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Tolstoy and His Message
Å罺ÅäÀÌ¿Í ±×ÀÇ ¸Þ½ÃÁö
By Ernest Howard Crosby
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Chapter 2
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Á¦ 2 Àå
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His Great Spiritual Crisis
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±×ÀÇ Ä¿´Ù¶õ Á¤½ÅÀû
À§±â
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These clear premonitions of Tolstoy's ultimate convictions show how his mind and heart
were continually working beneath all the apparent absorption of his literary and
domestic life. At fifty years of age he found himself celebrated, rich,
surrounded by a loved and loving family, and yet so wretched that he thought
seriously of suicide, and gave up shooting for fear that he might be tempted to
blow out his brains, and hid a rope which offered itself too readily to him as a
means of escape. The question which he had throughout his life buried under his
superficial activities now rose to confront him and to insist upon an answer.
The crisis, which we find in the lives of men who pass through deep spiritual
experiences, and are by them fitted to guide others, was upon him. He too was
led into the wilderness. The fact was that the life which had been his, however
honourable in the eyes of the world, was not the true life; his relations, the
relations of a rich man, to the poor peasantry round him were not such as were
demanded by his deepest soul, and it was finally in readjusting those relations
that he found peace.
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Å罺ÅäÀÌÀÇ ±Ã±ØÀûÀÎ ½Å³äµé¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ÀÌ·± ¸í¹éÇÑ ÀüÁ¶µéÀº ±×ÀÇ Á¤½Å°ú ¸¶À½ÀÌ ±×ÀÇ ¹®ÇÐÀû ¹× °¡Á¤Àû
»îÀÇ ¸ðµç ¿ÜÀûÀÎ ¸ôµÎ ¾Æ·¡¼ ¾ó¸¶³ª Áö¼ÓÀûÀ¸·Î ÀÛ¿ëÇϰí ÀÖ¾ú´Â°¡¸¦ º¸¿© ÁØ´Ù. ¿À½Ê »ìÀÇ ³ªÀÌ¿¡ ±×´Â À¯¸íÇÏ¿´°í, ºÎÀ¯Çϸç, »ç¶û¹ÞÀ¸¸ç
»ç¶û¹Þ´Â °¡Á·µé¿¡°Ô µÑ·¯ ½Î¿© ÀÖ¾ú´Ù, ÇÏÁö¸¸ ³Ê¹«³ª ºñÂüÇÏ°Ô ´À²¸Á®¼ ±×´Â Àڻ쿡 ´ëÇØ ½É°¢ÇÏ°Ô »ý°¢ÇÏ¿´À¸¸ç ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ ¸Ó¸®¸¦ ³¯·Á ¹ö¸±±î µÎ·Á¿ö
»ç³Éµµ ±×¸¸ µÎ¾úÀ¸¸ç, ±×¿¡°Ô µµÇÇÀÇ ¼ö´ÜÀ¸·Î ³Ê¹«³ª ½±°Ô ÀÌ¿ëµÉ ¹åÁÙµµ ¼û°Ü µÎ¾ú´Ù. ±×ÀÇ »î ³»³» ±×ÀÇ ÇÇ»óÀûÀΠȰµ¿µé¿¡ ¹¯Çô ÀÖ¾ú´ø ¹®Á¦°¡
ÀÌÁ¦ ±×¿Í ´ëÄ¡ÇÏ¿© ´ë´äÀ» µéÀ¸·Á °íÁýÇϸç ÀϾ´Ù. ±× À§±â´Â, ±íÀº ¿µÀûÀÎ °æÇèµéÀ» Åë°úÇÏ´Â »ç¶÷µéÀÇ »î¿¡¼ ¿ì¸®°¡ ¹ß°ßÇϸç, ±×µé¿¡ ÀÇÇØ¼
´Ù¸¥ »ç¶÷µéÀ» À̲ø¾î °¡±â¿¡ ÀûÇÕÇϵµ·Ï ¸¸µé¾î Áö´Â °ÍÀ¸·Î, ±×¿¡°Ô ´Ù°¡ ¿Ô´ø °ÍÀÌ´Ù. ±× ¿ª½Ã Ȳ¾ß·Î À̲ø·È´Ù. ±×ÀÇ °ÍÀ̾ú´ø »îÀº, ¼¼»óÀÇ
´«µé¿¡´Â ¾Æ¹«¸® Á¸°æ½º·¯¿üÀ» Áö¶óµµ, ÂüµÈ »îÀÌ ¾Æ´Ï¾ú´Ù; ±×ÀÇ ÁÖº¯ÀÇ °¡³ÇÑ ³óºÎµé¿¡ ´ëÇÑ, ±×ÀÇ °ü°èµé, ÇÑ ºÎÀ¯ÇÑ »ç¶÷ÀÇ °ü°èµéÀº ±×ÀÇ
°¡Àå ±íÀº ¿µÈ¥ÀÌ ¿ä±¸ÇÏ´ø °ÍÀÌ ¾Æ´Ï¾úÀ¸¸ç, ±×°ÍÀº ¸¶Ä§³» ±×°¡ Æòȸ¦ ¹ß°ßÇÑ ±×·± °ü°èµéÀ» ÀçÁ¤¸³ÇÔ¿¡ ÀÖ¾ú´Ù. |
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The
question which thus puts itself to him, he gives us in various forms: "What
if I should become more famous than Pushkin and Shakespeare -- than all the
writers of the world," he asked himself, "What then? What result will
there be from what I am doing now, and may do tomorrow? What will be the issue
of my life? Why should I live? Why should I wish for anything? Why should I do
anything? Is there any object in life which can survive the inevitable death
which awaits us?" For an answer to these questions he sought long and
patiently in every branch of human learning, but in vain. The natural sciences
ignored them, philosophy admitted them but gave no satisfactory solution. He
turned from the learned books to the men of his own circle of society, and made
a study of their way of accounting for life. He discovered that they met the
question in four equally senseless ways: namely, by remaining ignorant of it, by
recognizing it but seeking distraction in ephemeral amusements and occupations,
by suicide, and by a cowardly avoidance of suicide, continuing to drag on a
hopeless existence.
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±×¸®ÇÏ¿© ±×¿¡°Ô Á¦½ÃµÇ´Â Áú¹®À», ±×´Â ¿ì¸®¿¡°Ô ´Ù¾çÇÑ ÇüÅ·ΠÁ¦½ÃÇÑ´Ù: "³»°¡ Ǫ½¬Å² ¹×
½¦ÀͽºÇǾ´Ù - ¼¼»óÀÇ ¸ðµç ÀÛ°¡µé º¸´Ù - À¯¸íÇØÁø´Ù¸é ¹«½¼ ¼Ò¿ëÀ̰ڴ°¡." ±×´Â Àڽſ¡°Ô ¹°¾ú´Ù, "±×·¯¸é ¹«¾ùÀ̶õ ¸»Àΰ¡? ³»°¡ Áö±Ý
ÇàÇÏ´Â, ±×¸®°í ³»ÀÏ ÇàÇÒ °Í¿¡¼ ¾î¶² °á°úµéÀÌ ³ª¿Ã °ÍÀΰ¡? ³ªÀÇ »îÀÇ ¹®Á¦´Â ¹«¾ùÀΰ¡? ³ª´Â ¿Ö »ì¾Æ¾ß Çϴ°¡? ¿ì¸®¸¦ ±â´Ù¸®°í ÀÖ´Â ÇÊ¿¬Àû
Á×À½À» À̰ܳ¾ ¸¸ÇÑ ¾î¶² »îÀÇ ¸ñÀûÀÌ¶óµµ ÀÖ´Ü ¸»Àΰ¡?" À̵é Áú¹®µé¿¡ ´ëÇØ¼ ±×´Â ¿À·§µ¿¾È ±×¸®°í ²ö±â ÀÖ°Ô Àΰ£ÀÇ ¹è¿òÀÇ ¸ðµç ºÐ¾ß¿¡¼
Ãß±¸ÇÏ¿´À¸³ª, Çã»ç¿´´Ù. ÀÚ¿¬ °úÇеéÀº ±×°ÍµéÀ» ¹«½ÃÇÏ¿´À¸¸ç, öÇÐÀº ±×°ÍµéÀ» ¹Þ¾Æ µé¿´À¸³ª ¾Æ¹«·± ¸¸Á·½º·± ÇØ´äÀ» ÁÖÁö ¾Ê¾Ò´Ù. ±×´Â Áö½ÄÀÌ
dzºÎÇÑ Ã¥µé·ÎºÎÅÍ ÀÚ±â ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ ¹üÁÖÀÇ »çȸÀÇ »ç¶÷µé¿¡°Ô ã¾Æ°¬À¸¸ç, ±×µéÀÇ »î¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ¼³¸íÀÇ ¹æ¹ýÀ» ¿¬±¸ÇÏ¿´´Ù. ±×´Â ±×µéÀÌ ³× °¡ÁöÀÇ ¶È°°ÀÌ
¹«ÀǹÌÇÑ ¹æ¹ýÀ¸·Î ÇØ°áÇϰí ÀÖÀ½À» ¹ß°ßÇÏ¿´´Ù: ´Ù½Ã ¸»ÇÏÀÚ¸é, ±×°Í¿¡ ´ëÇØ ¹«ÁöÇÑ Ã¤·Î ¸Ó¹°·¯ ÀÖÀ½À¸·Î½á, ±×°ÍÀ» ÀÎÁ¤ÇÏÁö¸¸ µ¡¾ø´Â ¿À¶ôµé°ú
Á÷¾÷µé¿¡¼ À§¾ÈÀ» Ãß±¸ÇÔÀ¸·Î½á, ±×¸®°í ÀÚ»ì·Î¼, ±×¸®°í ºñ°ÌÇÏ°Ô ÀÚ»ìÀ» ÇÇÇÔÀ¸·Î½á, °è¼ÓÇÏ¿© Èñ¸Á ¾ø´Â Á¸Àç·Î ÁúÁú ²ø¾î °¡°í ÀÖ´Ù´Â °ÍÀÌ´Ù. |
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During
all this time Tolstoy laboured under the belief that his own small circle of
learned, rich, and idle people formed the whole of humanity, and that the
millions outside did not deserve serious consideration, but fortunately his
strange instinctive affection for the working classes came at last to his rescue
and he turned to them. He began to feel that if he wished to understand the
meaning of life, he must seek it amongst those who had not lost their grasp upon
it, among the millions on whom rests the burden of our life and theirs.
Accordingly he applied himself to the study of the simple, unlearned and poor
peasantry of his neighbourhood, and at once discovered that he could not
classify them with his rich friends, for they found nothing unreasonable in
life, neither did they ignore the questions which had disturbed him. He became
convinced that while the knowledge of the learned based on intellectual activity
denied a meaning to life, the great mass of mankind have an unreasoning
consciousness of life which gives a meaning to it. It was in short their faith
which brought them into relation with the infinite.
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ÀÌ ¸ðµç ±â°£ µ¿¾È, Å罺ÅäÀÌ´Â ÀÚ±â ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ Á¶±×¸¸, Áö½ÄÀÖ°í, ºÎÀ¯ÇÑ, ±×¸®°í °ÔÀ¸¸¥ »ç¶÷µéÀÌ Àüü
Àηù¸¦ Çü¼ºÇϰí ÀÖ´Ù´Â, ±×¸®°í ¹Ù±ùÀÇ ¼ö¹é¸¸Àº ÁøÁöÇÑ °ü½ÉÀ» µÑ °¡Ä¡°¡ ¾ø´Ù´Â ¹ÏÀ½¾Æ·¡¼ ¾Ö¸¦ ½èÁö¸¸, ´ÙÇེ·´°Ôµµ ³ëµ¿ÇÏ´Â °è±Þµé¿¡ ´ëÇÑ
±×ÀÇ ÀÌ»óÇϸ®¸¸Ä¡ º»´ÉÀûÀÎ ¾ÖÁ¤ÀÌ ¸¶Ä§³» ±×µé ±¸¿øÇÏ°Ô µÇ¾úÀ¸¸ç ±×´Â ±×µé¿¡°Ô µ¹¾Æ °¬´Ù. ±×´Â, ¸¸ÀÏ ±×°¡ »îÀÇ Àǹ̸¦ ±ú´Ý±â¸¦ ¹Ù¶õ´Ù¸é,
±×´Â »î¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ¹Ì·ÃÀ» ÀÒÁö ¾ÊÀº »ç¶÷µé Áß¿¡¼, ¿ì¸®ÀÇ »î°ú ±×µéÀÇ »îµéÀÇ ÁüÀ» Áö°í ÀÖ´Â ¼ö¹é¸¸ÀÇ »ç¶÷µé Áß¿¡¼, ±×°ÍÀ» ã¾Æ¾ß ÇÑ´Ù°í,
´À³¢±â ½ÃÀÛÇß´Ù. µû¶ó¼ ±×´Â ±×ÀÇ ÀÌ¿ô¿¡ ÀÖ´Â ¼Ò¹ÚÇϰí, ¹«½ÄÇÏ¸ç °¡³ÇÑ ³óºÎµé¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ¿¬±¸¿¡ ¸ôµÎÇÏ¿´À¸¸ç, ±× Áï½Ã ±×µéÀ» ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ ºÎÀ¯ÇÑ
Ä£±¸µé°ú ÇÔ²² ºÐ·ùÇÒ ¼ö ¾ø´Ù´Â °ÍÀ» ¹ß°ßÇÏ¿´´Ù, ¿Ö³ÄÇÏ¸é ±×µéÀº »î¿¡ ÀÖ¾î¼ ¾î¶°ÇÑ ºñÀ̼ºÀûÀÎ °Íµµ ãÁö ¾Ê¾ÒÀ¸¸ç, ±×µéÀÇ ±«·ÓÈ÷´Â ¹®Á¦µéÀ»
¹«½ÃÇÏÁöµµ ¾Ê¾Ò±â ¶§¹®À̾ú´Ù. ÁöÀûÀΠȰµ¿À» ±â¹ÝÀ¸·Î ÇÏ´Â ¹è¿î »ç¶÷µéÀÇ Áö½ÄÀº »î¿¡ ´ëÇÑ Àǹ̸¦ °ÅºÎÇÏ¿´´ø ¹Ý¸é, Àηù ´ë´Ù¼ö´Â Àǹ̸¦ ÁÖ´Â
»î¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ºñÀ̼ºÀûÀÎ ÀǽÄÀ» °¡Áö°í ÀÖÀ½À» ±ú´Ý°Ô µÇ¾ú´Ù. ±×°ÍÀº °£´ÜÈ÷ ¸»ÇÏÀÚ¸é ±×µéÀ» ¹«ÇÑÇÑ °Í°úÀÇ °ü°è·Î µ¥·Á´Ù ÁÖ´Â °ÍÀº ±×µéÀÇ
½Å¾ÓÀ̾ú´Ù. |
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Here
was the defect of the learned authors and the fashionable world: neither of them
provided any bridge between the finite self and the infinite -- neither of them
assigned any reasonable function to the finite creature in an infinite world.
The faith of the peasantry supplied this missing link, and he saw that this
faith was not intellectual acquiescence in certain truths, but the knowledge of
the meaning of life -- the very force itself of life. For any one to live he
must either close his eyes to infinity or find some way of relating himself to
the infinite. "What am I?" he asked. "A part of an infinite
whole." Here was the answer to the problem; and faith which defines our
relation to the whole world is the deepest source of human wisdom.
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¿©±â¿¡ À¯½ÄÇÑ ÀÛ°¡µé°ú À¯ÇàÀ» µû¸£´Â ¼¼»óÀÇ °áÁ¡ÀÌ ÀÖ¾ú´Ù: ¾î´À Âʵµ À¯ÇÑÇÑ ÀڽŰú ¹«ÇÑÇÑ Á¸Àç
»çÀÌ¿¡ ¾î¶² ´Ù¸®¸¦ Á¦°øÇÏÁö ¾Ê¾Ò´Ù - Áï, ¾î´À Á·µµ ¹«ÇÑÇÑ ¼¼»ó¿¡¼ À¯ÇÑÇÑ Á¸Àç¿¡°Ô ¾î¶² ÇÕ¸®ÀûÀÎ ±â´ÉÀ» Á¤ÇØÁÖÁö ¾Ê¾Ò´Ù. ³óºÎÀÇ ½Å¾ÓÀº
ÀÌ¿Í °°Àº ÀÒ¾î¹ö¸° ¿¬°áÀ» Á¦°øÇÏ¿´À¸¸ç, ±×´Â ÀÌ·± ½Å¾ÓÀÌ Æ¯Á¤ÇÑ Áø¸®µé¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ÁöÀûÀÎ ¹¬Á¾ÀÌ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó, »îÀÇ Àǹ̿¡ ´ëÇÑ Áö½Ä - »îÀÇ Èû ¹Ù·Î
±× ÀÚü - ÀÎ °ÍÀ» ±ú´Þ¾Ò´Ù. ¾î´À ´©±¸¶óµµ »ì¾Æ°¡±â À§Çؼ´Â ¹«ÇÑÇÑ °Í¿¡ ±×ÀÇ ´«À» °¨¾Æ ¹ö¸®°Å³ª ÀÚ±â ÀÚ½ÅÀ» ¹«ÇÑÇÑ Á¸Àç¿¡ ¿¬°ü ÁöÀ¸·Á´Â
¾î¶² ¹æ¹ýÀ» ã¾Æ¾ß¸¸ ÇÑ´Ù. "³ª´Â ´©±¸Àΰ¡?" ±×´Â ¹°¾ú´Ù. "¹«ÇÑÇÑ ÀüüÀÇ ÇÑ ÀϺÎÀÌ´Ù." ¿©±â¿¡ ±× ¹®Á¦¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ´äÀÌ ÀÖ¾ú´Ù; ±×¸®°í Àüü
¼¼»ó¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ¿ì¸®ÀÇ °ü°è¸¦ Á¤ÀÇÇÏ´Â ½Å¾ÓÀº Àΰ£ÀÇ ÁöÇýÀÇ °¡Àå ±íÀº ¿øÃµÀÎ °ÍÀÌ´Ù. |
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Filled
with this belief, Tolstoy sought instruction from his orthodox friends, but he
found no satisfaction in their doctrines, not so much on account of the
unreasonable statements that were mixed with them as because of the fact that
they did not live according to the doctrines which they professed. He was
persuaded that they deceived themselves. He looked in vain to them for actions
showing that their conception of life had destroyed their fear of poverty,
illness and death.
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ÀÌ·± ¹ÏÀ½À¸·Î °¡µæ Â÷¼, Å罺ÅäÀÌ´Â ±×ÀÇ Á¤Åë ±³È¸ Ä£±¸µé¿¡°Ô¼ °¡¸£Ä§À» ±¸ÇßÀ¸³ª, ±×µéÀÇ
±³¸®µé¿¡¼ ¾Æ¹«·± ¸¸Á·À» ¹ß°ßÇÏÁö ¸øÇßÀ¸¸ç, ±×°ÍÀº ±×µéÀÌ °í¹éÇÏ´Â ±³¸®µé¿¡ µû¶ó¼ »ýȰÇÏÁö ¾Ê´Â´Ù´Â »ç½Ç ¶§¹®Àº ¹°·Ð ±³¸®µé¿¡ È¥ÇÕµÈ
ºñÀ̼ºÀûÀÎ ¼±¾ðµé ¶§¹®À̱⵵ ÇÏ¿´´Ù. ±×´Â ±×µéÀÌ ÀÚ±â ÀڽŵéÀ» ¼ÓÀ̰í ÀÖÀ½À» È®½ÅÇÏ¿´´Ù. ±×´Â ±×µéÀÇ »îÀÇ °³³äÀÌ ºó°ï, Áúº´ ¹× Á×À½¿¡ ´ëÇÑ
±×µéÀÇ µÎ·Á¿òÀ» ÆÄ±«ÇÏ¿´À» °ÍÀÓÀ» º¸¿©ÁÖ´Â ÇàÀ§µé¿¡ ´ëÇØ¼ ÇêµÇÀÌ ±×µé¿¡°Ô ±â´ë·Á ÇÏ¿´´ø °ÍÀÌ´Ù. |
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He
turned to the believers among the poor, the pilgrims, the monks, the members of
the various peasant sects. They too professed the same superstitions which
offended him among the higher classes, but there was this difference: the whole
life of the rich was in flat contradiction with their faith, while that of the
people was in complete consistency with it.
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±×´Â °¡³ÇÑ »ç¶÷µé, ¼ø·ÊÀÚµé, ¼öµµÀÚµé, ´Ù¾çÇÑ ³ó¹Î ±³ÆÄµéÀÇ ±¸¼º¿øµé ¾È¿¡ ÀÖ´Â ¹Ï´Â »ç¶÷µé¿¡°Ô·Î
µ¹¾Æ °¬´Ù. ±×µé ¿ª½Ã ´õ ³ôÀº °è±Þµé »çÀÌ¿¡¼ ±×µé ´çȲÇÏ°Ô ÇÏ¿´´ø °Í°ú ¶È°°Àº ¹Ì½ÅµéÀ» °í¹éÇÏ¿´À¸³ª, Â÷À̰¡ ÀÖ¾ú´Ù: ºÎÀ¯ÇÑ »ç¶÷µéÀÇ Àüü
»îÀº ±×µéÀÇ ½Å¾Ó°ú öÀúÇÑ ¸ð¼øµÇ¾úÁö¸¸, ¹ÎÁßµéÀÇ °ÍÀº ½Å¾Ó°ú ¿ÏÀüÈ÷ ÀÏÄ¡ÇÏ¿´´Ù. |
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The
more Tolstoy studied the lives of the peasantry, the more he was convinced that
they had a true faith, a solid foundation for their lives. They passed their
days contentedly in heavy labour; they accepted illness and sorrow
unresistingly, in the assurance that all was for the best; they lived, suffered,
and drew near death in quiet confidence and often with joy. Among them death is
almost invariable easy, without terror and despair. In all these things their
life presented the greatest contrast to that of the world of wealth and culture.
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Å罺ÅäÀ̰¡ ³ó¹ÎµéÀÇ »îµéÀ» ¿¬±¸Çϸé ÇÒ ¼ö·Ï, ±×µéÀÌ Áø½ÇµÈ ½Å¾Ó, ±×µéÀÇ »îÀ» À§ÇÑ ´Ü´ÜÇÑ ±âÃʸ¦
°¡Áö°í ÀÖÀ½À» ´õ¿í È®½ÅÇÏ¿´´Ù. ±×µéÀº Èûµç ³ëµ¿À¸·Î ±×µéÀÇ ÇÏ·çµéÀ» ¸¸Á·ÇÏ¸ç º¸³Â´Ù; ±×µéÀº, ¸ðµç °ÍÀÌ °¡Àå ¼±ÇÑ ÀÚ¸¦ À§ÇÑ °ÍÀ̶ó´Â
¹ÏÀ½À¸·Î, Áúº´°ú ½½ÇÄÀ» ÀúÇ×ÇÏÁö ¾Ê°í, ¹Þ¾Æ µé¿´´Ù; ±×µéÀº Á¶¿ëÇÑ È®½Å ¾È¿¡¼ ±×¸®°í °¡²ûÀº Áñ°Å¿òÀ» °¡Áö°í »ì°í, °íÅë ¹Þ¾ÒÀ¸¸ç, Á×À½
°¡±îÀÌ¿¡ ´Ù°¡ °¬´Ù. ±×µé ¾È¿¡¼ Á×À½Àº °¡Àå º¯ÇÔ¾øÀÌ ½¬¿üÀ¸¸ç, °øÆ÷¿Í Àý¸ÁÀÌ ¾ø´Â °ÍÀÌ´Ù. ÀÌ ¸ðµç °Íµé¿¡¼ ±×µéÀÇ »îÀº ºÎ¿Í ¹®ÈÀÇ ¼¼»óÀÇ
°Í°ú´Â °¡Àå Å« ´ëÁ¶¸¦ ÀÌ·ç¾ú´Ù. |
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This
distinction between rich and poor, which had so long haunted the mind of Tolstoy
like a phantom, now took the form of a substantial conviction, and the manner of
life of his own class became senseless and repulsive to him. He saw clearly that
the difficulty in finding the meaning of life arose from leading a false and
artificial life, and from not sharing in the common life of humanity.
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ºÎÀ¯ÇÑ »ç¶÷°ú °¡³ÇÑ »ç¶÷ÀÇ ±¸º°Àº, ¸¶Ä¡ À¯·Éó·³ ³Ê¹«³ª ¿À·§µ¿¾È Å罺ÅäÀÌÀÇ ¸¶À½À» ±«·ÓÇûÁö¸¸,
ÀÌÁ¦ ±¸Ã¼ÀûÀÎ ½Å³äÀÇ ÇüŸ¦ °¡Á³À¸¸ç, ÀÚ±â ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ °è±ÞÀÇ »îÀÇ ¹æ½ÄÀº ±×¿¡°Ô´Â ¹«ÀǹÌÇÏ¸ç ¿ª°Ü¿öÁ³´Ù. ±×´Â, »îÀÇ Àǹ̸¦ ¹ß°ßÇÔ¿¡ ´ëÇÑ
¾î·Á¿òÀº °ÅÁþµÇ¸ç ÀÎÀ§ÀûÀÎ »îÀ» ¿µÀ§ÇÔ¿¡¼ ºñ·ÔµÇ´Â °ÍÀ̸ç, ÀηùÀÇ °øÅëÀûÀÎ »îÀ» °øÀ¯ ÇÔ¿¡¼°¡ ¾Æ´ÔÀ» ±ú´Þ¾Ò´Ù. |
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Throughout
all this period of mental torment, his heart had been oppressed by a feeling
which he says he cannot describe otherwise than as a searching after God, a
feeling of dread, of orphanhood, of isolation. He now made every effort to
apprehend what God was. Sometimes for a moment he would seem to have found Him
and then only he would feel that he really lived, but he would soon lose his
grasp.
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ÀÌ ¸ðµç Á¤½ÅÀû °íÅëÀÇ ½Ã±â¿¡ °ÉÃļ, ±×ÀÇ ¸¶À½Àº, ±×°¡ ¸»ÇÏ´Â ¹Ù, Çϳª´ÔÀ» Ž»öÇÔÀ¸·Î½á,
µÎ·Á¿î, °í¾Æ¿Í °°Àº, °Ý¸®µÈ °¨Á¤ ¿ÜÀÇ °ÍÀ¸·Î´Â ¹¦»çÇÒ ¼ö ¾ø´Â °¨Á¤¿¡ ÀÇÇØ ¾ï´·Á ÀÖ¾ú´Ù. ±×´Â ÀÌÁ¦ Çϳª´ÔÀÌ ¹«¾ùÀÎÁö ÆÄ¾ÇÇϰíÀÚ ÇÏ´Â ¸ðµç
³ë·ÂÀ» ±â¿ï¿´´Ù. ¶§·Î´Â Àá½Ã µ¿¾È ±×´Â Çϳª´ÔÀ» ãÀº °Íó·³ º¸¿´À¸¸ç ±×¸®°í ³ª¼ ¿ÀÁ÷ ±×ºÐÀÌ Áø½Ç·Î »ì¾Æ ÀÖÀ½À» ´À³¢Áö¸¸, ±×´Â °ð ±ú´ÞÀ½À»
ÀÒ¾î ¹ö¸®°ï Çß´Ù. |
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One
day in the early spring, while he was walking in the woods, he was as usual
engaged in such thoughts. "I do not live when I lose faith in the existence
of God," he said to himself; "I only really live when I seek
him." "What more then do you seek?" a voice seemed to cry within
him, "this is He, He without whom there is no life. To know God and to live
are one. God is life. Live to seek God and life will not be without Him."
"And stronger than ever,'' he tells us, "life rose up within me and
round me, and the light that then shone forth never left me afterwards."
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À̸¥ º½ÀÇ ¾î´À ³¯, ±×°¡ ½£ ¼ÓÀ» °È°í ÀÖÀ» ¶§, ±×´Â ¿¹Àüó·³ ±×·¯ÇÑ »ý°¢µé¿¡ Àá°Ü ÀÖ¾ú´Ù.
"³»°¡ Çϳª´ÔÀÇ Á¸Àç¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ¹ÏÀ½À» »ó½ÇÇÏ¸é ³ª´Â »ç´Â °ÍÀÌ ¾Æ´Ï´Ù," ±×´Â Áß¾ó°Å·È´Ù; "³»°¡ ±×ºÐÀ» ãÀ» ¶§¾ß ºñ·Î¼Ò ³ª´Â ÁøÁ¤À¸·Î »ç´Â
°ÍÀÌ´Ù." "±×·¸´Ù¸é ³Ê´Â ´õ ÀÌ»ó ¹«¾ùÀ» ã´Â°¡?"ÇÏ´Â ¼Ò¸®°¡ ±×ÀÇ ³»ºÎ¿¡¼ ¼Ò¸®Ä¡´Â °Íó·³ ´À²¸Á³´Ù, "À̰ÍÀÌ
±×ºÐÀÌ´Ù, ±×ºÐÀÌ ¾ø´Ù¸é ¾î¶² »îµµ ¾ø´Ù. Çϳª´ÔÀ» ¾Æ´Â °Í°ú »ç´Â °ÍÀº ÇϳªÀÌ´Ù. Çϳª´ÔÀº »îÀÌ´Ù. Çϳª´ÔÀ» ãÀ¸¸ç »ì¶ó ±×·¯¸é ±×ºÐ ¾ø´Â
»îÀº ¾øÀ» °ÍÀÌ´Ù." "±×¸®°í ¿¹Àüº¸´Ù °ÇϰÔ," ±×´Â ¿ì¸®¿¡°Ô ¸»ÇÑ´Ù, "»îÀº ³ªÀÇ ¾È¿¡¼ ±×¸®°í ³ªÀ§ ÁÖº¯¿¡¼ ¼Ú¾Æ ¿Ã¶úÀ¸¸ç, ±× ¶§¿¡
¾ÕÀ¸·Î ºû³ª´ø ºûÀº ÀÌÈÄ¿¡ °áÄÚ ³ª¸¦ ¶°³ªÁö ¾Ê¾Ò´Ù." |
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"I
renounced the life of my own class," his Confession continues,
"for I had come to confess that it was not a real life, only the semblance
of one, that its superfluous luxury prevented the possibility of understanding
life, and that in order to do so I must know, not an exceptional parasitic life,
but the simple life of the working classes, of those who produce life and give
it a meaning." And once more he turned to the Russian peasantry, but he
soon was impressed by the fact that their simple faith in the necessity of
following God's will by labour, humility, patience, and goodwill to all men, was
bound up with much superstition. However, he tried to ignore this, and returned
to the church of his childhood.
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"³ª´Â ³ª ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ °è±ÞÀÇ »îÀ» Æ÷±âÇÏ¿´´Ù,"¶ó°í ±×ÀÇ °í¹é
Àº À̾´Ù, "¿Ö³ÄÇÏ¸é ³ª´Â ±×°ÍÀÌ ÂüµÈ »îÀÌ ¾Æ´Ï¸ç, ±×°ÍÀº ¿ÀÁ÷ ÂüµÈ »î°ú À¯»çÇÑ °ÍÀ̸ç, ±×°ÍÀÇ ¾µµ¥¾ø´Â »çÄ¡°¡ »îÀ» ±ú´ÞÀ» °¡´É¼ºÀ» ¹æÇØÇÏ´Â
°ÍÀ̸ç, ±×·¸°Ô Çϱâ À§Çؼ ³ª´Â ¹Ýµå½Ã, ¿¹¿ÜÀûÀÎ ±â»ýÇÏ´Â »îÀÌ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó, »îÀ» ¸¸µé¾î ³»¸ç ±×°Í¿¡ Àǹ̸¦ ÁÖ´Â, ³ëµ¿ÇÏ´Â °è±ÞµéÀÇ ¼Ò¹ÚÇÑ »îÀ»
¾Ë¾Æ¾ß¸¸ ÇÑ´Ù." ±×¸®°í ´Ù½Ã Çѹø ±×°¡ ·¯½Ã¾ÆÀÇ ³óºÎµé¿¡°Ô µ¹¾Æ¼¹´Ù, ±×·¯³ª ±×´Â °ð ³ëµ¿, °â¼Õ, Àγ», ¹× ¸ðµç »ç¶÷¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ¼±ÀÇ¿¡ ÀÇÇØ¼
Çϳª´ÔÀÇ ¶æÀ» µû¸§¿¡ ´ëÇÑ Çʿ伺¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ±×µéÀÇ ¼Ò¹ÚÇÑ ½Å¾ÓÀÌ, ¸¹Àº ¹Ì½Åµé°ú ¹¿© ÀÖ´Ù´Â »ç½Ç¿¡ ³î¶ú´Ù.
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For
three years he was a regular attendant at the little village church at Yasnia
Poliana, striving with all his might to enter into the spirit of the peasants
and to overlook the contradictions, obscurities and superstitions of their cult.
But finally the obstacle which turned him away from the church was not a matter
of form or theory, but a purely practical and ethical matter which shocked his
essentially practical mind. It was in the year 1878, and the great Russo-Turkish
war had broken out. The Holy Synod ordered prayers to be said in the churches
for the success of the Russian armies, and when Tolstoy heard the lips of the
priest, who had so often read the Gospel injunction to love your enemies and do
good to those who despitefully use you, utter supplications in the name of Jesus
to the Almighty that He might destroy the Turks with sword and bombshell, or
words to that effect, his soul revolted at the blasphemy and as he left the
building he shook the dust from his feet.
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»ï³â µ¿¾È ±×´Â ¾ß½º³ª¾ß Æú¸®¾ß³ªÀÇ ÀÛÀº ¸¶À» ±³È¸¿¡ ²¿¹Ú ²¿¹Ú
Âü¼®ÇÏ´Â »ç¶÷ÀÌ µÇ¾úÀ¸¸ç, ±×ÀÇ ¿Â ÈûÀ» ´ÙÇÏ¿© ³óºÎµéÀÇ ¿µÈ¥¿¡ µé¾î °¡°íÀÚ ±×¸®°í±×µéÀÇ ÀǽĵéÀÇ ¸ð¼øµé, ¾Ö¸ÅÇÔµé ¹× ¹Ì½ÅµéÀ» °ü´ëÈ÷ »ý°¢ÇÏ·Á
¾Ö¸¦ ½è´Ù. ±×·¯³ª ¸¶Ä§³» ±×µé ±³È¸·ÎºÎÅÍ µîÀ» µ¹¸®°Ô ÇÑ Àå¾Ö¹°Àº ÀÌ·ÐÀ̳ª Çü½ÄÀÇ ¹®Á¦°¡ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó, ±×ÀÇ ±Ùº»ÀûÀ¸·Î ½Ç¿ëÀûÀÎ ¸¶À½¿¡ Ãæ°ÝÀ» ÁØ
¼ø¼öÇÏ°Ô ½Ç¿ëÀû ¹× À±¸®Àû ¹®Á¦¿´´Ù. ±×°ÍÀº 1878³âÀ̾úÀ¸¸ç, °Å´ëÇÑ ·¯½Ã¾Æ-Å;îŰ ÀüÀïÀÌ ¹ß¹ßÇÏ¿´´Ù. ¼º¹« ȸ¿øÀº ·¯½Ã¾Æ ±º´ëµéÀÇ ½Â¸®¸¦
À§Çؼ ±³È¸ ¾È¿¡¼ ±âµµÇÒ °ÍÀ» ¸í·ÉÇßÀ¸¸ç, Å罺ÅäÀÌ´Â ¼ºÁ÷ÀÚµéÀÌ ±×Åä·Ï ÈçÈ÷ ÀÔÀ¸·Î´Â ³ÊÈñÀÇ ¿ø¼ö¸¦ »ç¶ûÇ϶ó ±×¸®°í ³ÊÈñ¿¡°Ô ¾ÇÀ» ÇàÇÏ´Â
ÀÚ¿¡°Ô ¼±À» ÇàÇ϶ó´Â º¹À½¼ÀÇ ¸í·ÉÀ» ÀÐÀ¸¸é¼, ¿¹¼öÀÇ À̸§À¸·Î Àü´ÉÇϽŠÇϳª´Ô²² Ä®°ú ÆøÅºÀ¸·Î Å;îŰÀεéÀ» ¸ê¸Á½Ãų °Í¿¡ ´ëÇÑ °£Ã»À» ¶Ç´Â
±×·± °á°ú¸¦ ÃÊ·¡ÇÏ´Â ¸»À» ¹ñ¾Æ ³¾ ¶§, ±×ÀÇ ¿µÈ¥Àº ±×·¯ÇÑ ½Å¼º ¸ðµ¶¿¡ ¸ö¼¸® ÃÆÀ¸¸ç ±× °Ç¹°À» ¶°³ª¸é¼ ±×ÀÇ ¹ß³¡ÀÇ ¸ÕÁö¸¦ Åоî³Â´Ù. ¡¡ |
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Tolstoy's
struggle to gain the truth seemed for a moment to have failed, but he clutched
at one remaining straw. The Church was founded upon the Gospels. (In Russia they
say "the Gospels," when we say "the Bible," and they give
the proper precedence to the four biographies of Jesus.) The Church was founded
upon the Gospels and any truth which the Church possesses must be contained in
those Gospels. He would study them for himself; and he set to work with his
usual thoroughness, single-mindedness and patience. He took up the Greek
language again, so that he might not be misled by translators, and the result of
his labour is shown in a complete commentary in three volumes with the Greek
text in one column, the translation in another and his notes below.
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Áø¸®¿¡ À̸£°íÀÚ ÇÏ´Â Å罺ÅäÀÌÀÇ ÅõÀïÀº Àá½Ã ½ÇÆÐÇÑ °Íó·³
º¸¿©Á³Áö¸¸, ±×´Â ÇÑ °¡Áö ³²Àº ÁöǪ¶ó±â¿¡ ¸Å´Þ·È´Ù. ±³È¸´Â º¹À½¼µé À§¿¡ ¼¼¿öÁ³´Ù. (·¯½Ã¾Æ¿¡¼´Â "º¹À½¼"¶ó°í ÇÏ°í ¿ì¸®´Â "¼º¼"¶ó°í
Çϴµ¥, ±×µéÀº ¿¹¼öÀÇ ³× °¡Áö Àü±âµé¿¡ ´ëÇØ ÀûÀýÇÑ ¿ì¼± ¼øÀ§¸¦ µÐ´Ù.) ±³È¸´Â º¹À½¼µé¿¡ ±âÃʵǾúÀ¸¸ç, ±³È¸°¡ Áö´Ï´Â ¾î¶² Áø¸®µçÁö À̵é
º¹À½¼µé¿¡ ´ã°ÜÀÖ¾î¾ß¸¸ ÇÏ´Â °ÍÀÌ´Ù. ±×´Â ±×°ÍµéÀ» ½º½º·ÎÀÇ ÈûÀ¸·Î ¿¬±¸¸¦ Çϰï ÇÏ¿´´Ù; ±×¸®°í ±×´Â Æò¼ÒÀÇ ÁøÁöÇÔ, ¿Ü°ó ¹× Àγ»¸¦ °¡Áö°í
ÀÛ¾÷¿¡ Âø¼öÇß´Ù. ±×´Â ±×¸®½º¾î¸¦ ´Ù½Ã ½ÃÀÛÇÏ¿´À¸¸ç, ¹ø¿ªÀڵ鿡 ÀÇÇÑ ¿ÀÇØ¸¦ ¸·±â À§ÇÔÀ̾úÀ¸¸ç, ÀÌ·± ÀÛ¾÷ÀÇ °á°ú´Â ÇÑ ÂÊ ´Ü¿¡´Â ±×¸®½º¾î
¿ø¹®À», ´Ù¸¥ ´Ü¿¡´Â ¹ø¿ªº»À» ±×¸®°í ÇÏ´Ü¿¡´Â ±×ÀÇ ÁÖ¼®µéÀ» ´ãÀº ¼¼ ±Ç¿¡ °ÉÄ£ ¿ÏÀüÇÑ ÁÖÇØ¼·Î ³ªÅ¸³ °ÍÀÌ´Ù. |
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Tolstoy
is not a scholar and his knowledge of Greek is not profound. There are some
drawbacks also in his methods. For instance, when he does not like a verse he
simply leaves it out, a wonderfully simple expedient which seems to have escaped
the ingenuity of former commentators, and it is remarkable that they never
thought of it, it is so satisfactory -- to the commentator. But making all
allowances for Tolstoy's arbitrary ways and his lack of scholarship, the fact
remains that his dramatic quality of mind has enabled him to enter into the
spirit of the Gospel narrative as few other writers have ever done. He describes
the events as if they had occurred in Moscow today, and we see with new insight
why the Pharisees spake thus and why the disciples made such and such an answer.
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Å罺ÅäÀÌ´Â ÇÐÀÚ°¡ ¾Æ´Ï¸ç ±×ÀÇ ±×¸®½º¾î¿¡ ´ëÇÑ Áö½ÄÀº ½É¿ÀÇÏÁö
¾Ê´Ù. ¶ÇÇÑ ±×ÀÇ ¹æ¹ýµé¿¡´Â ÀϺΠ´ÜÁ¡µéµµ ÀÖ¾ú´Ù. ¿¹¸¦ µé¸é, ±×°¡ ¾î¶² ÇàÀÌ ¸¶À½¿¡ µéÁö ¾ÊÀ¸¸é ±×´Â ±×°ÍÀ» ±×³É µÎ¸ç. ±×°ÍÀº °ú°ÅÀÇ
ÁÖ¼®°¡µéÀÇ µ¶Ã¢¼ºÀ» ÇÇÇØ³ª°¬À» °Íó·³ º¸ÀÌ´Â ³î¶øµµ·Ï ´Ü¼øÇÑ ¹æÆíÀ̾úÀ¸¸ç, ±×µéÀÌ ±×°ÍÀ» °áÄÚ »ý°¢Áö ¾Ê¾Ò´Ù´Â °ÍÀº ³î¶ó¿î ÀÏÀ̸ç, ±×°ÍÀº
ÁÖ¼®°¡µé¿¡°Ô´Â ³Ê¹«³ª ¸¸Á·½º·¯¿î °ÍÀ̾ú´Ù. ±×·¯³ª Å罺ÅäÀÌÀÇ ÀÓÀÇÀû ¹æ¹ýµé ¹× Çй®ÀÇ ºÎÁ·À» °í·ÁÇÑ´Ù°í ÇØµµ, ±×ÀÇ ±ØÀûÀÎ Á¤½ÅÀû ¼º°ÝÀº ±×·Î
ÇÏ¿©±Ý °ÅÀÇ ¾î¶² ÀÛ°¡µéµµ ÀÌ·çÁö ¸øÇß´ø º¹À½¼ ¼¼ú Á¤½Å¿¡ µéµµ·Ï ÇÏ¿´´Ù. ±×´Â »ç°ÇµéÀ» ¸¶Ä¡ ¿À´Ã³¯ ¸ð½ºÅ©¹Ù¿¡¼ ¹ß»ýÇß´ø °Íó·³ ¹¦»çÇϸç,
¿ì¸®´Â »õ·Î¿î ¾È¸ñÀ¸·Î ¿Ö ¹Ù¸®»õÀεéÀÌ ±×·¸°Ô ¸»ÇßÀ¸¸ç ¿Ö Á¦ÀÚµéÀÌ ±×·¸°í ±×·± ´ë´äµéÀ» Çß´ÂÁö ±ú´Ý°Ô µÈ´Ù. |
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When
Tolstoy began to examine the record of the evangelists, he was struck by the
fact that the texts upon which the Church founded its dogmas were invariably
obscure, while those which teach us how to live are clear and to the point. He
read the Gospel over and over again and he was most impressed by the Sermon on
the Mount. Nowhere else did he find such plain and definite precepts, and for
that reason he looked particularly to these three chapters of St. Matthew for a
solution of his doubts. Whenever he read them his heart was touched by the idea
of turning the cheek to the smiter, of giving up our cloak to him who takes our
coat, of loving our enemies; and yet these texts seemed to call for an
impossible self-sacrifice which was inconsistent with true life.
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Å罺ÅäÀ̰¡ º¹À½ÁÖÀÇÀÚµéÀÇ ±â·ÏµéÀ» °ËÅäÇϱ⠽ÃÀÛÇßÀ» ¶§, ±³È¸°¡
±³ÀÇÀÇ ±Ù°Å¸¦ µÎ°í ÀÖ´Â ¿ø¹®µéÀÌ ÇѰᰰÀÌ ºÒÅõ¸íÇÏ¿´À¸¸ç, ¹Ý¸é¿¡ ¿ì¸®¿¡°Ô ¾î¶»°Ô »ì °ÍÀΰ¡¸¦ °¡¸£Ä¡´Â °ÍµéÀº ¸í¹éÇϸç ÀûÀýÇÏ´Ù´Â »ç½ÇÀ»
±ú´Þ¾Ò´Ù. ±×´Â º¹À½¼¸¦ ²÷ÀÓ ¾øÀÌ µÇÇ®ÀÌ ÇÏ¿© ÀоúÀ¸¸ç »ê»ó ¼³±³¿¡ °¡Àå °¨¸íÀ» ¹Þ¾Ò´Ù. ±× ¾î´À °÷¿¡¼µµ ±×´Â ±×ó·³ ¸í¹éÇϰí Á¤È®ÇÑ
°¡¸£Ä§µéÀ» ãÀº ÀûÀÌ ¾øÀ¸¸ç ±×·¯ÇÑ ÀÌÀ¯·Î ±×´Â Ưº°È÷ ¸¶ÅÂÀÇ ¼¼ Àåµé¿¡ ±×ÀÇ ÀÇȤµé¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ÇØ´äÀ» ãÀ¸·Á ½Ã¼±À» µ¹·È´Ù. ±×°¡ ±×°ÍµéÀ» ÀÐÀ»
¶§¸é ¾ðÁ¦³ª ±×ÀÇ ¸¶À½Àº »´À» ¶§¸®´Â ÀÚ¿¡°Ô µ¹¸®´Â °Í, ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ ¿ÊÀ» °¡Áö°íÀÚ ÇÏ´Â »ç¶÷¿¡°Ô ÁÖ´Â °Í, ¿ì¸®ÀÇ ¿ø¼öµéÀ» »ç¶ûÇÏ´Â °Í¿¡ ´ëÇÑ
»ç»óÀ¸·Î °¨¸í ¹Þ¾Ò´Ù; ÇÏÁö¸¸ ÀÌ ±¸ÀýµéÀº ÂüµÈ »î°ú ÀÏÄ¡ÇÏÁö ¾Ê´Â ºÒ°¡´ÉÇÑ ÀÚ±â Èñ»ýÀ» ¿ä±¸ÇÏ´Â °Íó·³ ´À²¸Á³´Ù. |
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He
sought counsel in the commentaries and treatises of learned theologians, but
they gave him no help. It was only after he had given up all expectation of aid
from such sources and had ceased to expend deep thought and intellectual skill
in comparing texts, and when at last he approached the simple account of
Christ's words as a little child, that he came to understand them. "The
text that gave me the key to the truth," he says, "was the 38th verse
of the fifth chapter of St. Matthew: 'Ye have heard that it hath been said, an
eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. But I say unto you that ye resist not
evil.' The simple meaning of these words suddenly flashed full upon me; I
accepted the fact that Christ meant exactly what He said, and
then, though I had found nothing new, all that had hitherto obscured the truth
cleared away, and the truth itself arose before me in all its solemn
importance."
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±×´Â ¹Ú½ÄÇÑ ½ÅÇÐÀÚµéÀÇ ÁÖÇØ¼µé ¹× ³í¹®µé¿¡¼ Á¶¾ðÀ» ±¸ÇßÀ¸³ª,
±×°ÍµéÀº ¾Æ¹«·± µµ¿òÀÌ µÇÁö ¸øÇß´Ù. ¿ÀÁ÷ ±×°¡ ±×·¯ÇÑ ÀÚ·áµéÀÇ µµ¿ò¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ±â´ë¸¦ Æ÷±âÇÏ°í ¿ø¹®µéÀ» ºñ±³ÇÔ¿¡ ÀÖ¾î¼ ±íÀº »ý°¢ ¹× ÁöÀûÀÎ
ÀçÁÖ¸¦ ÆîÄ¡±â¸¦ Áß´ÜÇÑ µÚ¿¡¼¾ß, ±×¸®°í ¸¶Ä§³» ±×°¡ Á¶±×¸¸ ¾ÆÀÌó·³ ±×¸®½ºµµÀÇ ¸»¾¸µéÀ» ´Ü¼øÇÑ ¼³¸íÀ¸·Î Á¢±ÙÇßÀ» ¶§¾ß ºñ·Î¼Ò, ±×´Â
±×°ÍµéÀ» ÀÌÇØÇÒ ¼ö ÀÖ°Ô µÇ¾ú´Ù. "³ª¿¡°Ô Áø¸®¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ¿¼è¸¦ ÁØ º»¹®Àº," ±×´Â ¸»ÇÑ´Ù, "¸¶Å º¹À½ Á¦ 5 Àå 38 ÀýÀ̾ú´Ù: '³ÊÈñ´Â
´«¿¡´Â ´«, ±×¸®°í ÀÌ¿¡´Â À̶ó°í ÇÏ´Â °ÍÀ» µé¾úÀ¸³ª, ³ª´Â ³ÊÈñ¿¡°Ô À̸£³ë´Ï ¾Ç¿¡ ÀúÇ×ÇÏÁö ¸»¶ó.' ÀÌ ¸»µéÀÇ ´Ü¼øÇÑ Àǹ̰¡
°©Àڱ⠳ª¿¡°Ô ȯÇÏ°Ô ºñÃÄ µé¾ú´Ù; ³ª´Â ±×¸®½ºµµ°¡ ¸»ÇϰíÀÚ ÇÑ °ÍÀ» Á¤È®È÷ ÀǹÌÇß´Ù´Â °ÍÀ» ¹Þ¾Æµé¿´´Ù, ±×¸®ÀÚ, ¾î¶²
»õ·Î¿î °Íµµ ¹ß°ßÇÏÁö ¾Ê¾ÒÀ¸³ª, ¿©Å±îÁö Áø¸®¸¦ °¡¸®´ø ¸ðµç °ÍµéÀº ¸»²ûÈ÷ ¾ø¾îÁ³À¸¸ç, Áø¸® ±× ÀÚü°¡ ±× ¸ðµç ¾ö¼÷ÇÑ Á߿伺 ¾È¿¡¼
³ªÀÇ ¾Õ¿¡ ¶°¿Ã¶ú´Ù." |
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"Christ
was not exaggerating. He says, 'Resist not him that is evil;' but if you obey
Him in this, you may meet some one who, having smitten you on one cheek and
meeting with no resistance, will smite you on the other; who, after taking away
your coat, will take away your cloak also; having profited by your work will
oblige you to work on; who will take and never give back. 'Nevertheless I say
unto you, that ye resist not him that is evil.' Still do good to those that even
smite and abuse you.... Christ meant to say, 'Whatever men may do to you, bear,
suffer, submit, but never resist evil.' What could be clearer, more intelligible
and more indubitable than this? As soon as I understood the exact meaning of
these simple words, all that had appeared to me confused in the doctrine of
Christ grew intelligible; what had seemed contradictory now became consistent,
and what I had deemed superfluous became indispensable. All united in one whole,
one part fitting into and supporting the other, like the pieces of a broken
statue put together again into their proper place."
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"±×¸®½ºµµ´Â °úÀåÇϰí ÀÖÁö ¾Ê´Ù. ±×´Â ¸»ÇÑ´Ù, '¾ÇÇÑ ÀÚ¿¡°Ô
ÀúÇ×ÇÏÁö ¸»¶ó;' ±×·¯³ª ¸¸ÀÏ ³ÊÈñ°¡ ÀÌ ¸»¾¸À¸·Î Çϳª´Ô¿¡ º¹Á¾Çϸé, ¾î¶² »ç¶÷ÀÌ ³ÊÈñÀÇ ÇÑ ÂÊ »´À» ¶§¸®°í ³ª¼ ¾Æ¹«·± ÀúÇ×À» ¸¸³ªÁö ¾ÊÀ¸¸é
³ÊÈñÀÇ ´Ù¸¥ »´À» ¶§¸± °ÍÀÌ´Ù; ³ÊÈñÀÇ ¿ô¿ÊÀ» »©¾ÑÀº ÀÚ°¡ ¶ÇÇÑ ³ÊÈñ ¸ÁÅ丶Àú »©¾ÑÀ» °ÍÀÌ´Ù; ³ÊÈñÀÇ ³ëµ¿À¸·Î À̵æÀ» º¸°í¼µµ ³ÊÈñ¿¡°Ô °è¼ÓÇØ¼
ÀÏÇϵµ·Ï ½Ãų °ÍÀÌ´Ù; »©¾Ñ¾Æ°¡°í °áÄÚ µ¹·Á ÁÖÁö ¾ÊÀ» °ÍÀÌ´Ù. '±×·³¿¡µµ ºÒ±¸ÇÏ°í ³ª´Â ³ÊÈñ¿¡°Ô À̸£³ë´Ï, ¾ÇÇÑ ÀÚ¸¦ ´ëÀûÇÏÁö ¸»¶ó.' ½ÉÁö¾î
±×µéÀÌ ³ÊÈñ¸¦ ¶§¸®°í ¸ð¿åÇÏ´õ¶óµµ °è¼ÓÇØ¼ ¼±À» ÇàÇ϶ó... ±×¸®½ºµµ´Â ¸»ÇϰíÀÚ ÇÑ °ÍÀ» ÀǹÌÇß´Ù, '»ç¶÷µéÀÌ ³ÊÈñ¿¡°Ô ¹«¾ùÀ» ÇàÇϵçÁö, Âü°í,
°ÞÀ¸¸ç, °¨¼öÇÒ °ÍÀ̸ç, °áÄÚ ¾Ç¿¡ ÀúÇ×ÇÏÁö ¸»¶ó.' ¹«¾ùÀÌ À̰ͺ¸´Ù ´õ ÀÌÇØÇϱ⠽±°í ´õ ¸íÈ®ÇÒ ¼ö Àִ°¡? ³ª´Â ÀÌ¿Í °°Àº ´Ü¼øÇÑ ¸»µéÀÇ
Á¤È®ÇÑ Àǹ̸¦ ±ú´ÝÀÚ ¸¶ÀÚ, ±×¸®½ºµµÀÇ ±³¸®¿¡¼ ³»°Ô È¥¶õ½º·¯¿î °Íó·³ º¸ÀÌ´ø ¸ðµç °ÍÀÌ Á¶¸®°¡ ÀÖ¾úÀ¸¸ç, ³»°¡ ºÒÇÊ¿äÇÏ´Ù°í ¿©±â´ø °ÍÀº
¾ø¾î¼´Â ¾ÈµÉ °ÍÀÌ µÇ¾ú´Ù. Çϳª·Î¼ÀÇ Àüü ¾È¿¡ ¸ðµç °ÍÀÌ °áÇյǸé¼, ÇÑ ºÎºÐÀÌ ¸ÂÃß¾î Á®¼ ´Ù¸¥ °ÍÀ» ÁöÁöÇÏ¿´À¸¸ç, ¸¶Ä¡ ±úÁ®¹ö¸° ¼®»óÀÇ
Á¶°¢µéÀÌ ´Ù½Ã ÇÔ²² Á¦ÀÚ¸®¿¡ ¸ÂÃß¾îÁö´Â °Í °°¾Ò´Ù." |
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Let
us briefly glance at the remaining years of Count Tolstoy's history before
returning to the consideration of the system of ethics to which his admission of
the doctrine of nonresistance led him. In 1881 he once more made Moscow his
home, and sought in schemes of philanthropy some outlet for his new-found
spiritual energy. A census of the city was in progress and he had himself
appointed as census-taker in one of the poorest neighbourhoods in order that he
might become familiar with the population. He happened to meet the peasant
sectary and religious reformer Soutaieff and explained to him his plans for the
care of the aged and orphans and for putting an end to all misery in the city,
expecting to receive encouragement from him, but the moujik kept silence.
Finally Tolstoy asked him what he thought of the scheme. "That's all
nonsense," was the answer.
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±×¸¦ ¹«ÀúÇ×ÀÇ ±³¸®¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ÁøÀÔÀ¸·Î À̲ö À±¸® ü°è¿¡ ´ëÇÑ
°íÂû·Î µ¹¾Æ °¡±â Àü¿¡ Å罺ÅäÀÌ ¹éÀÛÀÇ »ý¾ÖÀÇ ³ª¸ÓÁö ³âµµµé¿¡ ´ëÇØ °£·«È÷ »ìÆìº¸ÀÚ. 1881³â ÇÑ ¹ø ´õ ¸ð½ºÅ©¹Ù¸¦ ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ ÁýÀ¸·Î »ï¾ÒÀ¸¸ç,
¹Ú¾ÖÁÖÀÇÀÇ ±¸»ó ¾Æ·¡ ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ »õ·Î ¹ß°ßÇÑ ¿µÀûÀÎ ¿¡³ÊÁö¸¦ À§ÇÑ ¾î¶² ºÐÃⱸ¸¦ ã¾Ò´Ù. µµ½ÃÀÇ ¼¼¹« Á¶»ç°¡ ÁøÇà ÁßÀ̾úÀ¸¸ç ±×´Â °¡Àå °¡³ÇÑ
ÀÌ¿ôµé ÁßÀÇ Çϳª¿¡ ¼¼¹« Á¶»ç¿øÀ¸·Î ÀÓ¸íµÇµµ·Ï ÇÏ¿©¼ Áö¿ª »ç¶÷µé°ú Ä£¹ÐÇØ Áö°íÀÚ ÇÏ¿´´Ù. ±×´Â ³ó¹ÎÀÇ Á¾ÆÄÀÌÀÚ Á¾±³ °³ÇõÀÚÀÎ ¼öŸ¿¹ÇÁ¸¦ ¿ì¿¬È÷
¸¸³µÀ¸¸ç °í·ÉÀÚµé°ú °í¾ÆµéÀÇ º¸È£ ¹× ±× µµ½Ã¿¡¼ÀÇ ¸ðµç ±ÃÇÌÀ» ¾ø¾Ö±â À§ÇÑ °èȹµéÀ» ¼³¸íÇÏ¿´À¸¸ç, ±×·ÎºÎÅÍ Áö¿øÀ» ¾ò±â¸¦ ±â´ëÇÏ¿´À¸³ª, ±×
¹«ÁöÅ©(³óºÎ)´Â ÀáÀáÄÚ ÀÖ¾ú´Ù. ¸¶Ä§³» Å罺ÅäÀÌ´Â ±×°¡ ±× ±¸»óÀ» ¾î¶»°Ô »ý°¢ÇÏ´ÂÁö ¹°¾ú´Ù. "±×°Í´Ù ¾µµ¥ ¾ø´Â ÁþÀÔ´Ï´Ù,"°¡ ±×ÀÇ
´ë´äÀ̾ú´Ù. |
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"Why?"
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"¿Ö ±×·¸½À´Ï±î?" |
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"Because
no good can come from it."
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"¿Ö³ÄÇÏ¸é ±×·¡ ºÁ¾ß ¾Æ¹«·± ÀÌÀÍÀÌ ¾ø±â ¶§¹®ÀÔ´Ï´Ù." |
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"How
so? Does not the Gospel teach us to clothe the naked and feed the hungry?"
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"¾î°¼ ±×·¸´Ù´Â °Ì´Ï±î? º¹À½¼´Â ¿ì¸®¿¡°Ô ¹þÀº ÀÚ¸¦ ÀÔÈ÷°í
±¾ÁÖ¸° ÀÚ¸¦ ¸ÔÀ̶ó°í °¡¸£Ä¡Áö ¾Ê½À´Ï±î?" |
|
"Yes,
but money will not do. They need moral help."
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"±×·¸½À´Ï´Ù¸¸, µ·À¸·Î´Â ¾ÈµÉ °ÍÀÔ´Ï´Ù. ±×µéÀº µµ´öÀûÀÎ µµ¿òÀÌ
ÇÊ¿äÇÕ´Ï´Ù." |
|
"But
would you let them die of hunger and cold?"
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"ÇÏÁö¸¸ ±×µéÀ» ¹è°íÇİú ÃßÀ§·Î Á×°Ô ³öµÑ °ÍÀԴϱî?" |
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"Not
at all," said Soutaieff. "But how many paupers are there?"
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"°áÄÚ ¾Æ´Õ´Ï´Ù," ¼öŸ¿¹ÇÁ°¡ ¸»Çß´Ù. "ÇÏÁö¸¸ ºó¹ÎÀÌ ¸î
¸íÀ̳ª µË´Ï±î?" |
|
"Nearly
20,000 at Moscow."
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"¸ð½ºÅ©¹Ù¿¡¸¸ ¾à 20,000¸íÀÌ µË´Ï´Ù." |
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He
smiled. "And are there not a million hearths in Russia?" he asked.
"Let us work with them, and have them eat at our tables and hear good words
from us; that would be true almsgiving. All the rest is absurdity."
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±×´Â ¹Ì¼Ò Áö¾ú´Ù. "·¯½Ã¾Æ¿¡ ¼ö¹é¸¸ÀÇ º®³·Î°¡ ÀÖÁö
¾Ê½À´Ï±î?" ±×°¡ ¹°¾ú´Ù. "±×µé°ú ÇÔ²² ÀÏÇØ º¾½Ã´Ù, ±×¸®°í ±×µé¿¡°Ô ¿ì¸® ½ÄŹ¿¡¼ ¸Ôµµ·Ï ÇÏ°í ¿ì¸®¿¡°Ô¼ À¯ÀÍÇÑ ¸»¾¸µéÀ» µèµµ·Ï ÇսôÙ;
±×°ÍÀÌ ÁøÁ¤ÇÑ ÀÚ¼±ÀÌ µÉ °ÍÀÔ´Ï´Ù. ³ª¸ÓÁö ¸ðµç °ÍÀº ¾î¸®¼®Àº ÁþÀÔ´Ï´Ù." |
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The
truth of these remarks grew upon Tolstoy. It was a fact; his much vaunted
philanthropy was a mistake. The poor to whom he offered money, saw him in his
fine clothes and well-appointed carriage and knew that he was only giving away
what he had easily taken from others. He always experienced an uncomfortable
sensation in giving money and the people to whom he gave also appeared ill at
ease in their relations to him.
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ÀÌ·± ºñÆòµé¿¡ ´ëÇÑ Áø¸®´Â Å罺ÅäÀÌ¿¡°Ô¼ ÀÚ¶ó ³µ´Ù. ±×°ÍÀº
»ç½ÇÀ̾ú´Ù; ±×°¡ ²÷ÀÓ ¾øÀÌ »ý°¢ÇÏ´Â Àηù¾Ö´Â ½Ç¼ö¿´´Ù. ±×°¡ µ·À» ÁØ °¡³ÇÑ »ç¶÷µéÀº, ÈǸ¢ÇÑ ÀǺ¹µé°ú Àß °®Ãß¾îÁø ¸¶Â÷¸¦ °¡Áø ±×¸¦ º¸¾ÒÀ¸¸ç
±×°¡ ¿ÀÁ÷ ´Ù¸¥ »ç¶÷µé·ÎºÎÅÍ ½±°Ô ¾òÀ» ¼ö ÀÖ´Â °ÍµéÀ» ÁÖ¾î¹ö¸°´Ù´Â °ÍÀ» ¾Ë¾Ò´Ù. ±×´Â ¾ðÁ¦³ª µ·À» ÁÜ¿¡ ÀÖ¾î¼ ºÒÆíÇÑ °¨Á¤À» °æÇèÇÏ¿´À¸¸ç ±×°¡
ÁØ »ç¶÷µé ¶ÇÇÑ ±×¿ÍÀÇ °ü°è¿¡ ÀÖ¾î¼ ÆíÄ¡ ¾ÊÀº °Íó·³ º¸¿´´Ù. |
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He
learned that, so far from uniting people in bonds of affection, there is nothing
which separates them so surely as money given and taken in the way of ordinary
charity. He had a plan for a charitable society for collecting the superfluous
wealth of the rich and distributing it among the poor, but he began to have
doubts of the righteousness of such an institution. His doubts were confirmed by
another little event which left a convincing dramatic picture upon his memory.
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±×´Â, »ç¶÷µéÀ» ¾ÖÁ¤À̶ó´Â À¯´ë·Î ¹±â´Â Ä¿³ç, Æò¹üÇÑ ÀÚ¼±ÀÇ
¹æ¹ýÀ¸·Î µ·À» ÁÖ°í ¹Þ´Â °Íó·³ È®½ÇÈ÷ ±×µéÀ» °Ý¸®ÇÏ´Â °ÍÀº ¾ø´Ù´Â °ÍÀ» ¹è¿ü´Ù. ±×´Â ºÎÀ¯ÇÑ ÀÚµéÀÇ ³²¾Æ µµ´Â Àç»êÀ» ¼öÁýÇÏ°í ±×°ÍÀ» °¡³ÇÑ
»ç¶÷µé »çÀÌ¿¡ ³ª´©¾î ÁÖ±â À§ÇÑ ÀÚ¼± ´Üü¿¡ ´ëÇÑ °èȹÀ» °¡Á³Áö¸¸, ±×·± ±â°üµéÀÇ Á¤Á÷ÇÔ¿¡ ´ëÇØ Àǹ®À» °¡Áö±â ½ÃÀÛÇß´Ù. ±×ÀÇ Àǹ®µéÀº ´Ù¸¥
Á¶±×¸¸ »ç°Ç¿¡ ÀÇÇØ¼ ±»¾îÁ³À¸¸ç ±×°ÍÀº ±×ÀÇ ±â¾ï¿¡ ÀÖ¾î¼ ¼³µæ·Â ÀÖ´Â ±ØÀûÀÎ Àå¸éÀ¸·Î ³²¾Ò´Ù. |
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He
had already made up his mind that man, having arms and legs as well as a brain,
should find useful work for them all, and he had selected for his own manual
labour while he was in town the sawing of wood in the wood-yards of the suburbs.
One day as he was walking back to the city with two peasants who had been sawing
wood with him, an old beggar approached them asking for alms. Tolstoy and one of
his companions each gave him a small coin, and this little incident set Tolstoy
thinking. Those two acts looked alike, he thought, but they were altogether
different. This man earned the coin that he gave. He was giving his own labour;
he was giving himself. Then again, he is very poor. He needs every penny he can
get. Tonight at supper he may have to go without some necessary of life, as we
should call it, because he has given that piece of money away. And now, how is
it with me? In the first place, I have so much money that I could not possibly
miss my coin; I should scarcely know whether I had it or not. And then, how did
I get it? It is part of the rent of one of my farms in the country. I have
simply taken it out of the pocket of a peasant in the country and put it into
the hat of a peasant in the city; that is all I have had to do with it.
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±×´Â À̹Ì, »ç¶÷Àº, µÎ³ú°¡ ÀÖÀ» »Ó¸¸ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó ÆÈ°ú ´Ù¸®¸¦
°¡Áö°í ÀÖÀ¸¹Ç·Î, ±×µé ¸ðµÎ¸¦ À§ÇÑ À¯¿ëÇÑ ³ëµ¿À» ã¾Æ¾ß ÇÑ´Ù°í ¸¶À½ ¸Ô¾úÀ¸¸ç, Àڱ⠽º½º·Î ¼öÀÛ¾÷À» À§Çؼ ±×°¡ µµ½Ã¿¡ ¸Ó¹«´Â µ¿¾È ±³¿ÜÀÇ
¸ñÀç ¾ßÀûÀå¿¡¼ ¸ñÀ縦 ÀÚ¸£±â¸¦ ¼±ÅÃÇÏ¿´´Ù. ¾î´À ³¯ ±×°¡ ÀڽŰú ÇÔ²² ¸ñÀ縦 ÀÚ¸£´ø µÎ ¸íÀÇ ³óºÎµé°ú ÇÔ²² µµ½Ã·Î µ¹¾Æ °¥ ¶§¿¡, ´ÄÀº °ÅÁö°¡
±×µé¿¡°Ô ´Ù°¡ ¿Í¼ ÀÚ¼±À» Ç϶ó°í ºÎŹÇß´Ù. Å罺ÅäÀÌÀÇ ±×ÀÇ µ¿·áµéÀº °¢ÀÚ ±×¿¡°Ô Á¶±×¸¸ µ¿ÀüÀ» ÁÖ¾úÀ¸¸ç, ÀÌ Á¶±×¸¸ »ç°ÇÀº Å罺ÅäÀÌ·Î ÇÏ¿©±Ý
»ý°¢ÇÏ°Ô ¸¸µé¾ú´Ù. µÎ »ç¶÷ÀÇ ÇàÀ§µéÀº °°¾Æ º¸¿´´Ù, ±×´Â »ý°¢Çß´Ù, ±×·¯³ª ±×°ÍµéÀº ÀüÀûÀ¸·Î ´Þ¶ú´Ù. ÀÌ »ç¶÷Àº µ¿ÀüÀ» ¹ú¾î¼ ÁÖ¾ú´Ù. »Ó¸¸
¾Æ´Ï¶ó, ±×´Â ¸Å¿ì °¡³ÇÏ´Ù. ±×´Â ¹ú ¼ö ÀÖ´Â ´Ü ÇÑ Ç¬ÀÌ¶óµµ ÇÊ¿äÇÑ °ÍÀÌ´Ù. ¿À´Ã Àú³á ½Ä»ç¿¡¼ ±×´Â ¿ì¸®°¡ ÀÏÄÂÀÚ¸é ±×´Â »î¿¡ ÇÊ¿äÇÑ ¾î¶²
°ÍÀ» ±¾¾î¾ß¸¸ ÇÒ °ÍÀÌ´Ù, ¿Ö³ÄÇÏ¸é ±×´Â ±×·¯ÇÑ ¸òÀÇ µ·À» ÁÖ¾î ¹ö·È±â ¶§¹®ÀÌ´Ù. ±×·±µ¥ Áö±Ý, ±× µ¿ÀüÀº ³ªÀÇ °æ¿ì ¾î¶°ÇѰ¡? ¸ÕÀú, ³ª´Â
µ·ÀÌ ³Ê¹« ¸¹¾Æ¼ ³ªÀÇ µ¿ÀüÀÌ ¾Æ½±Áö ¾ÊÀ» ¼öµµ ÀÖ´Ù; ³ª´Â ³»°¡ ±× °ÍÀ» °¡Áö°í ÀÖ´ÂÁö ¾Æ´ÑÁö °ÅÀÇ ¾ËÁö ¸øÇÒ °ÍÀÌ´Ù. ±×¸®°í, ³ª´Â ±×°ÍÀ»
¾î¶»°Ô ±¸Çߴ°¡? ±×°ÍÀº ½Ã°ñÀÇ ³ªÀÇ ³óÀåµé ÁßÀÇ ÇϳªÀÇ ÀÓ´ë·áÀÇ ÀϺÎÀÌ´Ù. ³ª´Â ´Ü¼øÈ÷ ½Ã°ñÀÇ ³óºÎÀÇ ÁָӴϷκÎÅÍ ±×°ÍÀ» ²¨³»¾î¼ µµ½ÃÀÇ
³óºÎÀÇ È£ÁÖ¸Ó´Ï¿¡ ³ÖÀº °ÍÀÌ´Ù; ±×°ÍÀÌ ³»°¡ µ¿ÀüÀ» ó¸®Çß¾î¾ß¸¸ ÇÏ´Â ÀüºÎÀÌ´Ù. |
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And
from the lesson of this incident Tolstoy concluded that the only true Christian
almsgiving was to give of your own earnings, your own life, and to give
something that required some degree of self-denial. He now saw that there was
nothing in his charitable scheme which would respond to the needs of his heart.
It was clear to him, too, that it was only by keeping the poor at arm's length
that a rich man could secure a quiet conscience in ordinary charitable work, for
the most cruel of men could scarcely dine with fine courses in the presence of
people with empty stomachs or with nothing but black bread to eat.
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±×¸®°í ÀÌ·± »ç°ÇÀÇ ±³ÈÆÀ¸·ÎºÎÅÍ Å罺ÅäÀÌ´Â À¯ÀÏÇÏ°Ô ÂüµÈ
±×¸®½ºµµ ÀÎÀÇ ÀÚ¼±Àº ÀÚ±â ÀÚ½ÅÀÌ ¹ø °Í, ÀÚ±â ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ »ý¸íÀ» ÁÖ´Â °ÍÀ̸ç, ¾î´À Á¤µµ Àڱ⠺ÎÁ¤À» ¿ä±¸ÇÏ´Â °ÍÀ» ÁÖ´Â °ÍÀ̶ó´Â °á·ÐÀ» ³»·È´Ù.
±×´Â ÀÌÁ¦ ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ ¸¶À½ÀÇ ÇÊ¿äµé¿¡ ¹ÝÀÀÇÏ´Â ±×ÀÇ ÀÚ¼±ÀûÀÎ ±¸»óµé¿¡´Â ¾Æ¹« °Íµµ ¾øÀ½À» ±ú´Þ¾Ò´Ù. ¶ÇÇÑ ±×¿¡°Ô ÀÖ¾î¼ ¸í¹éÇÑ °ÍÀº, ¿ÀÁ÷ °¡³ÇÑ
»ç¶÷µéÀ» ÆÈÀÌ ´Ý´Â °Å¸®¿¡ µÎ´Â °Í¸¸ÀÌ ºÎÀ¯ÇÑ »ç¶÷ÀÌ Æò¹üÇÑ ÀÚ¼± Ȱµ¿¿¡¼ Á¶¿ëÇÑ ¾ç½ÉÀ» È®º¸ÇÒ ¼ö ÀÖ´Ù´Â °ÍÀ̾ú´Ù, ¿Ö³ÄÇÏ¸é »ç¶÷µé Áß¿¡¼
°¡Àå ÀÜÀÎÇÑ ÀÚµéÀÌ¶óµµ ÅÖ ºó ¹è¸¦ °¡Áø ¶Ç´Â ¸ÔÀ» °ÍÀ̶ó°ï ¿À·ÎÁö °ËÀº »§¸¸À» °¡Áø »ç¶÷µé ¸éÀü¿¡¼ ÈǸ¢ÇÑ »óµéÀ» Â÷·Á ³õ°í¼´Â °ÅÀÇ ¸ÔÀ» ¼ö
¾ø±â ¶§¹®ÀÌ´Ù. |
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We separate ourselves from the poor by a barrier of customs and
conventionalities, of masonic signs, as it were, -- a knowledge of which is
requisite to admittance to our society, and Tolstoy determined that this barrier
must be broken down before the poor could be effectually helped. He was living
the wrong life; he was sunk in the mire up to his neck and yet wished to aid
others to get out. The upper classes by their idleness, their luxury, their
useless occupations, forced the working-classes lower and lower, and made the
gulf between them wider and wider. "I am sitting on the back of a man whom
I am crushing," says Tolstoy; "I insist on his carrying me, and
without setting him free, I tell him that I pity him a great deal, and that I
have only one desire, that of improving his condition by all possible means. And
yet, I never get off his back. If I wish to help the poor, I must not be the
cause of the poverty."
(1)
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¿ì¸®´Â ½À°üµé ¹× °ü½Àµé, ´ÜüÀÇ ÁõÇ¥µéÀ̶ó´Â, À̸¦Å׸é, -
¿ì¸® »çȸ¿¡ ÀÔÀåÇÔ¿¡ ÇʼöÀûÀÎ Áö½Ä - À庮À» µÎ°í¼ °¡³ÇÑ »ç¶÷µé°ú ½º½º·Î ºÐ¸®ÇÑ´Ù, ±×¸®°í Å罺ÅäÀÌ´Â ÀÌ·± À庮Àº °¡³ÇÑ »ç¶÷µéÀÌ È¿°úÀûÀ¸·Î
µµ¿òÀ» ¹ÞÀ¸·Á¸é ¹Ýµå½Ã ºÎ¼Á®¾ß ÇÑ´Ù°í °á½ÉÇß´Ù. ±×´Â ±×¸©µÈ »îÀ» »ì°í ÀÖ¾ú´Ù; ±×´Â ¸ñ±îÁö Âû Á¤µµ·Î ÁøÈë¿¡ °¡¶ó ¾É°í ÀÖÀ¸¸é¼µµ ´Ù¸¥
»ç¶÷µéÀÌ ºüÁ® ³ª¿Àµµ·Ï µµ¿Í Áֱ⸦ ¹Ù·¨´ø °ÍÀÌ´Ù. »óÀ§ °è±ÞµéÀº ±×µéÀÇ °ÔÀ¸¸§, ±×µéÀÇ »çÄ¡, ±×µéÀÇ ¾µ¸ð ¾ø´Â Á÷¾÷µé·Î¼, ³ëµ¿ÇÏ´Â °è±ÞµéÀ»
ÀÚ²Ù¸¸ ¾Æ·¡·Î ³»¹Ð¾úÀ¸¸ç, ±×µé »çÀÌÀÇ °Å¸®´Â Á¡Á¡ ³Ð¾îÁö°Ô µÇ¾ú´Ù. "³ª´Â ³»°¡ ±ò¾Æ ¹¶°³°í ÀÖ´Â »ç¶÷ÀÇ µî¿¡ ¾É¾Æ ÀÖ´Ù," Å罺ÅäÀÌ´Â
¸»ÇÑ´Ù; "³ª´Â ±×°¡ ³ª¸¦ °è¼Ó Áö°í °¥ °ÍÀ» °íÁýÇÑ´Ù, ±×¸®°í ±×¸¦ ÀÚÀ¯·Ó°Ô ÇØÁÖÁö ¾ÊÀ¸¸é¼, ³ª´Â ±×¿¡°Ô ¸»Çϱ⸦, ³»°¡ ±×¸¦ ÂüÀ¸·Î °¡¿±°Ô
¿©±â¸ç, ³ª´Â ¿ÀÁ÷ ÇÑ °¡Áö ¼Ò¿ø, Áï ¾î¶² ¹æ¹ýÀ» ½á¼¶óµµ ±×ÀÇ »óŸ¦ °³¼±ÇϰíÀÚ ÇÏ´Â ¼Ò¿øÀ» °¡Áö°í ÀÖ´Ù°í ÇÑ´Ù." ÇÏÁö¸¸, ³ª´Â °áÄÚ ±×ÀÇ
µî¿¡¼ ³»·Á ¿ÀÁö ¾Ê´Â´Ù. ¸¸ÀÏ ³»°¡ °¡³ÇÑ »ç¶÷µéÀ» µ½°íÀÚ ÇÑ´Ù¸é, ³»°¡ ±× ºó°ïÀÇ ¿øÀÎÀ̾ ¾È µÈ´Ù." |
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And
Tolstoy was filled with disgust for the fashionable life he had so long been
living and which had concealed the truth from him so completely. He was impelled
by an irresistible impulse to renounce the luxuries of his position, and he
began to wear the peasant's garb as a protest against the falsehoods of caste
and monopoly. And he saw that the reason that he had been ignorant of his true
position was that he had looked upon his money as the same as the peasant's.
Money has long since lost its simple function of serving as a medium for the
exchange of the products of labour. In a natural Christian society that would be
its only use, but as things are, with the presence of unequal opportunities and
unjust distribution of wealth, it represents might and not right. In the
peasant's hands money represents work; in the landlord's it stands for force,
and nothing else. Money, in fact, according to Tolstoy, has become a means of
enslaving the poor. Money was a great evil; so too were cities, in his
estimation, attracting peasants from the country to wait upon the caprices of
the rich.
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±×¸®°í Å罺ÅäÀÌ´Â ±×°¡ ±×Åä·Ï ¿À·§µ¿¾È »ì°í ÀÖ´ø ±×¸®°í
±×¿¡°Ô¼ Áø¸®¸¦ ±×Åä·Ï ¿ÏÀüÈ÷ °¡¸®°í ÀÖ´ø È£È·Î¿î »î¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ¿ª°Ü¿òÀ¸·Î °¡µæ á´Ù. ±×´Â ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ À§Ä¡°¡ Áö´Ñ ¸ðµç »çÄ¡µéÀ» Æ÷±âÇÏ°í ½ÍÀº
ÀúÇ×ÇÒ ¼ö ¾ø´Â Ãæµ¿À¸·Î ²ø¾î ¿Ã¶úÀ¸¸ç, °è±ÞÁ¦µµ¿Í µ¶Á¡ÀÇ À§¼±µé¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ÀúÇ×À¸·Î¼ ³óºÎÀÇ ÀǺ¹À» ÀԱ⠽ÃÀÛÇß´Ù. ±×´Â ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ ÂüµÈ À§Ä¡¿¡
¹«ÁöÇØ ¿Ô´ø ÀÌÀ¯´Â ±×°¡ ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ µ·À» ³óºÎÀÇ °Í°ú °°Àº °ÍÀ¸·Î ¿©°Ü¿Ô±â ¶§¹®ÀÓÀ» ±ú´Þ¾Ò´Ù. µ·Àº ¿À·¡ ÀüºÎÅÍ ³ëµ¿ÀÇ »ê¹°µéÀ» ±³È¯ÇÏ´Â ¸Åü·Î
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And
now Tolstoy turned his back upon Moscow, resolved to lead a natural life at
Yasnaia Poliana, and as far as in him lay to get off the back of the poor
brethren; and there he continues to live, writing day by day moral tales for the
peasants, and treatises and essays for the world at large, and coming to town
for a time in the winter only when agriculture is impossible, and thus exerting
his personal influence upon those who gather at his house, a valuable privilege
in a country in which he cannot publish his deepest thoughts.
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»ç»óµéÀ» ¹ßÇàÇÒ ¼ö ¾ø´Â ³ª¶ó ¾È¿¡¼ ±ÍÁßÇÑ Æ¯±ÇÀ̾ú´Ù. |
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1. Thoreau's Essay on Civil Disobedience: "If I devote myself to other
pursuits and contemplations, I must first see, at least, that I do not pursue
them sitting upon another man's shoulders. I must get off him first, that he may
pursue his contemplations too."
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1. ½Ã¹Î ºÒº¹Á¾(Civil Disobedience)¿¡ °üÇÑ ¼Ò·Î (Henry David Thoreau)ÀÇ ¼öÇÊ:
"³»°¡ ¸¸ÀÏ ´Ù¸¥ Ãß±¸³ª °èȹ¿¡ Çå½ÅÇϰíÀÚ ÇÑ´Ù¸é, ³ª´Â ¸ÕÀú, Àû¾îµµ, ´Ù¸¥ »ç¶÷ÀÇ ¾î±ú À§¿¡ ¾É¾Æ ÀÖÀ¸¸é¼ ±×°ÍµéÀ» Ãß±¸Çؼ´Â ¾È µÈ´Ù´Â
°ÍÀ» ±ú´Þ¾Æ¾ß ÇÑ´Ù. ³ª´Â ¸ÕÀú ±×¿¡°Ô¼ ³»·Á¿Í¾ß Çϸç, ±×¸®ÇÏ¿© ±×°¡ ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ °èȹÀ» Ãß±¸ÇÒ ¼ö ÀÖµµ·Ï ÇØ¾ß ÇÑ´Ù." |
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