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Tolstoy and His Message

Å罺ÅäÀÌ¿Í ±×ÀÇ ¸Þ½ÃÁö


By Ernest Howard Crosby

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Chapter 2

Á¦ 2 Àå

His Great Spiritual Crisis

±×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.

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» ±×°¡ ÆòÈ­¸¦ ¹ß°ßÇÑ ±×·± °ü°èµéÀ» ÀçÁ¤¸³ÇÔ¿¡ ÀÖ¾ú´Ù.   

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.

±×¸®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 Ç³ºÎÇÑ 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.

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.

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¿¡ À־ 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.  

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.

¿©±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. 

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.

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.

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.

±×´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.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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."

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."

"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.

"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. 

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.

»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.

¡¡

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.

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 ÀÌµé 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

±×´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¿¡ À־ ±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."

"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."

"±×¸®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 °áÇյǸ鼭, 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."

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.

±×¸¦ 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.

"Why?"

"¿Ö ±×·¸½À´Ï±î?"

"Because no good can come from it."

"¿Ö³ÄÇÏ¸é ±×·¡ ºÁ¾ß ¾Æ¹«·± ÀÌÀÍÀÌ ¾ø±â ¶§¹®ÀÔ´Ï´Ù."

"How so? Does not the Gospel teach us to clothe the naked and feed the hungry?"

"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."

"±×·¸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?"

"ÇÏÁö¸¸ ±×µéÀ» ¹è°íÇİú ÃßÀ§·Î Á×°Ô ³öµÑ °ÍÀԴϱî?"

"Not at all," said Soutaieff. "But how many paupers are there?"

"°áÄÚ ¾Æ´Õ´Ï´Ù," ¼öŸ¿¹ÇÁ°¡ ¸»Çß´Ù. "ÇÏÁö¸¸ ºó¹ÎÀÌ ¸î ¸íÀ̳ª µË´Ï±î?"

"Nearly 20,000 at Moscow."

"¸ð½ºÅ©¹Ù¿¡¸¸ ¾à 20,000¸íÀÌ µË´Ï´Ù."

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."

±×´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."

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.

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¿¡ À־ ºÒÆíÇÑ °¨Á¤À» °æÇèÇÏ¿´À¸¸ç ±×°¡ ÁØ »ç¶÷µé ¶ÇÇÑ ±×¿ÍÀÇ °ü°è¿¡ À־ ÆíÄ¡ ¾ÊÀº °Íó·³ º¸¿´´Ù.

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.

±×´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¿¡ À־ ¼³µæ·Â ÀÖ´Â ±ØÀûÀÎ Àå¸éÀ¸·Î ³²¾Ò´Ù.

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.

±×´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.

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.

±×¸®°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 À־ ¸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.

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)

¿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´Â ¾È µÈ´Ù."

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.

±×¸®°í Å罺ÅäÀÌ´Â ±×°¡ ±×Åä·Ï ¿À·§µ¿¾È »ì°í ÀÖ´ø ±×¸®°í ±×¿¡°Ô¼­ Áø¸®¸¦ ±×Åä·Ï ¿ÏÀüÈ÷ °¡¸®°í ÀÖ´ø ȣȭ·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 ÀÛ¿ëÇÏ´Â ÀÚüÀÇ ´Ü¼øÇÑ ±â´ÉÀ» »ó½ÇÇÏ¿´´Ù. ÇÕ¸®ÀûÀÎ ±×¸®½ºµµÀÎÀÇ »çȸ¿¡¼­´Â ±×°ÍÀÌ µ·ÀÇ À¯ÀÏÇÑ ¿ëµµÀÏ °ÍÀÌ´Ù, ±×·¯³ª »ç½Ç»ó, ºÒÆòµîÇÑ ±âȸµé ¹× ºÎ¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ºÎ´çÇÑ ºÐ¹èÀÇ ÃâÇöÀ¸·Î, ±×°ÍÀº Á¤´çÇÔÀÌ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó ±Ç·ÂÀ» ´ëº¯ÇÏ°Ô µÇ¾ú´Ù. ³óºÎÀÇ ¼Õµé¿¡¼­ µ·Àº ³ëµ¿À» ´ëº¯ÇÑ´Ù; ÁöÁÖÀÇ ¼Õ¿¡¼­ ±×°ÍÀº ÈûÀ» ´ëº¯ÇÒ »Ó ¾Æ¹« °Íµµ ¾Æ´Ï´Ù. µ·Àº, »ç½Ç»ó, Å罺ÅäÀÌ¿¡ ÀÇÇϸé, °¡³­ÇÑ »ç¶÷µéÀ» ³ë¿¹È­ÇÏ´Â ¼ö´ÜÀÌ µÇ¾ú´Ù. µ·Àº °Å´ëÇÑ ¾ÇÀÌ´Ù; ¶ÇÇÑ ±×·¯ÇÑ °á°ú, ±×ÀÇ °ßÇØ¿¡¼­, µµ½Ã´Â ³óºÎµéÀ» ½Ã°ñ·ÎºÎÅÍ À¯È¤ÇÏ¿© ºÎÀ¯ÇÑ ÀÚµéÀÇ º¯´ö¿¡ ½ÃÁßµé°Ô ÇÏ´Â °ÍÀÌ´Ù.  

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.

±×¸®°í ÀÌÁ¦ Å罺ÅäÀÌ´Â ¸ð½ºÅ©¹Ù¿¡ µîÀ» µ¹·Á¼­, ¾ß½º³ª¾ß Æú¸®¾ß³ª¿¡¼­ ÀÚ¿¬ÀûÀÎ »îÀ» ¿µÀ§Çϱâ·Î °á½ÉÇÏ¿´À¸¸ç, °¡³­ÇÑ µ¿Æ÷µéÀ» µî¿¡¼­ ³»·Á ¿À´Â °ÍÀÌ ±×¿¡°Ô ³õ¿© ÀÖ´Â ÇÑ; ±×¸®°í ±×°÷¿¡¼­ ±×°¡ °è¼ÓÇØ¼­ »ì¾Æ °¬À¸¸ç, ¸ÅÀÏ ¸ÅÀÏ ³óºÎµéÀ» À§Çؼ­ µµ´öÀûÀÎ À̾߱âµéÀ», ¼¼°è Àü¹ÝÀ» À§ÇÑ ³í¹®µé ¹× ¼öÇʵéÀ» ÁýÇÊÇÏ¿´À¸¸ç, ¿ÀÁ÷ °Ü¿ïö¿¡ ³ó»ç°¡ ºÒ°¡´ÉÇÒ ¶§¸¸ Àá½Ã µµ½Ã¸¦ ¹æ¹®Çϸç, ±×¸®°í ±×·¸°Ô ÇØ¼­ ±×ÀÇ Áý¿¡ ¸ðÀÌ´Â »ç¶÷µé¿¡°Ô ±×ÀÇ °³ÀÎÀûÀÎ ¿µÇâÀ» Çà»çÇÏ¿´À¸´Ï, ±×°ÍÀº ±×ÀÇ Áö±ØÈ÷ ±íÀº »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." 

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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