activity was hurtful. Men of science and of art can say that their activitj* is useful for the people, only if they have aimed in their ac- tivity at serving the people, as they do now to serve govern- ments and capitalists. We could have said that, only if men of science and art made the wants of the people their object ; but such is not the case. All learned men are occupied with their sacred business, which leads to the investigation of protoplasms, the spec- trum analysis of stars, and so on : but concerning investiga- tions as to how to set an axe, or with what kind it is more advantageous to hew ; which saw is the most handy ; with what flour bread shall be made, how it may best be 186 WBAT MUST WE DO THENt kneaded, how to set it to rise ; bow to heat and to build stoves ; what food, drink, crockery-ware, it is best to use ; what mushrooms may be eaten, and how they may be pre- pared more conveniently, — science has never troubled itself. And yet all this is the business of science. I know that, according to "its own definition, science must be useless ; but this is only an excuse, and a very impudent one. The business of science is to serve people. "We have invented telegraphs, telephones, phonographs, but what improvements have we made in the life of the people? We have ■ catalogued two millions of insects ! but have we do- mesticated a single animal since biblical times, when all our animals had long been domesticated, and stiU the elk and the deer, and the partridge and the grouse and the wood-hen, are wild? Botanists have discovered the cells, and in the cells proto- plasms, and in protoplasms something else, and in this some- thing else again. These occupations will evidently never end, and therefore learned men have no time to do any thing useful. And hence, from the times of the ancient Egyptians and Hebrews, when wheat and lentils were already cultivated, down to the pres- ent time, not a single plant has been added for the nourish- ment of the people except potatoes, and these have not been discovered bj' science. We have invented torpedoes, house- drains ; but the spinning-wheel, weaving-looms, ploughs and axe-handles, flails and rakes, buckets and well-sweeps, are still the same as in the time of Rurik. And if some things have been improved, it is not the learned who have done it. The same is the case with art. We have praised up many great writers, have carefully sifted these writers, and have written mountains of critiques and criticisms upon critics ; we have collected pictures in galleries, and we have thor- oughly studied all the schools of art ; and we have such sym- phonies and operas that we ourselves are tired of listening f .to ; but what have we added to the f olk-lo re , lep;ends. tales , songs? what pictures, what music, have we created for the people ? Books and pictures are published, and harmoniums are made for the people, but we do not care for either. WHAT MUST WE DO THENf 187 That which is most striking and obvious, is the false ten- dency of our science and art, which manifests itself in those departments which, according to their own propositions, would seem to be useful to people, and which, owing to this ten- dency, appear rather pernicious than useful. An engineer, a surgeon, a teacher, an artist, an author, seem by their very professions to be obliged to serve the people, but what do we see ? With the present tendency, they can bring to the people nothing but harm. An engineer and a mechanic must work with capital : without capital they are good for nothing. All their informations are such, that, in order to make use of them, thej- need capital and the employment of working- people on a large scale, to say nothiug of the fact that they themselves are accustomed to spend from fifteen huudred to two thousand rubles a year, and therefore they cannot go to a village, since no one there can give them any such remu- neration : they, from tlieir very occupations, are not fit for the service of the people. They understand how to calculate by means of the highest mathematics the arch of a bridge, how to calculate power and the transfer of power in an engine, and so on : but they will be at a loss to meet the plain requirements of popular labor ; they do not know how to improve the plough or the cart ; how to make a brook passable, taking into considera- tion the conditions of a workingmaYi's life. They know and understand nothing of all this, less even than does the poorest peasant. Give them workshops, plenty of people, order engines from abroad, then they will arrange these mattei'S. But to find out how to ease the labor of millions of people in their present condition, they do not know, and cannot do it ; and accordinglj', by their knowledge and habits and wants, they are not at all fit for this business. A sui-geon is in a still worse condition. His imaginarj- sci- ence is such that he understands how to cure those only who 5 have nothing to do, and who may utilize other men's labor. ■; He requires a countless number of expensive accessories, in- struments, medicines, sanitary dwellings, food, and drains, in order that he may act scientifically : besides his fee, he demands such expenses, that, in order to cure one patient, he must kill with starvation hundreds of those who bear this expense. He has studied under eminent persons in the capital cities, 188 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? who attend only to such patients whom they may take into hospitals, or who can afford to buy all the necessary medi- cines and machines, and even go at once from north to the south, to these or those mineral waters, as the case may be. Their science is such that every country surgeon complains that there is no possibility of attending to the working-peo- ple, who are so poor that they cannot afford sanitary accom- modations, and that there are no hospitals, and that he cannot attend to the business alone, that he requires help , and assistant-surgeons. What does this really mean? - It means this, — that the want of the necessaries of life is ' the chief cause of people's misfortunes, and as well the source of diseases as also of their spreading and incurability. ', And now science, under the banners of the division of labor, " calls its champions to help the people. Science has settled satisfactorily about rich classes, and seeks how to cure those who can get every thing necessary for the purpose, and it sends persons to cure in the same way those who have noth- ing to spare. But there are no means ; and therefore they are to be raised from the people, who become ill, and catch diseases, and cannot be cured for want of means. The advocates of the healing art for the people say, that, up to the present time, tliis business has not been sufSciently developed . Evidently it is not yet developed, because if, which God fori)id ! it were developed among our people, and, instead of two doctors and mid wives and two assistant-surgeons in the district, there should be twenty sent, as they want, tlien there would soon be no one left to attend to. The scientific co- operation for the people must be quite a different one. And such co-operation which ought to be, has not yet begun. It will begin when a man of science, an engineer, or a surgeon, will cease to consider as lawful that division of labor, or rather that taking away other men's labor, which now exists, and when he no longer considers that he has the right to take, I do not- say hundreds of thousands, but even a moderate sum of one thousand or five hundred rubles as a compensation for his services ; but when such a man comes to live among laboring-people in the same condition and in the same way as they, then he will apply his information in mechanics, technics, hj'giene, to the curing of working-people. But now scientific men, who are fed at the expense of the working man, have quite forgotten the conditions of the life WHAT MUST WE DO THENt 189 of these men : thej' ignore (as they say) these conditions, and are quite seriously offended that their imaginary knowledge does not find application among the people. The departments as well of the healing art as the me- chanical have not yet been touched : the questions how best to divide the time of labor, how and upon what it is best to feed, how best to dress, how to counteract dampness and cold, how best to wash, to suckle, and swaddle children, and so on, and all these applied to those conditions in which the working-people are, — all these questions have not yet been put. The same applies to the activity of scientific teachers, — pedagogues. Science has ai-ranged this business, too, in such a way that teaching according to science is possible only for those who are rich ; and the teachers, like the engineers and surgeons, are involuntaril}' drawn towards money, and among us in Russia especially towards the government. And this cannot be otherwise, because a school properly arranged (and the general rule is, that the more scientifically a school is arranged, the more expensive it is), with convert- ible benches, globes, maps, libraries, and method manuals for teachers and pupils, is just such a school for whose mainten- ance it is necessary to double the taxes of the people. So science wants to have it. The children are necessary for work, and the more so with the poorer people. The advocates of science say. Pedagogy is even now of use for the people ; but let it be developed, and instead of twenty schools in a dislrict, let there be a hundred, all of them scientificallj' ar- ranged, and the people will supiwrt these schools. But then they will be still poorer, and will want the labor of their children still more urgently. What is then to be done ? To this they reply, The government will establish schools, and will make education obligatory as it is in the rest of Europe. But the money will still have to be raised from the people, and labor will be still harder for them, and they will have less time to spare from their labor, and there will be then no obligatory education at all. There is, again, only one escape, — for a teacher to live in the conditions of a workingman, and to teach for that compen- sation which will be freely offered him. Such is the false tendency of science which deprives it of the possibility to fulfil its duty in serving the people. But this false tendency u 190 WUAT MUST WE DO THEN f of our educated class is still more obvious in art-activity, which, for the sake of its very meaning, ought to be accessible to the people. Science may point to its stupid excuse that science is acting for science, and that, when it will be fully developed, it will become accessible to the people ; but art, if it is art indeed, ought to be accessible to all, especiall3- to those for the sake of whom it is created. And our art strikingly denounces its factors in that they do not wish, and do not understand, and are not able to be of use to the people. A painter, in order to produce his great works, must have a large studio, in which at least forty joiners or boot-makers might work, who are now freezmg or suffocating in wretched lodgings : but this is not all : he requires models, costumes, journeys from place to place. The Academy of Art has spent millions of rubles collected from the people for the encouragement of art ; and the productions of this art are hung in palaces, and are neither intelligible to the people, nor wanted by them. Musicians, in order to express their great ideas, must gather about two hundred men with white neckties or in costumes, and spend Imndreds of thousands of rubles to arrange operas. But this art-production would never appear to the people (even if they could afford to use it) as any thing but per- plexing or dull. The authors, writers, seem not to want any particular accommodations, studios, models, orchestras, and actors ; but here also it turns out that an author, a writer, to say nothing of all the comforts of his dwelling and all the comforts of his life, in order to prepare his great works, wants travelling, palaces, cabinets, enjoyments of art, theatres, concerts, mineral waters, and so on. If be himself has not saved up enough money for this purpose, he .is given a pen- sion in order that he may compose better. And, again, these writings, which we value so highly, remain for the people, rubbish, and are not at all necessary to them. What if, according to the wish of men of science and art, such producers of mental food should multiply, so that, in every village, it would be necessary to build a studio, provide an orchestra, and keep an author in the conditions which men of art consider indispensable to them ? I dare say working- people would make a vow never to look at a picture, or listen to a symphony, or read poetry and novels, in order only not to be compelled to feed all these good-for-nothing parasites. And .why should not men of art serve the people? In WHAT MUST WE DO TUEN T 191 every cottage, there are boly images and pictures ; each peas- ant, each woman of the people, sings ; many have instruments of music ; and all can relate stories, repeat poetry ; and many of them read. How came it to pass that these two things were separated which were as much made for one another as a key for a lock, and how are they so separated that we can- not imagine how to re-unite them? Tell a painter to paint without a studio, models, costumes, and to draw penny pictures, he will say that this would be a denying of art as he understands it. Tell a musician to play on a harmonium, and-to teach country-women to sing songs ; tell a poet to throw aside writing poems and novels and satires, and to compose song-books for the people, and stories and tales which might be intelligible to ignorant persons, — they will say you are cracked. But is it not being worse than cracked when men, who have freed themselves from labor because they promised to provide mental food for those who have brought them up, and are feeding and clothing them, afterwards have so for- gotten their promise that they have ceased to understand how to make food fit for the people ? Yet this very forsaking of their promises they consider dignifies them. Such is the case everywhere, they say. Everywhere the case is very unreasonable, then ; and it will be so while men, under the pretext of division of labor, promise to provide mental food for the people, but only swallow up the labor of the peo- ple. Men will serve the people with science and art, only when, living among and in the same way as do the people, putting forth no claims whatever, they offer to the people their scientific and artistic services, leaving it to the free will of the people to accept or refuse them. XXXV. To say that the activities of the arts and sciences have co- operated in forwarding the progress of mankind, and by these activities to mean that which is now called by this name, is the same as to say that an awkward moving of the oars, hindering the progress of a boat going down the stream, is forwarding the progress of the boat ; but it only hinders it. The so-called division of labor — that is, the violation of other men's labor which has become in our 192 WHAT MUST WE DO TBEN t time a condition of the activity of men of art and science — has been, and still remains, the chief cause of the slowness of the progress of mankind. The proof of it we have in the acknowledgment of all men of science and art that the acquisitions of art and science are not accessible to the working-classes because of a wrong distribution of wealth. And the incorrectness of this distribution does not diminish in proportion to the progress of art and science, but rather increases. And it is not as- tonishing that such is the case ; because the incorrect distri- bution of wealth proceeds solely from the theorj' of the division of labor, preached by men of art and science for selfish purposes. Science, defending the division of labor as an unchange- able law, sees that the distribution of wealth based upon the division of labor is incorrect and pernicious, and asserts that its activity, which recognizes the division of labor, will set all right again, and lead men to happiness. It appears, then, that some men utilize the labor of others ; but if they will only continue to do this for a long time, and on a still larger scale, then this incorrect distribu- tion of wealth, that is, utilizing of other men's labor, will vanish. Men are standing by an ever-increasing spring of water, and are busy turning it aside from thirst}- men, and then they assert that it is they who produce this water, and that soon there will be so much of it that everybody will have enough and to spare. And this water, which has been run- ning unceasingly, and nourishing all mankind, is not only not the result of the activity of those men, who, standing at the source of it, turn it aside, but this water runs and spreads itself in spite of the endeavors of those men to stop it from doing so. There has always existed a true church, — in other words, men united by the liighest truth accessible to them at a cer- tain epoch, _ — but it has never been that church which gave /) herself out for such ; and there have always been real art and // science, but it was not that which calls itself now by these \ ( names. 1 Men who consider themselves to be the representatives of art and science in a given period of time, always imagine that they have been doing, and will continue to do, wonderful things, and that beyond them there has never been any art WHAT MUST WE DO TEEN f 193 or science. Thus it seemed to the sophists, to the scho- liasts, alchemists, cabalists, Talmudists, and to our own scientific science and to our artistic art. XXXVI. " But science ! art! You repudiate science, art; that is, you repudiate that by which manliind live." I am always hearing this : people choose this way to put aside my arguments altogether without analyzing them. He repudiates science and art ; he wishes to turn men back again to the savage state ; why, then, should we listen to him, or argue with Lim? But it is unjust. I not only do not repudiate science — human reasonable activity — and art, — the expression of this reasonable activity, — but it is ouly in the name of this reasonable activity and its expression that I say what I do, in order that mankind may avoid the savage state towards which thej- are rapidly moving, owing to the false teaching of our time. Science and art are as necessary to men as food, drink, and clothes, — even still more necessary than these ; but they become such, not because we decide that what we call science and art are necessary, but because they indeed are necessary to men. Now, if I should prepare hay for the bodily food of men, m}' idea that hay is the food for men would not make it to be so. I cannot say. Why do you not eat hay when it is your necessary food? Food is, indeed, necessary, but perhaps what I offer is not food at all. This very thing has happened with our science and art. And to us it seems that when we add to a Greek word the termination logy, and call this science, it will be science in- deed ; and if we call an indecency, like the dancing of naked women, by the Greek word " choreography," and term it art, it will be art indeed. But however much we may say this, the business which we are about, in counting up the insects, and chemically analyz- ing the contents of the Milky Way, in painting water-nymphs and historical pictures, in writing novels, and in composing symphonies, this, our business, will not become science or i art until it is willingly accepted by those for whom it is being V done. ' 194 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN t And till now it has not been accepted. If only some men were allowed to prepare food, and all others were either for- bidden to do it, or be rendered incapable of producing it, I dare say that the quality of the food would deteriorate. If these men who have the exclusive privilege of producing food were Russian peasants, then there would be no other food than black bread, kvas, potatoes, and flour, which they are fond of, and which is agreeable to them. The same would be the case with that highest human activity in art and science if their exclusive privilege were appropriated by one caste, with this difference only, that in bodily food there can- not be too great digressions from the natural ; bread as well as onions, though unsavory food, is still eatable : but in mental food, there may be great digressions ; and some men may for a very long time feed upou an unnecessary, or even hurtful and poisonous, mental food ; they themselves may slowl}' kill themselves with opium or with spirits, and this sort of food they may offer to the masses of the people. This very thing has happened with us. And it has hap- pened because men of art and science are in privileged con- ditions ; because art and science in our world are not that mental activity of all mankind, without any exception, who separate their best powers for the service of art and science : but it is the activity of a small company of men having the monopoly of these occupations, and calling themselves men of art and science ; and therefore they have perverted the very conceptions of art and science, and lost the sense of their own calling, and are merely occupied in amusing, and saving from burdensome dulness, a small company of parasites. Since men have existed, they have always had science in the plainest and largest sense of the word. Science , as the surn^of all human infonnation, has always been m existence ; .and without it life is not conceivable, and there is no neces- sity whatever either to attack or to defend it. But the fact is this, that the region of this knowledge is so various, so much information of all kinds enters into it, from the information how to obtain iron up to the knowledge about the movements of the celestial bodies, tiiat man would be lost among all this varied information if he had no clew which could help him to decide which of all these kinds of information is more, and which less, important. And, therefore, the highest wisdom of men has always WaAT MUST WE DO THEN t 195 consisted in finding out the clew according to which must be arranged the information of men, and by which decided what kinds of information are more, and what are less, important. And this which has directed all other knowledge, men have always called science in the strictest sense of the word. And such science has alwa3-s been, up to the present time, in hu- man societies which have left the savage state behind them. Since mankind has existed, in every nation teachers have appeared to form science in this strict sense, — the science about what it is most necessary for men to know. This sci- ence has always had for its object the inquiry as to what was the destiny, and therefore the true welfare, of each man and of all men. This science has served as a^ clew in deter- mining the importance and the expression of all other sci- ences. The kinds of information and the art which co-operated with the science of man's destiny and welfare were con- sidered highest in public opinion. Such was the science of Confucius, Buddha, Moses, Socrates, Christ, Mohammed, — science such as it has been understood by all men except by our own circle of so-called educated people. Such a science has not only always occupied the first place, but it is the one science which has determined the importance of other sciences. And this, not at all because so-called learned men of our time imagine that it is only deceitful priests and teachers of this science who have given it such an importance, but because, indeed, as every one can learn by his own inward experience, without the science of man's destiny and welfare, there cannot be any determining of other values, or anj' choice of art and science for man. And, therefore, there cannot be any study of science, for there are innumerable quantities of subjects to which science may be applied. I italicize the word innumerable, as I use it in its exact value. Without knowledge as to what constitutes the calling and welfare of all men, all other arts and sciences become, as is really the case at present with us, only an idle and pernicious amusement. Mankind have been living long, and they have never been living without a science relative to the calling and welfare of men : it is true that the science of the welfare of men to a superficial observation appears to be different with Buddhists, Brahmins, Hebrews, Christians, with the followers of Confucius and those of Laotse, though one need only 196 WBAT MUST WE DO TBENt^ reflect on these teachings in order to see their essential unity ; where men have left the savage state behind them, we find this science ; and now of a sudden it turns out that modern men have decided that this very science which has been till now the guide of all human information, is that which is in the way of every thing. Men build houses : one architect makes one estimate, an- other makes a second, and so on. The estimates are a little diflferent, but they are separately correct ; and every one sees that, if each estimate is fulfilled, the house will be erected. Such architects are Confucius, Buddha, Moses, Christ. And now some men come and assure us that the chief thing to come by is the absence of any estimate, and that men ought to build anyhow according to ej'esight. And this " any- how " these men call the most exact science, as the Pope terms himself the " most holy." Men deny every science, the most essential science of man's calling and welfare ; and this denial of science they call science. Since men have existed, great intellects have always appeared, which, in the struggle with the demands of their reason and conscience, have put to themselves questions concerning the calliug and welfare, not only of themselves individually, but of every man. What does that Power, which created me, require from me and from each man? And what am I to do in order to satisfy the craving in- grafted in me for a personal and common welfare ? They have asked themselves, I am a whole and a part of something unfathomable, infinite : what are to be my rela- tions to other parts similar to me, — to men and to the whole ? And from the voice of conscience and from reason, and from considerations on what men have said who lived before, and from contemporaries who have asked themselves the same questions, these great teachers have deduced teachings, — plain, clear, intelligible to all men, and always such as could be put into practice. The world is full of such men. All living men put to themselves the question. How am I to reconcile my own demands for personal life with conscience and reason, which demand the common good of all men ? And out of this com- mon travail are evolved slowly, but unceasingly, new forms of life, satisfying more and more the demands of reason and conscience. . And of a sudden a new caste of men appears, who say, WHAT MUST WE DO TEENt 197 All these are nonsense, and are to be left behind. This is ' the d eductive way of th inking (though wherein lies the differ- ( ence between iDe inductive and the deductive way of think- ing, nobody ever has been able to understand) , and this is '' also the method of the t heolog;ical and mgfa pby pjpftl periods. All that men have understood Jby^iiiward experience, and have relates to each other concerning the consciousness of the law of their own life (functional activity, in their cant phrase) ; all that from the beginning of the woild has been done in this direction by the greatest intellects of mankind, — all these are trifles, having no weight whatever. —''- According to this new teaching, You are a cell of an organism, and the problem of your reasonable activity con- sists in trying to ascertain your functional activity. In order to ascertain this, you must make observations outside yourself. The fact that you are a cell which thinks, suffers, speaks, and understands, and that for that very reason you can inquire of another similar speaking, suffering cell whether he or she suflfere and rejoices in the same way as yourself, and that thus you may verify your own experience ; and the fact that you may make use of what the speaking cells, who lived and suffered before you wrote on the subject ; and your knowledge that millions of cells, agreeing with what the past cells have written, confirm your own experience, that you yourself are a living cell, who always, by a direct inward experience, apprehend the con-ectness or incorrectness of your own functional activity, — all this means nothing, we are told : it is all a false and evil method. The true scientific method is this : If you wish to learn in what consists your functional activity, what is your des- tiny and welfare, and what the destinj- of mankind, and of the whole world, then first you must cease to listen to the voice and demands of your conscience and of your reason, which manifest themselves inwardly to you and to your fel- low-men ; you must leave oflf believing all the great teachers of humanity have said about their own conscience and reason, and you must consider all this to be nonsense, and begin at the beginning. And in order to begin from the beginning, you have to : observe through a microscope the movements of amoebae and the cells of tape-worms ; or, still easier, you must be- lieve every thing that people with the diploma of infallibility 198 WB.AT MUST WE DO THENt may tell you about them. And observing the movements of these amcebse and cells, or reading what others have seen, j'ou must ascribe to these cells your own human feelings and calculations as to what they desire, what are their tendencies, their reflections and calculations, their habits ; and from these ohservcUions (in which each word contains some mis- take of thought or of expression) , a ccording to analogy , you must deduce what is your own destiny, and wbat tuat of other cells similar to you. In order to be able to understand yourself, j'ou must study not merely the tape-worm which you see, but also micro- scopic animalcules which you cannot see, and the transfor- mation from one set of beings into anotlier, which neither you nor anybody else has ever seen, and which you certainly will never see. The same holds good with art. Wherever a true science has existed, it has been expressed by art. Since men have existed they have always separated out of all their activities, from their varied information, the chief expression of science, the knowledge of man's destination and welfare ; and art, in the strict sense of the word, has been the expression of this. Since men have existed, there have always been persons particularly sensitive to the teaching of man's welfare and destiny, who have expressed in word, and upon psaltery and cymbals, their human struggle with deceit which led them aside from their true destinj', and their sufferings in this struggle, their hopes about the victory of good, their despair about the triumph of evil, and their raptures in expectation of coming welfare. Since men have existed, the true art, that which has been valued by men most highly, had no other destiny than to be the expression of science on man's destiny and welfare. Always down to the present time art has served the teach- ing of life (afterwards called religion), and it has only been this art which men have valued so highly. But contemporaneously with the fact that in the place of the science of man's destiny and welfare appeared the science of universal knowledge, since science lost its own sense and meaning, and the true science has been scornfully called religion, true art, as an important activity of men, has dis- appeared. As long as the church existed, and taught man's calling WHAT MUST WE DO THENt 199 and welfare, art served the chnrch, and was true ; but from the moment it left the church, and began to serve a science which served every thing it met, art lost its meaning, and, notwithstanding its old-fashioned claims, and a stupid asser- tion that art serves merely art itself, and nothing else, it turned out to be a trade which procures luxuries for men, and unavoidably mixes itself with choreography, culinary art, hair-dressing, and cosmetics, the producers of wliich may call themselves artists with the same right as the poets, painters, and musicians of our day. Looking back, we see that during thousands of years, from among thousands of millions of men who have lived, there came foilh a few like Confucius, Buddha, Solon, Socrates, Solomon, Homer, Isaiah, David. Apparently true artist- producers of spiritual food appear seldom among men, not- withstanding the fact that they appear, not from one caste only, but from among all men ; and it is not without cause that mankind have always so higlily valued them. And now it turns out that we have no longer any need of all these former great factors of art and science. Now, according to the law of the division of labor, it is possible to manufacture scientific and artistic factors almost mechanically ; and we shall manufacture in the space of ten years, more great men of art and science than have been born among all men from the beginning of the world. Nowa-k days there is a trade corporation of learned men and aitists, , and they prepare by an improved way all the mental food which is wanted by mankind. And they have prepared so much of it, that there need no longer be any remembrance of the old producers, not only of the very ancient, but of more recent, ones, — all this, we are told, was the activity of the theological and metaphysical n eriod : all had to be destroyed, ana the true, mental activity began some fifty years ago. And in these fifty years we have manufactured so many great men that in a German university there are more of them than have been in the whole world, and of sciences we have manufactured a great number too ; for one need only put to a Greek word the termination logy, and arrange the sub- ject according to ready-made paragraphs, and the science is made : we have thus manufactured so many sciences that not only one man cannot know them all, but he cannot even remember all their names, — these names alone would fill 200 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f a large dictionai-y ; and every day new sciences come into existence. In this respect we are like that Finnish teacher who taught the children of a land-owner the Finnish language instead of the French. He taught very well ; but there was one draw- back, — that nobodj-, except himself, understood it. But to this tliere is also an explanation : Men do not understand all the utility of the scientific science because they are still under the influence of the theological period of knowledge, that stupid period when all the people of the Hebrew race, as well as the Chinese and Indians and Greeks, understood every thing spoken to them by their great teachera. But whatever may be tlie cause, the fact is this, — that art and science have always existed among mankind ; and when they really existed, then they were necessary and intelligible to all men. We are busy about something which we call art and science, and it turns out that what we are busy about is neither necessary nor intelligible to men. And therefore, however fine the things we are about may be, we have no right to call them art and science. XXXVII. But it is said to me, " You only give another narrower defi- nition of art and science, which science does not agree with ; but even this does not exclude them, and notwithstanding all you say, there still remains the scientific and art activities of men like Galileo, Bruno, Homer, Michael Angelo, Beethoven, Wagner, and other learned men and artists of lesser magni- tude who have devoted all their lives to art and science." Usually this is said in the endeavor to establish a link connecting the activity of former learned men and artists with the modern ones, ti-ying to forget that new principle of the division of labor by reason of which art and science are occupying now a privileged position. First of all, it is not possible to establish any such connec- tion between the former factors and the modern ones, as the holy life of the first Christian has nothing in common with the lives of popes : thus, the activity of men like Galileo, Shakspeare, Beethoven, has nothing in common with the ac- tivities of men like Tyndal. Hugo, and Wagner. As the Holy Fathers would have denied any connection with the Popes, WHAT MUST WE DO THENt 201 80 the ancient factors of science would have denied any relationship with the modern ones. And secondly, owing to that impoi-tance which art and science ascribe to themselves, we have a very clear standard established by them by means of which we are able to deter- mine whether they do, or do not, fulfil their destiny ; and we therefore decide, not without proofs, but according to their own standard, whether that activity which calls itself art and science has, or has not, any right to call itself thus. Though the Egyptians or Greek priests performed mys- teries known to none but themselves, and said th^t these mysteries included all art and science, I could not, on the ground of the asserted utility of these to the people, ascertain the reality of their science, because this said science, accord- ing to their ipse dixit, was a supernatural one : but now we all have a very clear and plain standard, excluding every thing supernatural ; art and science promise to put forth the mental activity of mankind for the welfare of society, or even of the whole of mankind. And therefore we have a right to call only such activity, art and science, which has this aim in view, and attains it. And tlierefore, however those learned, men and artists may call themselves, who excogitate the the-' ory of penal laws, of state laws, and of the laws of nations, who invent new guns and explosive substances, who compose ' obscene operas and operettas, or similarly- obscene novels, we have no right to call such activity the activity of art and science, because this activity has not in view the welfare of the society or of mankind, but on the contrary it is directed to the harm of men. Therefore none of these efforts are either art or science. In like manner, however, these learned men may call them- selves, who in their simplicity are occupied during all their lives with the investigations of the microscopical animalcule and of telescopical and spectral phenomena ; or those artists who, after having carefully investigated the monuments of old times, are busy writing historical novels, making pictures, concocting symphonies and beautiful verses. All these men, notwithstanding all their zeal, cannot be, according to the definition of their own science, called men of science and art, first because their activity in science for the sake of science, and of art for art, has not in view man's welfare ; and sec- ondly, because we do not see any results of these activities for the welfare of society or mankind. 202 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f And the fact that sometimes something comes of their activities useful or agreeable for some men, as out of every thing something useful and agreeable may result for some men, by no means gives us any right, according to their own scientiflc definition, to consider them to be men of art and science. In like manner, however those men may call themselves who excogitate the application of electricity to lighting, heat- ing, and motion ; or who invent some new chemical combi- nations, producing dynamite or fine colors ; men who correctly play Beethoven's symphonies ; who act on the stage, or paint portraits well, domestic pictures, landscapes, and other pictures ; who compose interesting novels, the object of which is merely to amuse rich people, — the activity of these men, I say, cannot be called art and science, because this activity is not directed, like the activity of the brain in tlie orgaiiism, to the welfare of the whole, but is guided merely by pei-soual gain, privileges, money, which one obtains for tbe inventing and producing of so-called art ; and there- fore this activity cannot possibly be separated from other covetous, personal activity, which adds agreeable things to life, like the activity of innkeepers, jockej-s, milliners, and prostitutes, and so on, because the activity of the first, the second, and the last, do not come under the definition of art and science, on the ground of the division of labor, which promises to serve for the welfare of all mankind. The scientific definition of art and science is a correct one ; but unluckily, the activity of modern art and science does not come under it. Some produce directly hurtful things, oth- ers useless things ; and a third party invent trifles fit only for the use of rich people. They may all be very good per- sons, but they do not fulfil what they, according to their own definition, have taken upon themselves to fulfil ; and therefore they have as little right to call themselves men of art and science as the modern clergy, who do not fulfil their duties, have the right to consider themselves the bearers and teach- ers of divine truth. And it is not difficult to understand why the factors of modern art and science have not fulfilled, and cannot fulfil, their calling. They do not fulfil it, because they have con- verted their duty into a right. The scientific and art activi- ties, in their true sense, are fruitful only when they ignore their riglits, and know only their duties. Mankind value WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 203 this activity so highly, ouly because it is a self-denying one. If men are reallj' called to serve othera by mental labor, 'yi they will have to suffer in peifoiming this labor, because it is only by sufferings that spiritual fruit is produced. Self--^ denying and suffering are the lot and portion of a thinker and an ai-tist, because their object is tbe welfare of men. Men are wretched : they suffer and go to ruin. One cannot wait and lose one's time. A thinker and an artist will never sit on the heights of Olj'mpus, as we are apt to imagine : he must suffer in com- pany with men in order to find salvation or consolation. He will suffer because he is constantly iu anxiety aud agitation : he might have found out and told what would give happiness to men, might have saved them from suffering ; and he lias neither found it out nor said it, and to-morrow it may be too late — he may die. And therefore suffering and self-sacrifice will always be the lot of the thinker aud the artist. Not that man will become a thinker and an artist who is brought up in an establisliment where learned men and artists are created (but, in reality, they create only destroy- ers of art and science), and who obtains a diploma, and is well provided for, for life, but he who would gladly abslaiu from thinking, aud expressing that which is ingrafted in his soul, but which he cannot overlook, being drawn to it by two '' irresistible powers, — his own inward impulse and the wants ' of ihen. / Thinkers and artists cannot be sleek, fat men, enjoying themselves, and self-conceited. Spiritual and mental activ- ity and their expression, are really necessary for others, and are the most difficult of men's callings, — a cross, as it is called in tbe gospel. And the only one certain characteristic of the presence of a calling is the self-denying, the sacrifice of one's self in order to manifest thepower in grafted in man for the benefit of others. To teach how many insects there are in the world, and observe the spots on the sun, to write novels and operas, can be done without suffering ; but to teach men their welfare, which entirely consists in self-denial, and in serving others, and to express powerfully this teaching, cannot be done without self-denial. The Church existed in her purity as long as her teachers endured patiently' and suffered ; but as soou as they became 204 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN t fat and sleek, their teaching activity was ended. "Formerly," say the people, " priests were of gold, and chalices of wood ; now chalices are of gold, and priests of wood." It was not iu vain that Christ died on a cross : it is not in vain that ^aerifies and suffering conquer every thing. And as for our art and sciences, they are provided for : they have diplomas, and everybody is only thinking about how to provide still better for them ; that is, to make it im- possible for them to serve men. A true art and a tru e science have two uumistakablecharactenstics, — the tirst, an iirteriorone,"1iiatraniinister of art or science fulfils his calling, not for the 8ake_oX.gsin5b!jtJ?ittfifilf -denial ; and tlie second, an exterior one, that ms p roductions are intel ligible to a ll men, whose welfare he is aiming at. ~ "" "" Whatever men may consider lb be their destiny and wel- fare, science will be the teacher of this destiny and welfare, and art the expression of this teaching. The laws of Solon, of Confucius, are science ; the teachings of Moses, of Christ, are science ; the temples in Athens, the psalms of David, church worship, are art : but finding out the fourth dimension of matter, and tabulating chemical combinations, and so on, have never been, and never will be, science. The place of true science is occupied, in our time, by theology and law ; the place of true art is occupied by the church and state ceremonies, in which nobody believes, and which are not considered seriously by anybodj' : and that which with us is called art and science, is only the productions of idle minds and feelings which have in view to stimulate similarly idle minds and feelings, and which are unintelligible and dumb for the people, because they have not their welfare in view. Since we have known the lives of men, we always and everj'where have found a ruling false doctrine, calling itself science, which does not show men the true meaning of life, but rather, hides it from them. So it was among the Egyptians, the Indians, the Chinese, and partially among the Greeks (sophists) ; and among the mystics. Gnostics, and cabalists ; in the Middle Ages, in theology, scliolasticism, alchemy ; and so on down to our days. How fortunate indeed are we to be living in such a peculiar time, when that mental activity which calls itself science is not only free from errors, but, as we are assured, is in a state of peculiar progress ! Does not this good fortune WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 205 come from the fact that man can not and will not see his own defonnities? While of the sciences of theologians, and that of cabalists, nothing is left but empty words, why should we be so particularly fortunate ? The characteristics of our and of former times are quite similar : there is the same self-conceit and blind assurance that we only are on the true way, and that only with us true knowledge begins ; there are the same expectations that we shall presently discover something very wonderful ; and | there is the same exposure of our error, in the fact that all our wisdom remains with us, whil^the masses of the people ^ do not understand it, and neither accept nor want it. Our ( position is a very difficult one, but why should we not look it in the face? It is time to come to our senses, and to look more closely to ourselves. We are, indeed, nothing but scribes and Phar- •- isees, who, sitting in Moses' seat, and having the key of the kingdom of God, do not enter themselves, and refuse entrance to others. We, priests of art and science, are most wretched deceivers, who have much less right to our position than the most cunning and depraved priests ever had. For our privileged position, there is no excuse whatever : we have taken up this position by a kind of swindling, and we retain it by deceit. Pagan priests, the clergy, as well Russian as Roman Catholic, however depraved they may have been, had rights to their position, because the}' pro- fessed to teach men about life and salvation. And we, who have cut the ground from under their feet, and proved to men that they were deceivers, we have taken their place, and not only do not teach men about life, we even acknowledge that there is no necessity for them to learn. We suck the blood / of the people, and for this we teach our children Greek and 1 Latin grammars in order that they also may continue the{ same parasitic life which we are living. We say. There have been castes, we will abolish them. But what means the fact that some men and their children work, and other men and their children do not work? Bring -a Hindu who does not know our language, and show him the Russian and the European lives of many gener- ations, and he will recognize the existence of two important definite castes of working- people and of non-working-people as they are in existence in his own counti7. As in his coun- 206 WBAT MUST WE DO THEN? trj', 80 also among us, the right of not working is acquired thro ugh a peculiar^jpitiation JLft'ctt.we cau art .au(i_£sknce, and generafly^education. < This education it is, and the perveraions of reason as- sociated with it, that have brought us to this wonderful folly, whence it has come to pass that we do not see what is so plain and certain. We are eating up the lives of our brethren, and consider ourselves to be Christians, humane, educated, and quite righteous people. XXXVIII. What is to be done? What must we do? This question, which includes the acknowledgment of the fact that our life is bad and unrighteous, and at the same time hints that there is no possibility of changing it, — this question I hear everywhere, and therefore I chose it for the title of my work. I have described my own sufferings, my search, and the answer which I have found to this question. I am a man, like all others ; and if I distinguish mj'self from an average man of my own circle in any thing, it is chiefly in the fact that I, more than this average man, have served and indulged the false teaching of our world, that I have been praised by the men of the prevalent school of ■teaching, and that therefore I must be more depraved, and have gone farther astray, than most of my fellows. Therefore.I think that the answer to this question which I have found for myself will do for all sincere persons who will put the same question to themselves. First of all, to the question, "What is to be done?" I answer that we must neither deceive other men nor ourselves ; that we must not be afraid of the truth, whatever the result may be. We all know what it is to deceive other men ; and notwith- standing this, we do deceive from morning to evening, — " Not at home," when I am in ; " Very glad," when I am not at all glad; "Esteemed," when I do not esteem; "I have no money," when I have it, and so on. We consider the deception of others, particularly a cer- tain kind of deception, to be evil; but we are not afraid to deceive ourselves : but the woi'st direct lie to men, seeing its result, is nothing in comparison with that lie to ourselves WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 207 according to which we shape our lives. Now, this very lie we must avoid if we wish to be able to answer the question, ^'What is to be done?" And, indeed, how am I to answer the question as to what is to be done, when every thing I do, all my life, is based upon a lie and I carefully give out this lie for truth to others and to myself? Not to lie in this sense means to be not afraid of truth ; not to invent excuses, and not to accept excuses invented by others, in order to hide from one's self the deduction of reason and conscience ; not to be afraid of contradicting all our environment, and of being left alone with reason and conscience ; not to be afraid of that con- dition to which truth and conscience lead us : however dreadful it may be, it cannot be worse than that which is based upon deceit. To avoid lying, for men in our privileged position of mental labor, means not to be afraid of learning. Perhaps we owe so much that we should never be able to pay it all ; but, however much we may owe, we must make out our bill : however far we have gone astray, it is better to return than to continue straying. Lying to our fellows is always disadvantageous. Every business is always more directly done, and more quickly too, by truth than by lies. Lying to other men makes the mat- ter only more complicated, and retards the decision ; but lying to one's self, which is given out to be the truth, entirely ruins the life of man. If a man considers a wrong road to be a right one, then his every step only leads him farther from his aim : a man who has been walking for a long time on a wrong road may find out for himself, or be told by others, that his road is a wrong one ; but if he, being afraid of the thought of how far he has gone astray, tries to assure himself that he may, by following this wrong way, still come across the right one, then he will certainly never find it. If a man becomes afraid of the truth, and, on seeing it, will not acknowledge it, but takes falsehood for truth, then this man will never learn what is to btf done. We, not only rich men, but men in a privileged position, so-called educated men, have gone so far astray that we require either a firm resolution or very great sufferings on our false way in order to come to our senses again, and to recog- nize the lie by which we live. 208 WHAT MUST WE DO THENt I became aware of the lie of our life, thanks to those suf- ferings to which my wrong road led me ; and, having acknowledged the error of the way on which I was bent, I had the boldness to go, first in theory, then in reality, wherever my reason and conscience led me, without any de- liberation as to whither they were tending. And I was rewarded. All the complex, disjointed, intricate, and meaningless phenomena of life surrounding me became of a sudden clear ; and my position, formerly so strange and vile, among these phenomena, became of a sudden natural and easy. And in this new situation my activity has exactly deter- mined itself, but it is quite a different activity from that which appeared possible to me before : it is a new activity, far more quiet, affectionate, and joyous. The very thing which frightened me before, now attracts me. And therefore, I think that every one who sincerely puts to himself the question, "What is to be done?" and in answering this question, does not lie or deceive himself, but goes wherever his reason and conscience may lead him, that man has already answered the question. If he will only avoid deceiving himself, he will find out what to do, where to go, and how to act. There is only one thing which may hinder him in finding an answer, — that is a too high estimate of himself, and his own position. \ So it was with me ; and therefore the second answer to the question, " What is to be done?" resulting from the first, ' consisted for me in repenting, in the full meaning of this word, that is, entirely changing the estimate of my own / position and activity ; instead of considering such to be use- ' ful and of importance, we must come to acknowledge it to \ be harmful and trifling ; instead of considering ourselves ;' educated, we must get to see our ignorance ; instead of ' imagining ourselves to be kind and moral, we must acknowl- j edge that we are immoral and cruel ; instead of our impor- / tance, we must see our own insignificance. I say, that besides avoiding lying to myself, I had more- over to repent, because, though the one results from the other, the wrong idea about my great importance was so much a part of my own nature, that until I had sincerely repented, and had put aside that wrong estimate of myself whicli I had, I did not see the enormity of the lie of which I had been guilty. WHAT MUST WE DO THEN t 209 It was only when I repented, — that is, le.ft off considering myself to be a peculiar man, and began to consider myself to be like all other men, — it was then that my way became clear to me. Before this, I was not able to answer the ques- tion, " What is to be done?" because the verj' question it- self was put incorrectly. Before I repented, I had put the question thus: "What activitj- should I choose, I, the man with the education I have acquired? How can I compensate by this education and these talents for what I have been taking away from the people?"/ This question was a false one, because it included a wrong idea as to my not being like other men, but a peculiar man, called to serve other men with those talents and that educa- tion which I had acquired in forty years. I had put the question to myself, but in reality I had already answered it in advance by having determined beforehand the kind of activity' agreeable to myself by which I was called upon to serve men. , I really asked myself, " How have I, so fine a writer, one so very well informed, and with such talents, how can I utilize them for the benefit of man- kind?"^ ( But the question ought to have been put thus,Ws it would have to be put to a learned rabbi who had studied all the Talmud, and knew the exact number of the letters in the Holy Scripture, and all the subtleties of his science :/" What have I to do, who, from unlucky circumstances, have lost my best years in study instead of accustoming myself to labor, in learning the French language, the piano, grammar, geography, law, poetry ; in reading novels, romances, philo- sophical theories, and in performing military exercises ? what have I to do, who have passed the best years of my life in idle occupations, depraving the soul ? what have I to do, notwithstanding these unlucky conditions of the past, in order to requite those men, who, during all this time, have fed and clothed me, and who still continue to feed and to clothe me?") If the question had been put thus, after I had repented, " What have I, 89 ruined a man, to do?" the answer would have been easy :( First of all, I must try to get my living honestly, — that is, learn not to live upon the shoulders of others ; and while learning this, and after I have learned it, to try on every occasion to be of use to men with my hands 210 WHAT MUST WE DO TBENf and with my feet, as well as with my brain and my heart, and with all of me that is wanted by men. !And therefore I say that for one of my own circle, besides avoiding lying to others and to ourselves, it is necessary moreover to repent, to lay aside that pride about our edu- cation, refinement, and talents, not considering ourselves to be benefactors of the people, advanced men, who are ) ready to share our useful acquirements with the people, but ' to acknowledge ourselves to be entirelj- guilty, ruined, good- . for-nothing men, who desire to turn over a new leaf, and not ) to be benefactors of the people, but to cease to offend and / to humiliate them. Very often good young people, who sym- I pathize with the negative part of my writings, put to me the question, " What must I then do? What have I, who have finished my study in the university or in some other high establishment, — what have I to do in order lo be useful?" *''' These young people ask the question ; but in the depths of '' their souls they have already decided that that education / which they have received is their great advantage, and that I, they wish to serve the people by this verj- advantage. •'■'•' • And, therefore, there is one thing which they do not do, — honestly and critically examine what they call their educa- tion, by asking themselves whether it is a good or a bad thing. But if they do this, they will be unavoidably led to deny their education, and to begin to learn anew ; and this is alone what is wanted. They never will be able to answer the question, as to what there is to be done, because they put it wrongly. The question should be put thus : " How can I, a helpless, useless man, seeing now the misfortune of hav- ing lost my best years in studying the scientific Talmud, pernicious for soul and body, how can I rectify this mistake, and learn to serve men?" But the question is always put thus: "How can I, who have acquired so much fine in- formation, how can I be useful to men with this my information?" And, therefore, a man will never answer the question, " What is to be done? " until he leaves off deceiving himself and repents. And repentance is not dreadful, even as truth is not dreadful, but it is equally beneficent and fruitful of good. We need only accept the whole truth and fully repent in order to understand that in life no one has any rights or privileges, and that there is no end of duties, and no limits to them, and that the first and unquestionable duty of a man WEAT MUST WE DO THEN t 211 is to take a part in the struggle with nature for his own life, and for the lives of other men. And this acknowledgment of men's dut}* forms the essence of the third answer to the question, " What is to be done? " I have tried to avoid deceiving myself. I have endeavored to extirpate the remainders of the false estimate of the importance of my education and talents, and to repent ; but before answering the question, What is to be done? stands a new difficulty. There are so many things to be done, that one requires to know what is to be doue in particular? And the answer to this question has been given me by the sincere repentance of the evil in which I have been living. What is to be done ? What is there exactly to be done ? everybody keeps asking ; and I, too, kept asking this, while, iuiider the influence of a high opinion of my own calling, I had not seen that mj* first and unquestionable business is to e arn my living , clothing, heating, building, and so fort li^ and in doing tliis to serve omers as wen as myselt, because, since the world has existed, the fii'st and unquestionable duty of every man has been comprised in this. In this one business, man receives, if he has already begun to take part in it, the full satisfaction of all the bodily and mental wants of his nature :(to feed, clothe, take care of I himself and of his family, will satisfy his bodily wants ; to ' do the same for others, will satisfy his spiritual. ) ( Every other activi.ty of man is only lawful when these first have been satisfied./ In whatever department a man thinks to be his calling, whether in governing the people, in protect- ing his countrymen, in officiating at divine services, in teach- ing, in inventing the means of increasing the delights of life, in discovering the laws of the universe, in incorporating eternal truths in artistic images, /(the very fii-st and the most unquestionable duty of a reasonable man will always consist in taking part in the struggle with nature for preserving his own life and the lives of other men. i This duty will always rank first, because (the most neces- sary thing for men is life : and therefore, in order to protect and to teach men, and to make their lives more agreeable, it is necessary to keep this very life ; while by not taking part in the struggle, and by swallowing up the labor of others, lives are destroyed. And it is folly to endeavor to serve men by destroying tbeii- lives.) 212 WBAT MUST WE DO THEN? Man's duty to acquire in the struggle with nature the means of living, will always be unquestionably the very first of all duties, because it is the law of life, the violation of which unavoidably brings with it a punishment by destroying the bodily or mental life of man. If a man, living alone, free himself from the duty of struggling with nature, he will at once be punished by his body perishing. But if a man free himself from this duty by compelling other men to fulfil it for him, in ruining their lives, he will be at once punished by the destruction of his reasonable life ; that is, the life which has a reasonable sense in it. I had been so perverted by my antecedents, and this first and unquestionable law of God or nature is so bidden in our present world, that the fulfilling of it had seemed to me strange, and I was afraid and ashamed of it, as if the fulfil- tnent, and not the violation, of this eternal unquestionable law were strange, unnatural, and shameful. At fii-st it seemed to me, that, in order to fulfil this law, some sort of accommoda- tion was necessary, some establistied association of fellow- thinkers, the consent of the family, and life in the country (not in town) : then I felt ashamed, as if I were putting myself forward in performing things so unusual to our life as bodily labor, and I did not know how to begin. But I needed onlj- to understand that this was not some exclusive activity, which I had to invent and to arrange, but that it was merely returning from a false condition in which I had been to a natural one, merely rectifying that lie in which I had been living, — I had only to acknowledge all this, in order that all the difficulties should vanish. It was not at all necessary to arrange and accommodate any thing, or to wait for the consent of other people, because everywhere, in whatever condition I was, there were men who fed, dressed, and warmed me as well as themselves ; and everywhere, under all circumstances, I was able to do these for myself and for them, if I had sufficient time and strength. Nor could I feel a false shame in performing mattei-s un- usual and strange to me, because, in not doing so, I already experienced, not a false, but a real, shame. And having come to this acknowledgment, and to the prac- tical deduction from it, I had been fully rewarded for not having been afraid of the deductions of reason, and for having gone whither they led me. WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 213 Having come to this practical conclusion, I was struck by the facility and simplicity of the solution of all those problems which had formerly seemed to me so difficult and complicated. (To the question, " What have we to do? " I received a very plain answer: Do first what is necessary for yourself; ar- range all you can do by yourself, — your tea-urn, stove, water, and clothes. To the question, "Would not this seem strange to those who had been accustomed to do all this for me ? " it ap- peared that it was strange only during a week, and after a week it seemed more strange for me to return to my former condition. In answer to the question, " Is it necessary to organize this physical labor, to establish a society in a village upon this basis ? " it appeared that it was not at all necessary to do air this ; that if the labor does not aim at rendering idleness possible, and at utilizing other men's labor, as is the case with men who save up money, but merely the satisfying of necessities, then such labor will naturally induce people to leave towns for the country, where this labor is most agree- able and productive. There was also no need to establish a society, because a workingman will naturally associate with other working- people, (in answer to the question, " Would not this labor take up all my time, and would it not deprive me of the pos- sibility of that mental activity) which I am so fond of, and to which I have become accustomed, and which in moments of self-conceit I consider to be useful to others ?"(the answer will be quite an unexpected one. In proportion to bodily exercise the energy of my mental activity increased, having freed itself from all that was superfluous.) In fact, having spent eight hours in phj-sical labor, — half a day, — which formerly I used to spend in endeavor- ing to struggle with dulness, there still remained for me eight hours, out of which in my circumstances I required five for mental labor ; and if I, a very prolific writer, who had been doing nothing during forty years but writing, and who had written three hundred printed sheets, that if during these forty }-ears I had been doing ordinary work along with work- ing-people, then, not taking into consideration winter even- ings and holidays, if I had beeu reading and learning during the five hours a day, and written only on holidays two pages a day (and 1 have sometimes written sixteen pages a day) , I 214 WHAT MUST WB DO THKNt should have written the same three hundred printed sheets in fourteen years. A wontlerf ul thing, perhaps, but a most simple arithmetical calculation which every boy of seven years of age may do, and which I had never done. Day and night have together twenty-four hours ; we sleep eight hours ; there remain six- teen hours. If any man labor mentally five hours a day, he will do a vast amount of business ; what do we, then, do during the remaining eleven hours ? f^' "So it appears that physical labor not only does not exclude ^he possibility of mental activity, but improves and stimu- lates it. In answer to the question whether this physical labor would deprive me of many innocent enjoyments proper to man, such as tlie enjoyment of art, the acquirement of knowledge, of social intercourse, and, generally, of the happiness of life, it was really quite the reverse : the more intense my physical labor was, the more it approached that labor which is con- sidered the hardest, that is, agricultural labor, tlie more I acquired enjoyments, knowledge, and the closer and more affectionate was my intercourse with mankind, aud the more happiness did I feel in life. In answer to the question (which I hear so often from men who are not quite sincere), " What result can there be from such an awfully small drop in the sea? what is all my per- sonal phj'sical labor in comparison with the sea of labor which I swallow up ? " To this question I also received a very unexpected answer. It appeared that as soon as I had made physical labor the ordinary condition of my life, then at once the greatest part of my false and expensive habits and wants which I had, while I had been physically idle, ceased of themselves, with- out any endeavor on my part. To say nothing of the habit of turning day into night, and vice versa, of my bedding, clothes, my conventional cleanliness, which all became im- possible and embarrassing when I began to labor physically, both the quantity' and the quality of my food was totally changed. Instead of the sweet, rich, delicate, complicated, and highly spiced food, which I was formerly fond of, I now required and obtained plain food as the most agreeable, — sour cabbage soup, porridge, black bread, tea with a bit of sugar. WHAT MUST WM DO THEN? 215 So that, to say nothing of the example of common work- ingmen who are satisfied with little, with whom I came into closer intercourse, my very wants themselves were gradually changed by my life of labor ; so that mj- drop of physical labor in proportion to my growing accustomed to this labor and acquiring the ways of it, became indeed more perceptible in the ocean of common labor ; and in proportion as my labor gi'ew more fruitful, my demands for other men's labor grew less and less, and my life naturally, without effort or priva- tion, came nearer to that simple life of which I could not even have dreamed without fulfilling the law of labor. It became apparent that my former most expensive de- mands — the demands of vaniti' and amusement — were the direct result of an idle life. With physical labor, there was no room for vanity, and no need for amusement, because my time was agreeably occupied ; and after weariness simple rest while drinking tea, or reading a book, or conversing with the members of m}- family, was far more agreeable than the theatre, playing at cards, concerts, or large parties. In answer to the question, " Would not this unusual labor be hurtful to my health, which is necessary for me in order that I may serve men? " it appeared that, in spite of the posi- tive assurance of eminent doctors that hard physical labor, especially at my age, might have the worst results (and that Swedish gymnastics, riding, and other expedients intended to supply the natural conditions of man, would be far better), the harder I worked, the stronger, sounder, more cheerful, and kinder, I felt myself. , So that it became undoubtedly certain that justi^asfall those inventions of the human mind, such as newspapers, theatres, concerts, parties, balls, cards, magazines, novels, are nothing else than means to sustain the mental life of men out of its natural condition of labor for others, in the same way all the hygienic and medical inventions of the human mind for the accommodation of food, drink, dwelling, ventilation, warming of rooms, clothes, medicines, mineral waters, gym- nastics, electric and other cures, are all merely means to sustain the bodily life of man out of its natural conditions of labor ;1 that all these are nothing else than an establishment hermetically closed, in which, by the means of chemical ap- paratus, the evaporation of water for the plants is arranged when you only need to open the window, and do that which is natural, not only to men but to beasts too ; in other words, 216 WHAT MUST WE DO TUENT having absorbed the food, and thus produced a charge of energy, to discharge it by muscular labor. All the profound thoughts of hygiene and of the art of healing for the men of our circle are like the efforts of a me- chanic, who, having stopped all the valves of an overheated engine, should invent something to prevent this engine from bursting. When I had plainly understood all this, it became to me ridiculous, that I, through a long series of doubt, research, and much thinking, had ariived at this extraordinary truth, that ' if man has eyes, they are to be seen through ; ears, to hear by ; ) feet to walk with, and hands and back to work with, — and that if man will not use these, his members, for what they are ] meant, then it will be worse for him. I came to this conclu- sion, that with us, privileged people, the same tbiug has happened which happened to the horses of a friend of mine : The steward, who was not fond of horses, and did not understand any thing about them, having received from his master orders to prepare the best cobs for sale, chose the ' best out of the drove of horses, and put them into the stable, fed them upon oats ; but being over-anxious, he trusted them to nobody, neither rode them himself, nor drove nor led them. All of these horses became, of course, good for nothing. The same has happened to us with this diflference, — that you cannot deceive horses, and, in order not to let them out, they must be secured ; and we are kept in unnatural and hurtful conditions by all sorts of temptations, which fasten and hold us as with chains. We have arranged for ourselves a life which is against the moral and physical nature of man, and we use all the powers of our mind in order to assure men that this life is , a real one. All that we call culture, — our science and arts ^ for improving the delights of life, — all these are only meant \ to deceive man's natural requirements : all that we call ; hygiene, and the art of healing, are endeavors to deceive ' the natural physical want of human nature. But these deceits have their limit, and we are come to these limits. " If such be real human life, then it is better not to live at all," says the fashionable philosophy of Schopenhauer and Hartman. " If such be life, it is better for future generations, too, not to live," says the indulgent healing art, and invents means to destroy women's fecundity. In the Bible the law to human beings is expressed thus : WHAT MUST WE DO TBENt 217 "In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat hread," and *' In sorrow thou shalt bring forth children." The peasant Bondaref, who wrote an article about this, threw great light upon the wisdom of this sentence. Dur- ing the whole of my life, two thinking men — Russians — have exercised a great moral influence over me : they have enriched my thoughts, and enlightened my contemplation of the world. These men were neither poets, nor learned men, nor preachers : they were two remarkable men, both living peas- ants, — Sutaief and Bondaref. But " nous avons chang6 tout 9a," as says one of Moli^re's personages, talking at random about the healing art, and saying that the liver is on the left side, " we have changed all that." Men need not work, — all work will be done by machines ; and women need not bring forth children. The healing art will teach different means of avoiding this, and there are already too many people in the world. In the Krapivensky district,* there lives a ragged peasant who during the war was a purchaser of meat for a commis- sary of stores. Having become acquainted with this function- ary, and having seen his comfortable life, he became mad, and now thinks that he, too, can live as gentlemen do, without working, being provided for b^' the Emperor. This peasant now calls himself " the Most Serene Marshal Prince Blokhin, purveyor of war-stores of all kinds." He says of himself that he has gone through all ranks, and for his services during the war he has to receive from the Emperor an unlimited bank-account, clothes, uniforms, horses, carrit^es, tea, servants, and all kinds of provision. When anybody asks him whether he would like to work a little, he always answers, " Thanks : the peasants will attend to all that." When we say to him that the peasants also may not be disposed to work, he answers, " Machines have been 'invented to ease the labor of peasants. They have no difficulty in their business." When we ask him wiiat is he living for, he answers, " To pass away the time." I always consider this man as a mirror. 1 see in him myself and all my class. To pass through all ranks in order to live, to pass awa.v the time, and to receive an unlimited bank-account, while peasants attend to every ■ Count ToUtoi'B village of Tunaya Polyana 1b situated in thii djitilct.— Am. £0. 218 WHAT MUST WE DO THENf thing, and find it easy to do so, because of the invention of machines. This is the very form of the foolish belief of men of our class. When we ask what have we particularly to do, we are in reality asking nothing, but only asserting — not so sincerely indeed as the Most Serene Marshal Prince Blokhin, who had passed through all ranks, and lost his mind — that we do not wish to do any thing. He who has come to his senses cannot ask this, because from one side all that he makes use of has been done, and is being done, by the hands of men : on the other side, as soon as a healthy man has got up and breakfasted, he feels the inclination to work, as well with his feet as with his hands and brain. In order to find work, he has only not to restrain himself from labor. Only he who considers labor to be a shame, like the lady who asked her guest not to trouble herself to open the door, but to wait till she called a servant to do it, only such persons can ask what is there to be done in particular. The difficulty is not in inventing some work, — every one has enough to do for himself and for others, — but in losing this criminal view of life, that we eat and sleep for our own pleasure, and in appropriating that simple and correct view in which ever}' working-person grows up, that man first of all is a machine which is charged with food, in order to earn his living, and that therefore it is shameful, difficult, and impossible to eat and not to work ; that t o eat and not t o work is a most dangerous state, and as bad as incendiarism.^ Itls necessary merely to have this consciousness, and we shall find work will always be pleasant, and capable of satis- fying all the wants of our soul and body. I picture to myself the whole matter thus : Every man's ' day is divided by his meals into four parts, or four stages as it is called by the peasants : First, before breakfast ; secondly, from breakfast to dinner ; thirdly, from dinner to poldnik (a slight evening meal between dinner and supper) ; and fourthly, from poldnik to night. The activity of man to which he is drawn, is also divided into four kinds : First, the activity of the muscles, the labor of the hands, feet, shoulders, back, — hard labor by which one perspires ; secondly, the activity of the fingers and wrists, the activity of skill and handicraft ; thirdly, the activity of the intellect and imagination ; fourthly, the activity of intercourse with other men. WHAT MUST WE DO THEN T 219 And the goods which man makes use of may also be divided into four kinds : First, every man makes use of the productions of hard labor, — bread, cattle, buildings, wells, bridges, and so on ; secondly, the productions of handicraft, — clothes, boots, hardware, and so on ; thirdly, the productions of mental activity, — science, art ; and fourthly, the inter- course with men, acquaintanceship, societies. And I thought that it would be the best thing so to arrange tlie occupations of the day that one might be able to exercise all these four faculties, and to return all the four kinds of production of labor, which one makes use of; so that the four paiis of the day were devoted, first, to hard labor; secondly, to mental labor ; thirdly, to handicraft ; fourthly, to the intercourse with men. It would be good if one could so arrange his labor ; but if it is not possible to arrange thus, one thing is important, — to acknowledge the duty of labor- ing, the duty of making a good use of each part of the day. I thought that it would be only then that the false division of labor would disappear which now rules our society, and a just division would be established which should not interfere with the happiness of mankind. I, for instance, have all my life been busy with mental work. I had said to myself that I have thil^ divided the labor that my special work is writing ; that is, mental labor : and all other works necessary for me, I left to be done by other men, or rather compelled them to do it. But this ar- rangement, seemingly so convenient for mental labor, became most inconvenient, especially for mental labor. I have been writing all my life, have accommodated my food, sleep, amusements, with reference to this special labor, and besides this work I did nothing. The results of which were, first, that I had been narrow- ing the circle of my observation and information, and often I had not any object to study, and therefore, having had to describe the life of men (the life of men is a continual prob- lem of every mental activity), I felt my ignorance, and had to learn and to ask about such things, which every one not occupied with a special work knows ; secondly, it happened that when I sat down to write, I often had no inward inclina- tion to write, and nobody wanted my writing itself, that is, my thoughts, but people merely wanted my name for profits in the magazines. I made great efforts to write what I could ; sometimes I 220 WHAT MUST WE DO TBEN T did not succeed at all ; sometimes succeeded in writing some- thing very bad, and I felt dissatisfied and dull. But now since I have acknowledged the necessity of physical labor as well as hard labor, and also that of handicraft, it is all quite different : my time is occupied humbly, but certainly in a use- ful way, and pleasantly and instructively for me. And therefore I, for the sake of my specialty, leave off this undoubtedly useful and pleasant occupation, only when I feel an inward want, or see a direct demand for my literary work. And this has improved the quality, and therefore the usefulness and pleasantness, of my special labor. So that it has happened that my occupation with those physical works, which are necessary for me as well as for every man, not only did not interfere with my special ac- tivity, but was a necessary condition of the utility, quality, and pleasantness of this activity. A bird is so created that it is necessary for it to fly, to walk, to peck, to consider ; and when it does all this, it is satified and happy ; then it is a bird. Exactly so with a man when he walks, turns over heavy things, lifts tliera up, carries them, works with his fingers, eyes, ears, tongue, brain, then oul}- is he satisfied, then only is he o Tnan. A man who has come to recognize his calling to labor will naturally be inclined to that change of labor which is proper for him for the satisfying of his outward and inward wants, and he will reverse this order only when he feels an iiTesist- ible impulse to some special labor, and other men will require from him this labor. The nature of labor is such that the satisfying of all men's wants requires that very alternation of different kinds of labor which renders labor easy and pleasant. Only the erroneous idea that labor is a curse could lead men to the freeing themselves from some kinds of labor, that is, to the seizure of other men's labor which requires a forced occupation with a special labor from other men which is called nowadays the division of labor. We have become so accustomed to our false conception of the arrangement of labor that it seems to us that for a boot- maker, a machinist, a writer, a musician, it would be better to be freed from the labor proper to man. (Where there is no violence over other men's labor, nor a false belief in the pleasures of idleness, no^an for the sake of his special labor will free himself from physical labor necessary for the satis- WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 221 fying of his wants,) because special occupation is not a privi- lege, but a sacrifice of a man's inclination for the sake of his brethren. A boot-maker in a village having torn himself from his usual pleasant labor in the field, and having begun his labor of mending or making boots for his neighbors, deprives him- self of a pleasant, useful labor in the field for the sake of others, only because he is fond of sewing, and knows that nobody will do it better than he does, and that people will be thankful to him. But he cannot wish to deprive himself for all his life of the pleasant alternation of labor. The same with the sta- rosta, the machinist, the writer, the learned man. It is only to us with our perverted ideas, that it seems, when the master sends his clerk to be a peasant, or government sentences one of its ministers to deportation, that they are punished and have been dealt with liardly. But in reality they have had a great good done to them ; that is, they have exchanged their heavy special work for a pleas- ant alternation of labor. In a natural society all is quite different. I know a com- mune where the people earn their living themselves. One of the members of this community was more educated than the rest ; and they required him to deliver lectures, for which he had to prepare himself during the day, in order to be able to deliver them in the evening. He did it joyfully, feeling that he was useful to others, and that he could do it well. But he got tired of the exclusive mental labor, and his health suf- fered accordingly. The members of the community therefore pitied him, and asked him to come again and labor in the field- For men who consider labor to be the essential thing and the joy of life, the ground, the basis, of it will always be the struggle with nature, — not only agricultural labor, but also that of handicraft, mental work, and intercourse' with men. ( The divergence )from one or many of these kinds of labor, and specialties of labor, (will be performed only when a man of special gifts, being fond of this work, and knowing that he performs it better than anybody else, will sacrifice his own advantage in order to fulfil the demands of others put directly to him. ) Only with such a view of labor and the natural division of 222 . WHAT MUST WS DO THEN f labor 'resulting from it, will the cittse disappear which we^* iu our imagination have put upon labor ; and every labor will ^ always be a joy, because man will do either an unquestion-^ ably useful, pleasant, and easy work, or will be conscious / that he makes a sacrifice in performing a more difficult spe-''^ cial labor for the good of others. /" /., , ■' . CBut the division of labor is, it is said, more advantageous.) Advantageous for whom ? [is it more advantageous to make as quickly as possible as many boots and cotton-prints as possible?* But who will make these boots and cotton-prints? Men who from generation to generation have been making only pin-heads? How, then, can it be more advantageous for people? (if the question were to make as many cotton-prints and pins as possible, it would be so; but the question is, how to make people happy ?^ The happiness of men consists in life. And life is in labor. How, then, can the necessity of a painful, oppressing work be advantageous for men ? If the question were only for the advantage of some men without any consideration of the welfare of all, then it would be most advantageous for some men to eat others. The thing most advantageous for all men is that which I wish for myself, — the greatest welfare and the satisfying of all my wants, those of body as well as those of soul, of con- science, and of reason, which are ingrafted in me. And now, for myself I have found, that for my welfare and for the satisf3-ing of these wants, I need only to be cured of the folly in which I, as well as the Krapivensky madman, have lived, which consisted in the idea that gentlefolk need not work, and that all must be done for them by others, and that, producing nothing, I have to do only what is proper to man, — satisfy my own wants. And having discovered this, I became persuaded that this labor for the satisfying of my own wants, is divisible into various kinds of labor, each of which has its own charm, and is not only not a burden, but serves as rest after some other. I have divided my labor into four parts parallel to the four parts of the laborer's day's work, which are divided by his meals ; and thus I try to satisfy my wants, These are, then, the answers to the question, " What is to bo done ? " which I have found for myself. WHAT MUST WE DO THEN T 223 First, To avoid deceiving myself. However far I have gone astray from that road of life which my reason shows to me, I must not be afraid of the truth. Secondly, To renounce my own righteousness, my own advantages, pecnliaritics, distinguishing me from others, and to confess the guilt of such. Thirdly, To fulfil that eternal, unquestionable law of man, } — by laboring with all my being to struggle with nature, to \ sustain my own life, and the lives of others. / xxxrx. I HAVE now finished, having said all that concerns myself ; but I cannot restrain my desire to say that which concerns evei7 one, and to verify by several considerations my own deductions. I wish to explain why it is I think that a great many of my own class must arrive where I myself am, and I must also speak of what will result if even some few men arrive there ; and in the first place, if only men of our circle, our caste, will seriously think the matter out themselves, the younger generation, who seek their own personal happiness, will become afraid of the ever-increasing misery of lives which obviously lead them to ruin ; scrupulous persons among us (if they would examine themselves more closely) will be terrified at the cruelty and unlawfulness of their own lives, and timid persons will be frightened at the danger of their mode of life. Hie misery of our lives I However we, rich men, may try to mend and to support, with the assistance of our science and art, this our false life, it must become weaker every day, unhealthier, and more and more painful : with each year suicide, and the sin against the unborn babe, increase ; with each year the new generations of our class grow weaker, with each year we more and more feel the increasing dulness of our lives. It is obvious that on this road, with an increase of the comforts and delights of life, of cures, artificial teeth and hair, and so on, there can be no salvation. This truth has become such a truism, that in newspapers advertisements are printed about stomach powder for rich people, under the title '' Blessings of the poor," where they > 224 WHAT MUST WE DO TBENf say that only poor people have a good digestion, and the rich need help, and among other things this powder. You cannot ameliorate this matter by any kind of amusements, comforts, powders, but only by turning over a new leaf. Our lives are in contradiction to our consciences. However much we may try to justify to ourselves our treason against mankind, all our justification falls to pieces before evidence : around us, people are dying from overwork and want ; and we destroy the food, clothes, labor of men merely in order to amuse ourselves. And therefore the conscience of a man of our circle, though he may have but a small remainder of it in his breast, cannot be stifled, and poisons all these com- forts and charms of life which our suffering and perishing brethren procure for us. But not only does every scrupu- lous man feel this himself, but he must feel it more acutely at present, because the best part of art and science, that part in which there still remains a sense of its high calling, constantly reminds him of his cruelty, and the unlawfulness of his position. The old secure justifications are all destroyed ; and the new ephemeral justifications of the progress of science for science's sake, and ai-t for art's sake, will not bear the light of plain common sense. "The conscience of men cannot be calmed by new ideas : it can be calmed only by turning over a new leaf, when there will no longer be any necessity for justification. TJie danger to our lives! However much we may try to hide from ourselves the plain and most obvious danger of exhausting the patience of those men whom we oppress ; however much we may try to counteract this danger by all sorts of deceit, violence and flattery, — it is still growing with each day, with each hour, and it has long been threatening us, but now it is «o ripe that we are scarcely able to hold our course in a vessel tossed by a roaring and overflowing sea, — a sea which will presently swallow us up in wrath. The workman's revolution, with the terrors of destruction and murder, not only threatens us, but we have been already living upon its verge during the last thirty years, and it is only by various cunning devices that we have been postpon- ing the crisis. Such is the state in Europe : such is the state in Russia, because we have no safety-valves. The classes who oppress the people, with the exception of the Tsar, have no longer WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f 225 in the eyes of our people any justification ; they all keep up their position merely by violence, cunning, and expediency ; but the hatred towards us of the worst representatives of the people, and the contempt of us from the best, is increas- ing with every hour. Among the Russian people during the last three or four years, a new word full of significance has been circulating : hy this word, which I never heard before, people are swear- ing in the streets, and calling us parasites. The hatred and contempt of the oppressed people are increasing, and the physical and moral strength of the richer classes are decreasing: the deceit which supports all this is wearing out, and the rich classes have nothing wherewith to comfort themselves. To return to the old order of things is impossible : one thing only remains for those who are not willing to change the course of their lives, and to turn over a new leaf, — to hope that, during their lives, they will fare well enough, after which the people may do as they like. So think the blind crowd of the rich ; but the danger is ever increasing, and the awful catastrophe is coming nearer and nearer. There are three reasons which prove to rich people the necessity of turning over a new leaf : First, the desire for their own personal welfare and that of their families, which is not secured by the way in which rich people are living ; secondly, the inability to satisfy the voice of conscience, which is obviously impossible in the present condition of things ; and thirdly, the threatening and constantly increas- ing danger to life, which cannot be met by any outward means. All these together ought to induce rich people to change their mode of life. This change alone would satisfy the desire of welfare and conscience, and would remove the danger. And there is but one means of making such change, — to leave off deceiving ourselves, to repent, and to acknowl- edge labor to be, not a curse, but the joyful business of life. To this it is replied,!." What will come from the fact of my physical labor during ten, eight, or five hours, which thousands of peasants would gladly do for the money which I have? "^ The first good would be, that you will become livelier, healthier, sounder, kinder ; and you will learn that real life from which you have been hiding yourself, or which was hidden from you. 226 WBAT MUST WE DO THENt The second good will be, that, if you have a conscience, it will not only not suffer as it suffers now looking at the labor of men, the importance of which we always, from our ignorance, either increase or diminish, but you will constantly experience a joyful acknowledgment that with each day you are more and more satisfying the demands of your con- science, and are leaving behind you that awful state in which so much evil is accumulated in our lives that we feel that we cannot possibl3' do any good in the world ; you will experience the joy of free life, with the possibility of doing good to others ; you will open for yourself a way into the regions of the world of morality which has hitherto been shut to you. The third good will be this, that, instead of constant fear of revenge for your evil deeds, you will feel that you are saving others from this revenge, and are principally saving the oppressed from the cruel feeling of rancor and resent- ment. But it is usually said, that it would be ridiculous if we, men of our stamp, with deep philosophical, scientific, politi- cal, artistic, ecclesiastical, social questions before us, we state ministers, senators, academists, professors, aitists, singers, we whose quarter-hours are valued so highly by men, should spend our time in doing — what? Cleaning our boots, washing our shirts, digging, planting p)otatoes, or feeding our chickens and cows, and so on, — in s uch business which not only our house-porter, our cook, but tnousands of men beHldes who Iralue our time, would be very glad to do for iis. ■9at Why do we dress, wash, and comb our hair ourselves? Why do we walk, hand chairs to ladies, to our guests, open and shut the door, help people into carriages, and perform hnndreds of such actions which were formerly performed for us by our slaves ? Because we consider that such may be done by ourselves ; that it is compatible with human dignity ; that is, h uman duty. The same holds good with physical labor. "Man's" dignity, his sacred duty, i s to use his h ands, his feet, for that pur pose for w iiicli thej were given him!, and" not to Be'wSSIe^' by cRsuse, not that he may wash and clean them and use them only for the purpose of stuffing food and cigarettes into his mouth. Such is the meaning of physical labor for every man in every society. But in our class, with the divergence from WHAT MUST WE DO THEN T 227 this law of nature came the misery of a whole circle of men ; and for us, physical labor receives another meaning, — the meaning of a preac hing and a propaganda w hich divert the terrible evil which threatens mankind. To say that for an educated man, physical labor is a use- less occupation, is the same as to say, in the building of a temple. What importance can there be in putting each stone exactly in its place? Every great act is done under the conditions of imperceptibility, modesty, and simplicity. One can neither plough, nor feed cattle, nor think, during a great illumination, or thundering of guns, or while in uniform. Illumination, the roar of cannon, music, uniforms, clean- liness, brilliancy, which we usually connect with the idea of the importance of any act, are, on the contrary, tokens of the absence of importance in the same. C Great, true deeds are alwa^ys simple and modest. And such is also the greatest deed which is left to us to do, — the solution of those awful contradictions in which we are living. And the acts which solve those contradictions are those modest, im- perceptible, seemingly ridiculous acts, such as helping our- selves by physical labor, and, if possible, helping others tocy; this is what we rich people have to do, if we under- stand the miserj', wrong, and danger of the position in which we are living. What will come out of the circumstance that I, and another, and a third, and a tenth man, do not despise physical labor, but consider it necessary for our happiness, for the calming of our consciences, and for our safety ? This will come of it, — that one, two, three, ten men, coming into conflict with no one, without the violence either of the government or of revolution, will solve for themselves the problem which is before all the world, and which has appeared insolvable ; and they will solve it in such a way that life will become for them a good thing: their consciences will be calm, and the evil which oppresses them will cease to be dreadful to them. Another effect will be this : that other men, too, will see that the welfare, which they have been looking for every- where, is quite close by them, that seemingl}' insolvable con- tradictions of conscience and the order of the world are solved in the easiest and pleasantest way, and that, instead of being afraid of men surrounding them, they must have intercourse with them, and love them. The seemingly insolvable economical and social questions 228 WHAT MUST WE DO THENf are like' the problem of Krilof s casket. The casket opened of itself, without any difficulty : but it will not open until men do the very simplest and most nifitural thing ; that is, open it. The seemingly insolvable question is the old question of utilizing, some men's labor by others: this question, in CMr time, has. found its expression in property. \Formerly, other men's labor was used simpiy by violence, by slavery : in our time, it is being done by the means of prni^ert y. In our time, property is the root of all evil and of ihe sufferings of men who possess it, or are without it, and of all the remorse of conscience of those who misuse it, and of the danger from the collision between those who have it, and those who have it not. Property is the root of all evil ; and, at the same time, property is that towards which all the activity of our modern society is directed, and that which directs the activity of the world.) States and governments intrigue, make wars, for the sake of propertj', for the possession of the banks of the Rhine, of land in Africa, China, the Balkan Peninsula. Bankers, merchants, manufacturers, land-owners, labor, use cunning, torment themselves, torment others, for the sake of property ; government functionaries, tradesmen, landlords, struggle, deceive, oppress, suffer, for the sake of property ; courts of justice and police protect . property ; penal servi- tude, prisons, all the terrors of so-called punishments, — all is done for the sake of property. Propert}' is the root of all evil ; and now all the world is busy with the distribution and protecting of wealth. What, then, is property? Men are accustomed to think that property is something really belonging to man, and for this reason they have called- it property. We speak indis- criminately of our own house and our own land. But this is obviouslj' an error and a superstition. (We know, and if '^ we do not, it is easy to perceive, that proper t y is only the means of utilizing other men's labor. And another's labor caffljy'Ho means beloirg (u um. — J—^ y^ Man has been always calling his own that^whichis^subject ■"To his own will and joined with his own consc i ousness . As sooii as man calls his own sometJiing which is not his body, but which Tieshould liEe to be subject to his will as his boay" is, then he makes a mistake, and gets disappointment, suffer- ing, and compels other people to suffer as well. Man calls his wife his own, his children, his slaves, his belongings, his WHAT MUST WE BO THEN T 229 own too ; but the reality alwa3-s shows him his error : • and he must either get rid of this superstition, or suffer, and make others suffer. Now we, having nominally renounced the possessing of slaves, owing to money (and to its exactment by the govern- ment) , claim our right also to money ; that is, to the labor of other men. ' ~"Btmss to our claiming our wives as our property, or our sons, our slaves, our horses, — this is pure fiction contradicted by realitj', and which only makes those suffer who believe in it ; because a wife or a son will never be so subject to my will as my body is ; tlierefore my own body will always remain the only thing I can call my true property ; so also money, — property will never be real property, but only a deception and a source of suffering, and it is only my own body which will be my property, that which always obeys me, and is connected with mj' consciousness. It is only to us, who are so accustomed to call other things than our body our own, that siich a wild superstition maj' ap- pear useful for us, and be without evil results ; but we have only to reflect upon the nature of the matter in order to see how this, like every other superstition, brings with it only dreadful consequences. Let us take the most simple example. I consider myself my own, and another man like myself I consider mj' own too. 1 must understand how to cook m}' dinner : if I were free from the superstition of considering another man as my prop- ert}', I should have been taught this art as well as every other necessary to my real property (that is, my body) ; but now I have it taught to my imaginary property, and the result is that my cook does not obey me, does not wish to humor me, and even runs away from me, or dies, and I remain with an unsatisfied want, and have lost the habit of learning, and recognize that I have spent as much time in cares about this cook as I should have spent in learning the art of cooking mj'self. The same is the case with the property of buildings, clothes, wares ; with the property of the land ; with the property of money. Every imaginary property calls forth in me a non- corresponding want which cannot ahrays be gratified, and deprives me of the possibility of acquiring for my true and sure property — my own body — that information, that skill, those habits, improvements, which I might have acquired. 230 WHAT MUST WE DO TBENt The result is always that I have spent (without gain to myself, — to my true property) strength, sometimes my whole life, on that which never has been, and never could be, my property. I provide myself with an imaginary "private" library, a " private " picture-gallery, " private " apartments, clothes ; acquire my " own " money in order to purchase with it every thing I want, and the matter stands thus, — that I, being busy about this imaginary property, as if it were real, leave quite out of sight that which is my true property, upon which I may really labor, and which really may serve me, and which always remains in my power. Words have always a definite meaning until we purposely give them a false signification. What does property mean ? Pr^gerty means that which is given to me alone, which belongs to me alone, exclusively ; that with which I may always do every thing I like, which nobodj- can take away from me, which remains mine to the end of my life, and that I ought to use in order to increase and to improve it. Such property for ever3- man is only himself. And it is in this very sense that imaginary property is un- derstood, that ver^- property for the sake of which (in order to make it impossible for this imaginary property to become a real one) all the sufferings of this world exist, — wars, executions, judgments, prisons, luxury, depravity, murders, and the ruin of mankind. What, then, will come out of the circumstance that ten men plough, hew wood, make boots, not from want, but from the acknowledgment that man needs work, and that the more he works, the better it will be for him ? This will come out of it : that ten men, or even one single man, in thought and in deed, will show men that this fearful evil from which they are suffering, is not the law of their destiny, nor the will of God, nor any historical necessity, but a superstition not at all a strong or overpowering one, but weak and null, in which it is only necessary to leave off be- lieving, as in idols, in order to get rid of it, and to destroy it as a frail cobweb is swept away. Men -who begin to work in order to fulfil the pleasant law of their lives, who work for the fulfilment of the law of labor, will free. themselves from the superstition of property which is so full of misery, and then all these worldly establishments WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f 231 which exist in order to protect this imaginary property out- side of one's own body, will become not only unnecessary for them, but burdensome ; and it will become plain to all that these institutions are not necessary, but pernicious, r aginary, and false conditions of life. f , , For a man who considers labor not a curse, but a joy, pro^ , erty outside his own body — that ia^the right OT poaaih ilit.y of utilizing other men's labor — will be not only useless, but an impedhnent.*^ ^f r'am' fond of cooking my dinner, and ' accustomed to do it, then the fact that another man will do it for me, will deprive me of my usual business, and will not satisfy me as well as I have satisfied myself ; be- sides, the acquirement of an imaginary property will not be necessary for such a man : a man who considers labor to be his very life, fills up with it all his life, and there- fore requires less and less the labor of others, — in other words, property in order to fill up his unoccupied time, and to embellish his life. If the life of a man is occupied by labor,(he does not ^ require many rooms, much furniture, various fine clothes : ' me does not require") expensive food, carriages, amusements. " But particularly a man who considers labor to be the busi- ' ness and the joy of his life, will not seek to ease his own ■ labor by utilizing that of others.) A man who considers life to consist in labor, in propor- tion as he acquires more skill, craft, and endurance, will aim at having more and more work to do, which should occupy all his time. For such a man, who sees the object of his life in labor, and not in the results of this labor for the acquirement of property, there cannot be even a question about the instruments of labor. Though such a man will always choose the most productive instrument of labor, he will have the same satisfaction in working with the most unproductive. If he has a steam-plough, he will plough with it ; if he has not such, he will plough with a horse-plough ; if he has not this, he will plough with the plain Russian sokhd ; if he has not even this, he will use a spade : and under any circumstances, he will attain his aim ; that is, will pass his life in a labor useful to man, and therefore he will have fullest satisfaction : and the position of such a man, accord- ing to exterior and interior circumstances, will be .happier than the condition of a man who gives his life away to acquire property. 282 WBAT MUST WE DO THENf According to exterior circumstances, he will never want, because men, seeing that he does not* mind work, will always . try to make his labor most productive to them, as they/ arrange a mill by running water; and in order that his labor might be more productive, they will provide for his material existence, which they will never do for men who aim at acquiring property. And the providing for material wants, is all that a man requires. According to interior conditions, such a man will be always happier than he who seeks for property, because the latter will never receive what he is aiming at, and the former always in proportion to his strength : even the weak, old, dying (according to the proverb, with a Kored in his hands) , will receive full satisfaction, and the love and sym- pathy of men. One of the consequences of this will be, that some odd, half-insane persons will plough, make boots, and so on, instead of smoking, playing cards, and riding about, carry- ing with them, from one place to another, their dulness during the ten hours which every man of letters has at his command. Another result will be, that those silly people will demon- strate in deed, that that imaginary property for the sake of which men suffer, torment themselves and others, is not necessary for happiness, and even impedes it, and is only a superstition ; and that true property is only one's own head, hands, feet; and that, in order to utilize this true property usefully and jovfuUy, it is necessary to get rid of the false idea of property outside one's own body, on which we waste the best powers of our life. Another result will be, that these men will show, that, when a man leaves off believing in imaginary property, then only will he make real use of his true property, — his own body, which will yield him fruit an hundred-/oId, and such happiness of which we have no idea as yet ; and he will be a useful, strong, kind man, who will everywhere stand on his own feet, will always be a brother to every- body, will be intelligible to all, desired by all, and dear to all. And men, looking at one, at ten such, silly men will understand what they have all to do in order to undo that dreadful knot in which they have all been tied by the super- stition respecting property, in order to get rid of the miser- WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f 233 able condition from ^hich they are groaning now, and from wliich they do not know how to free themselves. But what can a man do in a crowd who do not agree with him? There is no reasoning which could more obviously demonstrate the unrighteousness of those who employ it as does this. The boatmen are dragging vessels against the stream. Is it possible that there could be found such a stupid boatman who would refuse to do his part in drag- ging, because he alone cannot drag the boat up against the stream? He who, besides his rights of animal life, — to eat and to sleep, — acknowledges any human duty, knows very well wherein such duty consists : just in the same way as a boatman knows that he has only to get into bis breast- collar, and to walk in the given direction, to find out what he has to do, and how to do it. And so with the boatmen, and with aU men who do any labor in common, so with the labor of all mankind ; each man need only keep on his breast-collar, and go in the given direction. And for this purpose one and the same reason is given to all men that this dii'ection may always be the same. And that thi§ direction is given to us, is obvious^ and cer- tain from the lives of all those who surround us, as well as in the conscience of every man, and in all the previous expres- sions of human wisdom ; so that only he who does not want work, may say that he does not see it. What will, then, come out of this? This, that first one man, then another, will drag ; looking at them, a third will join ; and so one by one the best men will join, until the business will be set a-going, and will move as of itself, inducing those also to join who do not yet understand why and wherefore it is being done. First, tor the number of men who conscientiously work in order te fulfil the law of God, will be added those who will accept half conscientiously and half upon faith ; then to these a still greater number of men, only upon the faith in the fore- most men ; and lastly the majority of people : and then it will come to pass that men will cease to ruin themselves, and will find oat happiness. This will happen soon when men of our circle, and after them all the great majority of working-people, will no longer consider it shameful to clean sewers, but will consider it shameful to fill them up in order that other men, our brethren. 234 WHAT MUST WE DO THENt may carry their contents away ; they will not consider it shameful to go visiting in common boots, but they will con- sider it shameful to walk in goloshes by barefooted people ; they will not think it shameful not to know French, or about the last novel, but they will consider it shameful to eat bread, and not to know how it is prepared ; they will not consider it shameful not to have a starched shirt or a clean dress, but that it is shameful to wear a clean coat as a token of one's idleness; they will not consider it shameful to have dirty hands, but not to have callouses on their hands. Within my memory, still more striking changes have taken place. I remember that at table, behind each chair, a ser- vant stood with a plate. Men made visits accompanied by two footmen. A Cossack bo}- and a girl stood in a room to give people their pipes, and to clean them, and so on. Now this seems to us strange and remarkable. But is it not equally strange that a young man or woman, or even an elderly man, in order to visit a friend, should order his horses .to be harnessed, and that well-fed horses are only kept for this purpose? Is it not as strange that one man lives in five rooms, or that a woman spends tens, hundreds, thousands of rubles for her dress when she only needs some flax and wool in order to spin dresses for herself, and clothes for her hus- band and children ? Is it not strange that men live doing nothing, riding to and fro, smoking and placing, and that a battalion of people are busy feeding and warming them ? Is it not strange that old people quite gravely talk and write in newspapers about theatres, music, and other insane people drive to look at musicians or actors ? Is it not strange that tens of thousands of boys and girls are brought up so as to make them unfit for every work (they return home from school, and their two books are "■ carried for them by a servant) ? There will soon come a time, and it is already drawing near, when it will be shameful to dine on five courses served by I footmen, and cooked by any but the masters themselves ; it » will be shameful not only to ride thoroughbreds or in a coach \ when one has feet to walk on ; to wear on week-days such ' dress, shoes, gloves, in which it is impossible to work ; it / will be shameful to play on a piano which costs one hundred and fifty pounds, or even ten pounds, while othere work for ' one ; to feed dogs upon milk and white bread, and to burn WHAT MUST WE DO THENf 235 lamps and candles without working by their light ; to heat stoves in which the meal is not cooked. Then it would be impossible to think about giving openly not merely one pound, but six pence, for a place in a concert or in a theatre. All this will be when the law of labor becomes public opinion. XL. As it is said in the Bible, there is a law given unto man and woman, — to man, the law of labor; to woman, the law of child-bearing. Although with our science, "noas avons changi tout ga," the law of man as well as of woman remains as immutable as the liver in its place ; and the breach of it is as inevitably punished b^- death. The only difference is, that for man, the breach of law is punished by death in such a near future that it can almost be called present ; but for woman, the breach of law is punished in a more distant future. A general breach, by all men, of the law, destroys men immediately : the breach bj' women destroys the men of the following generation. The evasion of the law by a few men and women does not destroy the human race, but de- prives the offender of rational human nature. The breach of this law by men began years ago in the classes which could use violence with others ; and, spreading on its way, it has reached our day, and has now attained madness, the ideal contained in a breach of the law, the l^eal expressed by Prince Blokhin, and shared by Renan ^nd the whole educated world : work will be done by inachines, and men will be bundles of nerves enjoying them- selves. There has been scarcely any breach of the law by women. It has only manifested itself in prostitution, and in private cases of crime in destroying progeny. Women of the wealthy classes have fulfilled their law, while men did not fulfil theirs ; and therefore women have grown stronger, and have continued to govern, and will govern, men, who have deviated from their law, and who, consequently, have lost their reason. It is generally said that women (the women of Paris, especially those who are childless) have become so bewitching, using all the means of civilization, that thej' have mastered man by their charms. 236 WHAT MUST WE DO THENt This is not only wrong, but it is just the reverse of the truth. It is not the childless woman who has mastered man, but it is the mother, the one who has fulfilled her duty, while man has not fulfilled his. As to the woman who artificially remains childless, and bewitches man by her shoulders and curls, she is not a woman, mastering man, but a woman corrupted by him, reduced to his level, to the corrupted man, and who, as well as he, has deviated from her duty, and who, as well as he, has lost every reasonable sense of life. This mistake produces also the astounding nonsense which is called " woman's rights." The formula of these rights is as follows : — " You men," says woman, " have deviated from your law of true labor, and want us to carr3' the load of ours. No : if so, we also, as well as you, will make a pretence of labor, as you do in banks, ministries, universities, and academies ; we wish, as well as you, bj' the pretence of division of work, to profit by other people's work, and to live, only to satisfy our lust." They say so, and in deed show that they can make that pretence of labor, not at all worse, but even .better, than men do it. The so-called question of woman's rights arose, and only could arise, among men who had deviated from the law of real labor. One has only to return to it, and that question must cease to exist. A woman who has her own particular, inevitable labor will never claim the right of sharing man's labor, — in mines, or in ploughing fields. She claims a share only in the sham labor of the wealthy classes. The woman of our class was stronger than man, and is now still stronger, not through her charms, not through her skill in performing the same pharisaic similitude of work as man, but because she has not stepped outside of the law ; because she has borne that true labor with danger of life, with uttermost effort ; true labor, from which the man of the wealthy classes has freed himself. But within my memory has begun also the deviation from the law by woman, — that is to saj-, her fall ; and within my memory, it has proceeded farther and farther. A woman who has lost the law, believes that her power consists in the charms of her witchery, or in her skill at a pharisaic pre- tence of intellectual labor. But children hinder the one and the other. Therefore, with the help of science, within my WBAT MUST WE DO THEN? 237 memorj it has come to pass that among the wealthy classes, Bcores of means of destroying progeny have appeared. And behold, — women, mothers, some of them of the wealthy classes, who held their power in their hands, let it slip away, only to place themselves on a level with women of the street. The evil has spread far, and spreads farther every day, and will soon grasp all the women of the wealthy classes ; and then they will become even with men, and together with them will lose every reasonable sense of life. But there is yet time. If only women would understand their worth, their power, and would use them for the work of salvation of their husbands, brothers, and children ! the salvation of all men ! Women, mothers of the wealthy classes, the salvation of men of our world from the evils from which it suffers, is in your hands ! Not those women who are occupied by their figures, bustles, head-dresses, and their charms for men, and who, contrary to their will, by oversight and with despair, bear children, and then give their children to wet-nurses ; nor yet those who go to different lectures, and talk of psychometrical centres and differentiation, and who also tiy to free them- selves from bearing children in order not to hinder their folly, which they call development, — but those women and mothers who, having the power of freeing themselves from child-bearing, hold strictly and consciously to that eternal, immutable law, knowing that the weight and labor of that submission is the aim of their life. These women and mothers of our wealthy classes are those in whose hands, more than in any others, lies the salvation of the men of our sphere in life, from the calamities which oppress them. You women and mothers who submit consciously to the law of God, you are the only ones who, in our miserable, mutilated world, which has lost all semblance of humanity, you are the only ones who know the whole true meaning of life according to the law of God ; and you are the only ones who, by your example, can show men the happiness of that submission to God's law, of which they rob themselves. You are the only ones who know the joy and happiness which takes possession of one's whole being ; the bliss which is the share of every man who does not deviate from God's law. You know the joy of love to j'our husband, — a joy never enduig, never destroyed, like all other joys, but form- 238 WHAT MUST WE DO TEEN f ing the beginning of another new joy — love to your child. You are the only oues, when you are simple and submissive to God's law, who know, not the farcical pretence of labor, which men of your world call labor, but that true labor which is imposed by God upon men, and know the rewards for it, — the bliss which it gives. You know it when, after the joys of love, you expect with emotion, fear, and hope, the torturing state of pregnancy, which makes you ill for nine months, and brings you to the brink of death and to unbearable sufferings and pains : you know the conditions of true labor, when with joy you expect the approach and increase of the most dreadful sufferings, after which comes the bliss, known to you only. You know it when, directly after those sufferings, without rest, without interruption, you undertake another series of labors and sufferings, — those of nursing ; for the sake of which you subjugate to j'our feeling, and renounce, the strong- est human necessity, — that of sleep, which, according to the saying, is sweeter than father and mother. And for months and years you do not sleep two nights running, and often you do not sleep whole nights ; walking alone to and fro, rocking in your wearied arms an ailing baby, whose sufferings tear your heart. And when you do all this, unapproved and unseen by anybody, not expecting any praise or reward for it ; when jou do this, not as a great deed, but as the laborer of the gos- pel parable, who came from the field, considering that you are only doing your duty, — you know then what is false, fictitious labor, — for human fame ; and what is true labor, — the fulfil- ment of God's will, the indication of which you feel in your heart. You know, if you are a true mother, that not only nobody has seen and praised your labor, considering that it is only what ought to be, but even those for whom you toiled are not only ungrateful to j-ou, but often torment and reproach you. And with the next child you do the same, — again you suffer, again you bear unseen, terrible toil, and again you do not expect any reward from anybody, and feel the same satisfaction. If you are such, you will not say, after two or after twenty children, that you have borne children enough ; as a fifty- year-old workman will not say that he has worked enough, when he still eats and sleeps, and his muscles demand work. If you are such, you will not cast the trouble of nursing and care on strange mother, any more than a workman will give . WHAT MUST WE DO THEN t 239 the work which he has begun, and nearly finished, to another man, because in that work you put your life, and because, the more you have of that work, the fuller and happier is your life. But when you are like this, — and there are yet such women, happily for men, — the same law of fuililment of God's will, by which you guide your own life, you will applj' also to the life of your husband, of your children, and of men near to you. If you are such, and if you know by experience that only self-denied, unseen, unrewarded labor with danger of life, and uttermost effort for the life of others, is that mission of man which gives satisfaction, you will claim the same from others, you will encourage your husband to do the same labor, you will value and appreciate the worth of men by this same labor, and for it you will prepare your children. Only that mother who looks on child-bearing as a dis- agreeable accident, and upon the pleasures of love, comfort, education, sociability-, as the sense of life, will bring up her children so that they shall have as many pleasures, and enjoy them as much, as possible ; will feed them luxuriously, dresa them smartly, will artificially divert them, and will teach them, not that which will make them capable of self-sacrificing man's and woman's labor with danger of life and uttermost effort, but that which will deliver them from that labor. Only such a woman, who has lost the sense of her life, will sympathize with that false, sham man's labor, by means of which her husband, freeing himself from man's duty, has the possibility of profiting, together with her, by the labor of others. Only such a woman will choose a similar husband for her daughter, and value men, not hy what they are in themselves, but by what is attached to them, — position, money, the art of profiting by the labor of others. A true mother, who really knows God's law, will prepare her children for the fulfilment of it. For such a mother to see her child overfed, delicate, overdressed, will be a suffer- ing, because all this, she knows, will hinder it in the fulfilment of God's law, experienced by herself. Such a woman will not teach that which will give her son or daughter the possi- bility of delivering themselves from labor, but that which will help them to bear the labor of life. She will not want to ask what to teach her children, or for what to prepare them, knowing what it is .ind in what con- sists the mission of men, and consequently knowing what 240 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN T to teach her children, and for what to prepare them. Such a woman will not only discourage her husband from false, sham labor, the only aim of which is to profit by other people's work, but will view with disgust and dread an activity that will serve as a double temptation for her chil- dren. Such a woman will not choose her daughter's husband according to the whiteness of his hands, and the refinement of his manners, but, knowing thoroughly what is labor and what deceit, will always and everywhere, beginning with her husband, respect and appreciate men, will claim from them true labor with waste and danger of life, and will scorn that false, sham labor which has for its aim the delivering of one's self from true labor. Such a mother will bring forth and nurse her children her- self, and, above all things else, will feed and provide for them, will work for them, wash and teach them, will sleep and talk with them, because she makes that her life-work. Only such a mother will not seek for her children external secu- rity through her husband's money, or her children's diplomas, but she will exercise in them the same capacity of self-sac- rificing fulfilment of God's will which she knows in herself, tiie capacity for bearing labor with waste and danger of life, because she knows that only in that lie the security and wel- fare of life. Such a mother will not have to ask others what is her duty : she will know every thing beforehand, and will fear nothing. If there can be doubts for a man or for a childless woman about the way to fulfil God's will, for a mother that way is firmly and clearly drawn ; and if she fulfils it humbly, with a simple heart, standing on the highest point of good, which it is only given to a human being to attain, she becomes the guiding-star for all men, tending to the same good. Only a mother before her death can saj' to Him wlio sent her into this world, and to Him whom she has served by bearing and bringing up children,' beloved by her more than herself, — only she can peacefully say, after having served Him in her appointed service, — " ' Now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.' " And this is that highest perfection, to which, as to the highest good, men aspire. Such women, who fulfil their mission, are those who reign over reigning men ; those who prepare new generations of WBAT MUST WE DO THEN f 241 men, and fonn public opinion : and therefore in the hands of these women lies the highest power of men's salvation from the existing and threatening evils of our time. Yes, women, mothers, in your hands, more than in those of any others, lies the salvation of the world ! 242 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN t NOTE TO CHAPTER XL. The TOcn tiflit oi-fi gery m ap, and woman is to serve ot her people. With this geiiefanproposftion, T tEuiH all who are not immoral people will agre e. The difference between men and women in the fuIEIirieivr"6f tlfSt vocation, is only in the means by which they attain it; that is to say, by which they serve men. Man serves others by physical work, — procuring food ; by intel- lectual work, — studying the laws of nature in order to master it ; and by social work, — instituting forms of life, and establishing mutual relations between people. The means of serving others are various for men. The whole activity of mankind, with the exception of bearing children and rearing them, is open for his service to men. A woman, in addition to the possibility of serving men by all the means open to man, by the construction of her body is called, and is inevitably attracted, to serve others by that which alone is excepted from the domain of the service of man. The service of mankind is divided into two parts, — one, the aug- mentation of the welfare of mankind ; the other, the continuation of the race. Men are called chiefly to the first, as they are deprived of the possibility of fulfilling the second. Women are called exclusively to the second, as they only are fitted for it. This difference one should not, one can not, forget or destroy ; and it would be sinful to do so. From this difference proceed the duties of each, — duties not invented by men, but which are in the nature of things. From the same difference proceeds the estimation of virtue and vice for woman and man, — the estimation which has existed in every century, which exists now, and which will never cease to exist while in men reason exists. It always has been, and it always will be, the case, that a man who spends a great part of his life in the various physical and mental labors which are natural to him, and a woman, who spends a great part of her life in the labor of bearing, nursing, and rear- ing children, which is her exclusive prerogative, will equally feel that they are doing their duty, and will equally rise in the esteem and love of other people, because they both fulfil that which is appointed to them by their nature. The vocation of man is broader and more varied; the vocation of woman more uniform and narrower, but more profound : and therefore it has always been, and always will be, the case, that man, having hundreds of duties, will be neither a bad nor a pernicious WHAT MUST WE DO THEN T 243 man, even when he has been false to one or ten out of them, if he fulfils the greater part of his vocation ; while woman, as she has a smaller number of duties, if she is false to one of them, instantly falls lower than a man, who has been false to ten out of his hundreds of duties. Such has always been the general opinion, and such it will always remain, — because such is the substance of the matter. A man, in order to fulfil God's will, must serve him in the domain of physical work, thought and morality : in all these ways he can fulfil his vocation. Woman's service to God consists chiefly and almost exclusively in bearing children (because no one except herself can render it). Only by means of work, is man called to serve God and his fellow-men : only by means of her children, is a woman called to serve them. And therefore, love to her own children which is inborn in woman, that exclusive love against which it is quite vain to strive by reasoning, will always be, and ought to be, natural to a woman and a mother. That love to a child in its infancy is not egotism, but it is the love of a workman for the work which he is doing while it is in his hands. Take away that love for the object of one's work, and the work becomes impossible. While I am making a boot, I love it above every thing. If I did not love it, 1 could not work at it. If anybody spoils it for me, I am in despair; but I only love it thus while I am working at it. When it is com- pleted, there remains an attachment, a preference, which is weak and illegitimate. It is the same with a mother. A man is called to serve others by multifarious labors, and he loves those labors while he is accomplishing them. A woman is called to serve others by her children, and she cannot help loving those children of hers while she is rearing them to the age of three, seven, or ten years. In the general vocation of serving God and others, man and woman are entirely equal, notwithstanding the difference of the form of that service. The equality consists in the equal impor- tance of one service and of the other, — that the one is impossible without the other, that the one depends upon the other, and that for efficient service, as well for man as for woman, the knowledge of truth is equally necessary. Without this knowledge, the activity of man and woman becomes not useful but pernicious for mankind. Man is called to fulfil bis multifarious labor; but his labor is only useful, and his physical, mental, and social labor is only fruitful, when it is fulfilled in the name of truth and the welfare of others. A man can occupy himself as zealously as he will to increase his pleasures by vain reasoning and with social activity for his own advantage : his labor will not be fruitful. It will only be so when it is directed towards lessening the suffering of others from want and ignorance and from false social organization. The same with woman's vocation : her bearing, nursing, and 244 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? bringing np children will only be useful to mankind when she not only gives birth to children lor her own pleasure, but when she prepares future servants of mankind ; when the education of those children is done in the name of truth and for the welfare of others, — that is to say, when she will educate her children in such a manner that they shall be the very best men possible, and the very best laborers for others. The ideal woman, in my opinion, is the one who, appropriating the highest view of life of the time in which she lives, yet gives herself to her feminine mission, which is irresistibly placed in her, — that of bringing forth, nursing and educating, the greatest possible number of children, fitted to work for people according to the view which she has of life. But in order to appropriate the highest view of life, I think there is no need of visiting lectures : all that she requires is to read the gospel, and not to shut her eyes, ears, and, most of all, her heart. Well, and if you ask what those are to do who have no children, who are not married, or are widows, I answer that those will do well to share man's multifarious labor. But one cannot help being sorry that such a precious tool as woman is, should be bereft of the possibility of fulfilling the great vocation which it is proper to her alone to fulfil. Especially as every woman, when she has finished bearing chil- dren, if she has strength left, will have the time to occupy herself with that help in man's labor. Woman's help in that labor is very precious ; but it will always be a pity to see a young woman fit for child-bearing, and occupied by man's labor. To see such a woman, is the same as to see precious vegetable soil covered with stones for a place of parade or for a walking- ground. Still more a pity, because this earth could only produce bread, and a woman could produce that for which there cannot be any equivalent, higher than which there is nothing, — man. And only she is able to do this. THE END. Count Tolstoi's Works, ASHA EAB&nHA. tamo, $i .as- Paper, 50 cents. ** Will take rank among the great works of fiction of the age." — PorUand Trantcrift. niS ILTITCR, AHS OTEEB STOBIES. lamo, $1.35. , ** No living author surpasses him, and only one or two approach him, in the power of picturing not merely places but persons, with minute and fairly startling fidelity.*' — Congregatumalist, CHIIiDHOOD, BOTHOOD, TODTH. With Portrait of the Author, umo, $1.50. A series of reminiscences and traditions of the author's early life. HT OONFESSIOH AHD THE SPISIT OF CHBIST'S T£ACHUI8. lamo, %\ai. A companion book to " My Religion." HT SELI6I0N. 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