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It is a
well-known fact that the sympathy between Count Lyof Tolstoi and the censor of
the Russian press is the reverse of profound. Nevertheless, the manner in which
the two men are working together, unwittingly, for the confusion of the count's
future literary executors and editors, furnishes a subject of interest, not
unmixed with amusement, to spectators in a land which is not burdened with an
official censor. The extent of the censorship exercised over the first eleven
volumes of his works will probably never be known. But the twelfth volume is a
literary curiosity, which can be appreciated only after a comparison of its
contents as printed there with the manuscript copies of works prohibited in
Russia, or with copies of such works printed out of Russia.
The contents of the volume are of a very
miscellaneous character, and consist of sixteen short moral tales for popular
reading, some of which are cast in the form of legends, folk-tales, and
explanatory texts to accompany cheap chap-book pictures; a fragment entitled In
What Happiness Consists; and article on the Census of Moscow, written in 1882;
one written two year later, called Thoughts Evoked by the Moscow Census; a
psychological study of death, - The Death of Ivan Ilitch; and an article on
Popular Education, which was originally printed in a journal in 1875, and
accidentally omitted from the fourth volume of the collected works, where it
properly belongs, in company with a large number of the stories of popular
reading. This last article serves, in some measure, to explain why so highly
talented an author has devoted himself, of late years, to the production of the
peculiar stories begun in his pedagogical journal, entitled Yasnaya Polyana,
after the name of his estate, and continued to the present time in various
publications. As he has added no qualifying notes, the article may be taken as
still presenting his views. They may be summed up as follows: that the German
method of elementary instruction (evidently the Kindergarten) may be suited to
the capacities of "Hottentots, negroes, and small German children," but that it
certainly is not to the little Russian muzhik, who knows more at the age
of two years than all the elaborate puerilities of the two chief Russian
authorities on the subject can teach him from their books. He believes that the
peasant himself is the best judge of what he should be taught, even though the
latter does hold the Dogberrian theory that schools need not be permanent
institutions, since, if the parents once learn, the following generations will
inherit their wisdom. Count Tolstoi's personal experience in the peasant
schools has shown him that Russian, Slavonic (the language of the church), and
mathematics, "and nothing else" should constitute the course of study in
schools for the people, since these branches of learning are at the foundation
of all others. In order that the people may have proper reading matter for due
progress, he has prepared the simple stories contained in the present volume,
as well as those referred to as preceding them. They are written in the
simplest, most concise peasant language, and in accordance with his theory that
the people always speak good Russian, while the educated classes do not. They
are all ingenious, though, at times, the moral truth which he seeks to convey
is rendered difficult of perception by the involved allegories by which it is
obscured. "Love one another, resist not evil, despise money:" such is the
burden of his exhortation, and as a rule, it is beautifully and touchingly
expressed. If the peasants are observing, however, they will not fail to note
some discrepancies in his arguments on the subject of money. In one of the
tales, for instance, he represents the subjects of Ivan the Fool - who are
fools like their ruler, yet the only wise in truth - as refusing money
altogether except for the purpose of necklaces for the women and playthings for
the children, since it is nothing but an invention of "the real gentleman, the
old Devil," to lead men astray. In another, a man who finds a heap of gold by
the wayside, and devotes the whole of it to the founding of asylums for orphans
and old people, and other works of charity, is rebuked by an angel of the Lord
for having even touched the accursed thing. In still another, a poor peasant,
who has with difficulty scraped together enough money to make a pilgrimage to
Jerusalem for the salvation of his soul, spends nearly the whole of it in
restoring a starving family to prosperity, and is obliged to return home. Yet
he or his wraith is seen at the Holy Sepulchre by his friend and
traveling-companion, as a heavenly reward for the good accomplished with the
gold, that lure of the Evil One. The giving of money in alms is directly
commended in other tales. The author's opinions on this question, elsewhere
expressed, show that he entertains strong doubts as to whether money is not an
unmixed evil, and the old-fashioned system of barter the only true solution of
the difficulty. These stories, as printed in this volume, do not correspond, in
all respects, with the versions furnished the people in the separate penny
copies, but it can hardly be a question of the censor, in this case.
The fragment entitled In What Happiness
Consists represents all of the work popularly known as My Religion which is
allowed in a printed form, in Russia. It corresponds with a portion of chapter
x., beginning with the sentence "Christ preaches the truth." (My Religion,
Crowell, page 179; What I believe, Gottsberger, page 171.) Throughout, the
"doctrine of the church" - where the phrase is permitted at all, - is replaced
by the words, "the teaching of the world." The references to asceticism,
voluntary torture in this life, and the scriptural quotation on which
monasticism is founded are expunged. The remark that the circle of friends
which emperors and kings have is very restricted also strikes the censor as
objectionable. The outspoken passage on pages 191, 182 (respectively, as
above), beginning with the comments on the servant in a bath-house, including
observations on cabinet ministers perpetually engaged in signing documents of
no importance, and men following a gaudy uniform to the wars, like a herd of
cattle, and so on, is the next omission. The wickedness of oaths to authorities
and the results of a refusal to perform military service follow, as well as the
phrase about torture in Sevastopol and Plevna. (What I Believe, page 184.) The
quotation and reference to poverty as one of the indispensable conditions of
following Christ's doctrine is also omitted, possibly out of consideration for
the feelings of wealthy ecclesiastics. The passage concerning the millions of
men in Russia who do not practice the doctrine of Christ, and yet do not
starve, the miracle of the loaves and fishes (pages 203-207; 191-194, as
above), and one or two lesser omissions complete the list of the censor's
cancellations. The cuts are significant and leave very little of even that one
chapter to stand as the authorized version.
The Death of Ivan Ilitch is the most important
thing, in the line of strictly literary work, which Count Tolstoi has written
since Anna Karenina, and consists mainly of a subtle psychological study of the
cultivated man in general, during the hopeless illness preceding his death.
There is enough ordinary description connected with this to admit us into the
circumstances of Ivan Ilitch's life, before and during his illness, and the
unfeeling conduct of his family, which leaves him dependent for sympathy, in
his sufferings, on the cheerful, simple-minded peasant who waits upon him. It
is through the unconscious influence of this peasant that Ivan Ilitch is at
last brought into a state of mind where he no longer fears death, but dies with
the calm composure of the muzhik. As is natural, this portion of the narrative
outweighs the rest in the reader's interest, but there is some equally fine
analytical work in the opening chapter, where Petr Ivanovitch, Ivan Ilitch's
old friend, calls upon the widow.
The most important article in this volume,
however, is that devoted to the Census of Moscow. In general character, it is a
continuation of My Religion, many of the same subjects being considered in the
light of his personal experience as one of the census-takers in one of the
poorest quarters of the city, to which he had been appointed at his own
request. It was not to be expected that such a social study would be allowed to
pass the censor unmutilated. The omissions are numerous and noteworthy. A hint
of this state of things is sometimes conveyed by a line of dots, but in other
cases no indication whatever is vouchsafed. Copies of the article, printed
abroad, and under a different title, supply the suppressed passages, which are
generally the most interesting of all. Count Tolstoi's idea of a census is to
combine works of mercy with the technical labor: if a starving woman should
come under the notice of one of the agents, she should be attended to, even if
the census proper should go to destruction in consequence, the succor of the
suffering being the most important task of our lives. In short, the census
should be simply a means to that end.
In 1882, Count Tolstoi went to live in Moscow,
where he was speedily struck with the numerous beggars, by whom he was cheated,
in accordance with methods universally prevalent, when he offered them work, or
gave them money for specific objects. He found that old inhabitants of the city
spoke with considerable satisfaction and pride of the 50,000 beggars, just as
people in London had boasted to him of the poverty of London. Prompted by a
desire to inspect this wretchedness in person, he finally went to a certain
square, which was a sort of headquarters for an army of beggars, after having
made several attempts and beaten a retreat, overcome by his feelings. Thence he
followed the crowd to the Lyapinsky free lodging-house for the night. While
waiting with the throng for the doors to open, at five p.m., he conversed with
various poor people, treated them to hot sbiten (poor man's tea, made of
water, honey, and laurel or salvia leaves), and gave them all the money he had
about him, amounting to twenty rubles. He was conducted over the house, as soon
as it was opened, by some of his new friends, and got his first sight of the
double row of bunks and their wretched occupants, as the latter prayed, cursed,
and jested. The passage which follows is omitted from the version authorized by
the censor. It describes his sensations of personal guilt, on returning to his
own house, with its carpeted stairs and anterooms, where, after removing his
fur cloak, he sat down to a dinner of five courses, served by two lackeys, in
dress-coats, white ties, and white gloves. He also describes and execution
which ha had witnessed thirty years before, in Paris, and announces his
conviction that he was guilty of murder, because he bestowed his tacit approval
on it by being present without offering a remonstrance. He compares his
sensations on that occasion to those experienced on the present one, when he
might have given, not only the small change in his pocket, but the coat from
his back and the entire contents of his house, and declares that he shall
always hold himself to be an accomplice in crime so long as he possesses two
garments, while there is any one who has none at all. In the evening he
discussed the question with a friend, and unconsciously shouted at the latter,
as he says, with tears in his voice, "I can't live so; it is impossible to live
so, - impossible!" until his wife rushed in from an adjoining room to inquire
the cause of his excitement. He was then made to feel ashamed of his heat in
argument, was told that he never could talk quietly, that he became
unpleasantly excited, and it was proved to him that the existence of such
unfortunate wretches could not possibly afford him any excuse for embittering
the lives of those about him. "I felt that this was perfectly just," he adds,
"and held my tongue; but at the bottom of my heart I knew that I was right, and
I could not calm myself."
The luxury of his city life became intolerable
to him, but his friends assured him that it was only because he was very good
and tender-hearted, which he gladly believed. He then set about devising a plan
of philanthropic activity, which would exhibit all his benevolence, although
secretly persuaded that this was not what he wanted. This plan was the one
above referred to in connection with the census, after exercising the
exhaustive benevolence of which, the rich would be able to enjoy their luxuries
without any compunction. All the friends to whom he wrote or spoke about
banishing poverty from Moscow treated him with consideration, but appeared
sorry to hear him utter nonsense which they could not qualify as such to his
face. They allowed him to put down their names for various sums, but not one of
them gave him ready money, as they would have done for a box at the theatre to
see Sarah Bernhardt. At one elegant house, he found a large circle of ladies
engaged in dressing dolls, which were to be raffled for the benefit of the
poor, but lack of means prevented their giving him anything. He returned home
with a mortified sense of having been engaged in something very shameful, but
shame itself forbade the relinquishment of the scheme. He wrote his article on
the census, containing an outline of his plan (it is given in this twelfth
volume), and then read it to the city council, "blushing almost to tears" with
embarrassment as he did so. No official action was taken; they all seemed to
regret his folly; so did the students appointed to take the census; so did his
wife, his son, and various other persons. He was still conscious that he was
not on the right track, but his article was printed, and he entered on the
duties connected with the census. He was assigned to a quarter of the city in
which was situated a stronghold of the direst poverty, popularly known under
the name of the "Rzhanoff house," or the "fortress." On the appointed day, the
students who were to assist him made their appearance at that house early in
the morning, but, as he did not rise until ten o'clock, and had to drink his
coffee and smoke for his digestion, he, the benefactor, did not reach the
fortress until twelve o'clock. His description of the sights which he witnessed
there is graphic and terrible, as was to be expected; but at the end, he was
ashamed to confess that he felt rather disappointed to discover that these
people were not in the least peculiar, but exactly like his ordinary
associates. He had gone there with the idea that he should find people in need
of immediate assistance, and he saw petty artisans of various sorts, all
cheerful and busily working. Where help was required, it had already been given
by the poor people themselves. What these people needed, like people in the
higher ranks, was to have their false views of life corrected. A comparison
between the miserable women whom he found in this house and ladies of the
higher classes has been suppressed by the censor. Among the children, he was
particularly struck with a lad of twelve, named Serozha. He took Serozha to his
own house, and installed him in the kitchen, being unwilling to introduce to
his own children a boy fresh from the haunts of vice. Having thus, as he
expresses it, shifted the feeding of the boy upon the cook, and presented him
with some old clothes, he felt himself to be extremely good and benevolent. The
child remained there one week, in the course of which Tolstoi addressed a few
words to him on two occasions, and spoke to a shoemaker about taking the lad as
an apprentice, as the latter had refused an offer to go to the country. At the
end of the week, the boy ran away, and hired out for thirty kopeks a day, as
one of a band of savages in costume, who led an elephant in a procession, and
he appeared utterly ungrateful for Tolstoi's kindness. Thereupon the latter
blames himself for having brought the boy into demoralizing contact with his
own children, thereby imbuing him with the notion that enjoyment without labor
was permissible to him also, since he saw the little Tolstois soiling and
spoiling everything about them, breaking the dishes, eating dainties, and
flinging to their dogs food which would have seemed a delicacy to this beggar
lad. His criticism of his own course is very frank. His experience of giving
assistance with money was a bitter disappointment; genteel beggars were
voracious in their demands, and the really poor lied and deceived him, until
his faith in his scheme was destroyed. Not one of the people who had offered
their help or had promised money (he had reckoned their subscriptions at 3000
rubles) ever gave him a single kopek; but the students who were under his
charge contributed what they received for their work on the census, - about
twelve rubles. To this was added twenty-five rubles, sent to him by the city
authorities, in compensation for his own work. "And I positively did not know,"
he adds, "to whom to give them." Before he went to the country for the summer,
he made a special trip to the Rzhanoff fortress, for the purpose of "getting
rid of those thirty-seven rubles." He found one poor old man to whom he gave
five rubles. He gave the rest to a trustworthy man, for distribution in the
neighborhood, as he could find no proper subjects for charity himself, and as
those who begged of him were too well known to him, and in a roistering
carnival state. Thus ended his scheme of benevolence, and he went off to the
country, irritated with others because he had done a stupid and unprofitable
deed. But though his experimental philanthropy was at an end, the thoughts
evoked by it and the sentiments with which it had inspired him did not cease,
and the inward conflict proceeded with redoubled vigor.
In the country, he says, he had done very
little for the poor, but the demands upon him were so moderate that this little
created an atmosphere of love and union with the people, which enabled him to
believe what he had always heard, namely, that wealth is the gift of God, and
that one can help the poor while continuing a life of luxury. A short personal
investigation of city poverty convinced him that these wretched working classes
could not be helped, because the very fact of their toil attached them to life
more closely than he was himself attached, and because their chief misfortune
lay in their being exactly the same as himself. For a long time, a false shame,
and a liking for the self-satisfaction of feeling himself to be a benefactor,
prevented his abandoning his attempts to render material aid. His mistake,
which it took him three years longer to discover, lay in thinking that in order
to live a good life it was necessary to amend the lives of others, not his own.
The result of his reflections has been suppressed by the censor. It is, that
the first cause of peculiar poverty of the city, which he was unable to
alleviate, lies in the fact that he deprives the country people of their
necessaries, and carries them off to town with him. The second cause is, that
he employs the goods which he has collected in the village in senseless luxury,
thereby demoralizing those country people who follow him thither, in the hope
of in some way recovering a portion of their property. One day, as he was
talking to his sympathizing sister, and to a peasant named Siutaeff, the latter
gave him the first real gleam of light on the subject of true charity, and as
to the reason why Tolstoi had been unsuccessful with his gifts of money. "True
charity," said Siutaeff, "consists in teaching the poor. Take your proportion
of the poor, work beside them in the fields, and they will learn; eat at the
same table with them, and let them hear your words." At this point the censor
intervenes, and cuts out over a thousand words containing reflections on this
theme. Every effort in the life of the wealthy, says Tolstoi, from their food,
clothing, and dwellings, down to their cleanliness and their culture, is
directed towards keeping the poor at a distance, and nine tenths of their money
is spent in attaining this object alone. His socialistic utterances upon this
subject are delightfully unconventional, but those on cleanliness, which is
regarded as a moral virtue, though in reality only valued as a mark of class
distinction, are of the most radical sort. "White hands love other people's
work," is the proverb which he takes for his motto. The popular idea of the
grades among the upper classes is thus defined: Culture signifies fashionable
clothing, political conversation, and clean hands. In the circle next above, a
knowledge of French, the ability to play the piano and to write a letter in
Russian free from orthographical errors, and a "still greater degree of outward
cleanliness" are the requisites. The next step in the social scale brings a
knowledge of English, a diploma from one of the higher institutes of learning,
and still greater personal cleanliness. "I am convinced," he says, "that
between the poor and the rich there rises this wall of cleanliness and culture,
and that in order to assist the poor we must break down this wall, first of
all, adopt the plan of Siutaeff, and receive the poor among ourselves."
Another of Count Tolstoi's experiences puzzled
him not a little. If he gave a beggar a few kopeks, when requested, without
stopping to speak to him, the beggar looked grateful, and the Count was
conscious of an agreeable sense of benevolence himself. But if he conversed
with the man he felt obliged to give more, and the more he gave the more
displeased the beggar appeared. The gift of ten rubles caused the beggar to
look as though he had been insulted, and to walk off without saying so much as
"Thank you," leaving Tolstoi feeling conscience-stricken and guilty. He
concludes that this is the result of deliberately abandoning the rôle of
a good-natured passer-by, and assuming that of a kind-hearted man. The solution
of this puzzle was furnished him by a little scene at his country place, which
the censor has seen fit to omit. He wanted twenty kopeks to give to a tramp,
and sent his son to the house to borrow it of some one. It was lent by the
cook. Shortly afterwards Tolstoi wanted another twenty kopeks for a tramp, and
went to the kitchen to see if the cook cold change a ruble for him. The cook
called to his wife to take the money, and she, supposing that it was a gift,
kissed Tolstoi's hand, whereupon the latter fled from the kitchen, groaning
with shame, and did not undeceive her. The conclusion which he comes to is,
that if any man asks three kopeks, or twenty, or even several rubles, one must
give them, if one has them, this being merely a "matter of politeness, and not
charity," with which view the censor, evidently, does not agree.
When Tolstoi first went to Moscow to live, he
took up the habit of going to the Sparrow Hills to saw wood with a couple of
peasants, for the sake of the exercise. One night he walked into town with
them, and gave twenty kopeks to an old man who begged of them, thinking what a
good impression such charity would make on Semyon, one of the peasants. Semyon
pulled out his purse, gave the man a three-kopek piece, and asked for two
kopeks in change. The man had but one, and after a momentary hesitation Semyon
took off his cap, crossed himself, and went on, leaving the man the money. This
set Tolstoi to thinking. Semyon had a wife and two children, and no reserve
fund; Tolstoy had about 600,000 rubles saved up. In order to proportion his
alms to Semyon's, Tolstoy reckoned that he should have given 3000 rubles, have
asked 2000 in change, and then, leaving it all, have crossed himself, and
proceeded quietly with his conversation. His deductions do not meet with the
favor of the censor, who has cut out some reflections on the source of
Tolstoi's fortune. "A part," says the author, "I inherited from my father. The
peasant sold his last sheep to furnish me with it. Another part has come from
the sale of my books. If my books are injurious, then I only lead people astray
with them by selling them, and the money which I receive for them is
ill-gained; but if they are helpful to people, my case is even worse. I do not
give them to people, but I say, 'Give me seventeen rubles, and then I will give
them to you.' And as the peasant sells his last sheep in the country, so here
the poor student, the teacher, every poor man, deprives himself of necessaries
in order to give me this money. And then I take this money to the city, and
only give it to poor men when they comply with my shims, and come to town to
clean my sidewalks, my lamps, my boots, and to toil in factories for my
benefit. And I get as much as I can out of them, and give them as little as
possible. I have erred so far that I have regarded this grasping of thousands
with one hand, and this squandering of kopeks with the other, on any one who
might strike my fancy, as good. It is no wonder that I was ashamed of myself."
Very little of the following chapter meets with the approval of the censor. It
contains comparisons of the ways of the rich - the Demidoffs and other families
being mentioned by name, the bankers, merchants, and the land-owners, to which
latter class the writer himself belongs - with those of the poor. "I go to help
the poor," he says. "Who is poorer than I? No one. … I am a weak,
good-for-nothing parasite, who can exist only under special conditions; who can
exist only when thousands of people toil for the support of this life, which is
useful to no one. … I know how to do nothing but eat, and talk, and listen, and
write, and sleep. … The only wonder is that I should ever have had so stupid a
thought as helping people who are good for something," is his conclusion. "I
have never done anything in my life. I do nothing, and never shall do anything
except cut off coupons, and yet I firmly believe that money represents labor.
This is amazing! Talk of lunatics after that!" he exclaims at the conclusion of
an earnest argument that money is only a new form of slavery. The root of all
slavery is the use of the labor of others; and having once perceived the
"immorality" of his position, Count Tolstoi resolved to use no more of his
money to compel slavery, to do everything for himself, or to do without it.
"This simple and inevitable deduction enters into all the details of my life,"
he says. "It alters it completely, at once frees me from those moral sufferings
which I experienced at the sight of the sufferings and vice of men, and
instantly annihilates all those causes of my inability to help the poor which I
discovered while seeking the reason of my failure." These causes are, the
herding together of the poor in towns, the isolation of the rich from the poor,
and the shame consequent on the consciousness of being wrongfully in possession
of the money with which he tried to assist the poor; money, being in itself an
evil thing, cannot be used as an instrument of good. The sum of the matter is
contained in the words of John the Baptist: "Let him that hath two garments
give to him that hath none, and let him that hath food do likewise." As Tolstoi
puts it, it means "to give away everything superfluous, and never more take
what is superfluous from men. … For him who is sincerely pained by the
sufferings of those about him, there is the easiest, simplest, and most evident
remedy, the only possible one for the alleviation of the evil which environs
us, and for conferring on us a consciousness of the legitimacy of our life, the
same which John the Baptist gave and which Christ confirmed, - to have but one
garment and no money. Having no money signifies making no use of the labors of
others, and therefore doing with our own hands all that it is possible for us
to do."
The next thing to which the censor takes
exception is the description of a ball in fashionable society (in which Tolstoi
expresses himself in the plainest language, with regard to the dresses and
conduct of both men and women), which is introduced as a companion picture to a
sketch of the factory girls who work in the vicinity of his Moscow house.
Tolstoi's argument on behalf of wearing one
shirt a week, instead of paying a laundress to provide him with two clean ones
each day, and of making his own cigarettes, is, that the money thus saved can
be given to the laundress for less work, or to some superannuated working
people. To this he suggests the retort, that "if one goes in dirty linen, and
does not smoke, but gives the money to the poor, the latter will be deprived of
the money all the same, and an individual drop in the sea will do not good." It
is a shame to reply to such a commonplace objection, he says, yet he does make
a reply, to the effect that he would not eat savory cutlets made from a
prisoner, among cannibals, even if his refusal did the prisoner no good; but
the censor disapproved of this, possibly the author himself thought better of
it, for it is replaced in his collected works with an Indian fable about
dipping the sea dry with a bucket, to find a lost pearl, which the spirit of
the sea restored in affright on the seventh day. In a brief section he sketches
life in the country, and shows the selfish proprietors during their short
summer residence, and the hardships of the peasants. This is followed by a
lengthy consideration of the merits of science and art. His chief objection to
these latter lies in the fact that they are the outcome of the division of
labor, and cannot exist on any other conditions than those of rendering many
people slaves, for the production of the necessaries of life for those engaged
in them. "Science has now become a distributor of premiums on idleness. … With
frightful struggles and conflicts men have freed themselves from many
delusions. And now a new and still worse delusion has sprung up in their path,
- the delusion of science. … The theory of evolution, to speak in ordinary
language, merely asserts that by accident, in an endlessly long space of time,
out of anything you please any other thing you please may issue." He denies
that art and science have given a great deal to mankind, as is usually
affirmed. Hey have not devoted themselves to the interests of the people, and
those who exercise them simply live on the necks of the laboring classes. "We
have become so accustomed," he says, "to our weakly and tenderly cared for
representatives of mental labor that it seems barbarous to us that a learned
man or an artist should till the soil or cart manure. It seems to us that all
his wisdom will be ruined and shaken out of him on the cart, and that the grand
artistic conceptions which he bears about in his bosom will get soiled in the
manure." He thinks that art and science should not be exempted from serving
themselves and others, simply because they are such very beautiful things.
Tolstoi admits that telegraph, telephone,
spectroscope, chloroform, and many other inventions and discoveries are
wonderful, but he maintains that the condition of the majority - of the working
people that is - has been rendered worse by them, since the railways,
factories, and so on have only served to make poor men the slaves of
capitalists. According to his views, the province of science is to teach the
poor man what axe is the best to cut with, what is the swiftest saw, the best
way to mix bread and the proper flour to use, how to set and bake it, and how
to build an oven, also the right sort of food and the best utensils. He
complains that instead of doing this, science has enumerated two million
beetles. He frequently returns to this complaint. Not a single plant has been
added to the list of foods since the days of ancient Egypt, when wheat and
lentil were already known, except the potato, which was not the contribution of
science. He goes into this question with a good deal of detail, pointing the
moral at doctors, artists, teachers, musicians, and so forth, in turn. The poet
and author should for example, throw aside their poems and romances, and write
songs, histories, and tales which the people can understand; and Tolstoi
considers the so-called division of labor, which has formed in our days the
indispensable condition of activity on the part of artists and scientists, to
be the chief reason for the slow progress of mankind. Science, in the true
meaning of the term, he says, has existed as long as man himself has existed,
and consists in the knowledge of those things which it most imports men to
know. Such was the science of Confucius, Buddha, Socrates, Mahomet, and others,
- a science which is within the comprehension of every one. This has
degenerated, and art also, which has descended from its true sphere of activity
in the church; so that those who exercise chorographic, culinary, cosmetic, and
wig-making arts are now as much entitled to the name of artists as poets,
painters, and musicians.
Tolstoi declares that if he in any way differs
from the average man, on this question of the misapplication of art and
science, it is because he, more than the average man, has served and forwarded
this false conception of science which is held by the world, has received more
applause from the people who belong to the reigning scientific circle, and has
therefore sinned more than others and wandered further from the true path. For
this reason, he thinks that the solution of the question which he has found for
himself will fit the case of all sincere people, who have put the same question
to themselves, namely, "What is to be done?" First of all, he has resolved not
to lie, either to others or to himself, not to fear the truth, no matter
whither it may lead him; since he firmly believes that in whatever position
truth and conscience may land him, however terrible it may be, it cannot be
worse than one that is founded on a lie. He has been rewarded for his boldness
in doing this; all the incoherent, complicated, senseless phenomena of life
have grown clear to him, and his own attitude among these conditions, formerly
strange and oppressive, has become natural and easy. Too high an opinion of
himself and his position led him to the second answer to the question, "What is
to be done?" Thorough repentance, a just estimate of himself, a confession that
he is ignorant and unlearned instead of cultured, harsh and immoral instead of
kind and moral, lowly, instead of exalted, are what is required. "How am I, so
fine a writer, a man who has acquired so much learning and talents, to use them
for the benefit of the people?" is the erroneous form in which he put the
question to himself. It should have run: "How am I, who have wasted the best
years of my life in useless occupations which are ruinous to the soul" (this
includes the French language, playing on the piano, grammar, geography, verses,
novels, romances, and so forth), "to repay the people who fed and clothed me
during all that time, and who still feed and clothe me?" The answer to this is:
"I must learn not to live on others, and, having learned this, I must devote to
the service of the people hands, and feet, and heart, and brain, and everything
that the people may require; for the first and indubitable duty of man is to
share in the struggle with nature, for his life and the lives of others." Count
Tolstoi regards it as his and every man's first duty to provide his own food,
clothing, fuel, and shelter, and thus help others; and departure from this law
entails the inevitable penalty of the annihilation of the bodily or mental life
of man. "At first," he says, "I thought that in order to carry out this plan
some establishment was necessary, some institution, a company of men
entertaining the same ideas, the consent of my family, life in the country;
then I felt rather ashamed to show myself thus before people, to undertake a
thing so unusual in our society as manual labor, and I did not know how to set
about it." This false shame was expelled, however, by the real shame which he
felt at not undertaking it, and he came to the conclusion that the strangeness
would last only a week (in which calculation he appears to have been mistaken),
and that no society or institution was required. He had also thought that this
manual labor would absorb all his time, and deprive him of all possibility of
pursuing intellectual occupations, "which I love," he says, "and which, in
moments of self-sufficiency I have thought not unprofitable to my fellow-men."
He found, however, that when he had given up the eight hours, during which he
had formerly battled with ennui, to physical toil, he still had the five
hours necessary for mental exertion; and he enters on a curious computation
which proves that, if he had pursued the same plan, reading and studying during
those five hours every day, and writing only a couple of pages on holidays, he
would have accomplished as much in fourteen years as he has actually
accomplished in forty. Physical exertion spurs up his mental faculties, and the
nearer it approaches rude agriculture, the closer and more affectionate is his
communion with men, his enjoyment of art and learning, and the true happiness
of life. The writer also finds that many of his former requirements, in the way
of dainty food, bed, clothing, "conventional cleanliness," all of which
interfere with work, have disappeared without any effort on his part, and that
he prefers the simplest food: cabbage soup, groats, black bread, and tea v
prikusky (that is, tea which is not sweetened, but accompanied by bites at
a lump of sugar). Thus, he sees that "the most costly needs of his life, vanity
and relief from ennui," have vanished, and that his health is improved, in
spite of his age. He decides that our arts and sciences and improvements of the
pleasures of life are mere attempts to deceive the moral demands of man, and he
refers to a peasant of his district who lost his wits through beholding the
luxury of official life, and who now declares that he "lives to pass the time."
Tolstoi declares that he gazes on this crazy muzhik as in a mirror. He has,
accordingly, divided his days into four portions. The first is to be occupied
with some heavy labor, of a nature to produce perspiration; the second, with
labor of hands and wrists, some sort of artisan toil; the third, with exercise
of the mind and imagination; and the fourth, in communion with others, since no
one has a right to devote himself to a specialty, unless he feels within
himself an irresistible impulse, and a demand is made by others, when he is
justified in making this sacrifice to his breathren.
Count Tolstoi's hope is that if a number of his
"caste" engage in a similar life, young people will be induced to follow their
example. He argues that as it is now the fashion to do many things for one's
self which no gentleman thought of doing when he was a boy, so it is a mere
question of fashion when gentlemen will feed their own cows and hens, dig,
plant potatoes, clean their boots, and wash their shirts; and he defines
property as that which cannot be taken from a man, - in other words, his own
person alone. It is worth noting that he permits the use of scientific
improvements, and his perfect man will use a steam plough, if obtainable, or
will scratch the soil with a hoe, if nothing better be within his reach; and
people, perceiving his efforts, will strive to render his work as profitable as
possible. Others, observing a handful of "lunatics tilling the soil and making
shoes, instead of smoking cigarettes and playing cards," will comprehend what
it behooves them to do, will cease to ruin each other, and will find happiness.
He predicts that before long people of his class will consider it not
disgraceful to make calls in boots made with the outside of the leather in, but
disgraceful to wear overshoes in the presence of people who have no shoes at
all; that it is not disgraceful to be ignorant of French, but disgraceful to
eat bread, and not to know how it is made; that it is not disgraceful not to
have starched shirts and clean clothes, but disgraceful to about in clean
clothes, thereby demonstrating one's idleness; that it is not disgraceful to
have dirty hands, but disgraceful not to have callouses on the hands. And all
this will come about when public opinion demands it, like the emancipation of
serfs and the destruction of other errors which concealed the truth. This
section of the book closes with the author's views on the duties of women,
which are expressed in the plainest of language. Their duty is to their family
solely, and he concludes, "Yes, ye mothers, in your hands, more than in those
of all others, rests the salvation of the world." There is much more that is
worth quoting, in this volume, since it is pervaded with the strong personality
of the great author, who has endeared himself to thousands of hearts outside of
his own country, in spite of the disadvantages under which they have learned to
know him, and who is revered by other thousands at home; but nothing less than
a full translation would convey a complete idea of its contents, especially of
the striking Moscow article.
Isabel F. Hapgood.
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