Leo Tolstoy..............................................................................................................................................1

INTRODUCTION...................................................................................................................................2

THE FORGED COUPON..................................................................................................................................17

PART FIRST......................................................................................................................................................17

I..............................................................................................................................................................17

II .............................................................................................................................................................20

III ............................................................................................................................................................21

V .............................................................................................................................................................23

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VII ..........................................................................................................................................................25

VIII .........................................................................................................................................................26

IX...........................................................................................................................................................27

X .............................................................................................................................................................29

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XII ..........................................................................................................................................................31

XIII .........................................................................................................................................................33

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XVI........................................................................................................................................................37

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XVIII ......................................................................................................................................................39

XIX........................................................................................................................................................40

XX ..........................................................................................................................................................40

XXI........................................................................................................................................................41

XXII.......................................................................................................................................................43

XXIII ......................................................................................................................................................43

PART SECOND....................................................................................................................................45

I..............................................................................................................................................................45

II .............................................................................................................................................................46

III ............................................................................................................................................................47

VI...........................................................................................................................................................50

VII ..........................................................................................................................................................51

VIII .........................................................................................................................................................52

IX...........................................................................................................................................................52

X .............................................................................................................................................................53

XI...........................................................................................................................................................55

XII ..........................................................................................................................................................56

XIII .........................................................................................................................................................57

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XV ..........................................................................................................................................................58

XVI........................................................................................................................................................59

XVII.......................................................................................................................................................60

XVIII ......................................................................................................................................................61

XIX........................................................................................................................................................61

AFTER THE DANCE...........................................................................................................................61

ALYOSHA THE POT...........................................................................................................................67

MY DREAM ..........................................................................................................................................71

II .............................................................................................................................................................74

III ............................................................................................................................................................76

THERE ARE NO GUILTY PEOPLE...................................................................................................78

I..............................................................................................................................................................78

II .............................................................................................................................................................79

THE YOUNG TSAR.............................................................................................................................85

IN an age of materialism like our own the phe nomenon of spiritual power is as significant and inspiring as

it is rare. No longer associated with the "divine right" of kings, it has survived the downfall of feudal and

theocratic systems as a mystic personal emanation in place of a coercive weapon of statecraft.

Freed from its ancient shackles of dogma and despotism it eludes analysis. We know not how to gauge its

effect on others, nor even upon our selves. Like the wind, it permeates the atmos phere we breathe, and

This psychic power, which the dead weight of materialism is impotent to suppress, is revealed in the lives and

writings of men of the most di verse creeds and nationalities. Apart from those who, like Buddha and

Mahomet, have been raised to the height of demigods by worshipping mil lions, there are names which

leap inevitably to the mindsuch names as Savonarola, Luther, Cal vin, Rousseauwhich stand for types

and ex emplars of spiritual aspiration. To this high priesthood of the quick among the dead, who can doubt

that time will admit Leo Tolstoya genius whose greatness has been obscured from us rather than enhanced

by his duality; a realist who strove to demolish the mysticism of Christianity, and be came himself a mystic

in the contemplation of Nature; a man of ardent temperament and robust physique, keenly susceptible to

human passions and desires, who battled with himself from early manhood until the spirit, gathering strength

Tolstoy the realist steps without cavil into the front rank of modern writers; Tolstoy the ideal ist has been

constantly derided and scorned by men of like birth and education with himself his altruism denounced as

impracticable, his preaching compared with his mode of life to prove him inconsistent, if not insincere. This

Must one conclude that the mass of mankind has lost touch with idealism? On the contrary, in spite of

modern materialism, or even because of it, many leaders of spiritual thought have arisen in our times, and

have won the ear of vast audi ences. Their message is a call to a simpler life, to a recognition of the

responsibilities of wealth, to the avoidance of war by arbitration, and sink ing of class hatred in a deep sense

Unhappily, when an idealistic creed is formu lated in precise and dogmatic language, it invari ably loses

something of its pristine beauty in the process of transmutation. Hence the Positivist philosophy of Comte,

though embodying noble aspirations, has had but a limited influence. Again, the poetry of Robert Browning,

though less frankly altruistic than that of Cowper or Wordsworth, is inherently ethical, and reveals strong

sympathy with sinning and suffering hu manity, but it is masked by a manner that is sometimes uncouth and

frequently obscure. Ow ing to these, and other instances, idealism sug gests to the world at large a vague

sentimentality peculiar to the poets, a bloodless abstraction toyed with by philosophers, which must remain a

Yet Tolstoy found true idealism in the toiling peasant who believed in God, rather than in his intellectual

superior who believed in himself in the first place, and gave a conventional assent to the existence of a deity

in the second. For the peas ant was still religious at heart with a naive unques tioning faithmore

characteristic of the four teenth or fifteenth century than of todayand still fervently aspired to God

although sunk in su perstition and held down by the despotism of the Greek Church. It was the cumbrous

ritual and dogma of the orthodox state religion which roused Tolstoy to impassioned protests, and led him

step by step to separate the core of Christianity from its sacerdotal shell, thus bringing upon himself the ban

The signal mark of the reprobation of "Holy Synod" was slow in comingit did not, in fact, become

absolute until a couple of years after the publication of "Resurrection," in 1901, in spite of the attitude of

fierce hostility to Church and State which Tolstoy had maintained for so long. This hostility, of which the

seeds were primarily sown by the closing of his school and inquisition of his private papers in the summer of

1862, soon grew to proportions far greater than those arising from a personal wrong. The dumb and submis

Tolstoy was well fitted by nature and circum stances to be the peasant's spokesman. He had been brought

into intimate contact with him in the varying conditions of peace and war, and he knew him at his worst and

best. The old home of the family, Yasnaya Polyana, where Tolstoy, his brothers and sister, spent their early

years in charge of two guardian aunts, was not only a halt ingplace for pilgrims journeying to and from the

great monastic shrines, but gave shelter to a num ber of persons of enfeebled minds belonging to the peasant

class, with whom the devout and kindly Aunt Alexandra spent many hours daily in religious conversation and

In "Childhood" Tolstoy apostrophises with feeling one of those "innocents," a man named Grisha, "whose

faith was so strong that you felt the nearness of God, your love so ardent that the words flowed from your lips

uncontrolled by your reason. And how did you celebrate his Majesty when, words failing you, you prostrated

yourself on the ground, bathed in tears " This picture of humble religious faith was amongst Tolstoy's earliest

memories, and it returned to comfort him and uplift his soul when it was tossed and en gulfed by seas of

doubt. But the affection he felt in boyhood towards the moujiks became tinged with contempt when his

attempts to im prove their conditionsome of which are de scribed in "Anna Karenina" and in the "Land

lord's Morning"ended in failure, owing to the ignorance and obstinacy of the people. It was not till he

passed through the ordeal of war in Turkey and the Crimea that he discovered in the common soldier who

fought by his side an un conscious heroism, an unquestioning faith in God, a kindliness and simplicity of

The impressions made upon Tolstoy during this period of active service gave vivid reality to the

battlescenes in "War and Peace," and are traceable in the reflections and conversation of the two heroes,

Prince Andre and Pierre Besukhov. On the eve of the battle of Borodino, Prince Andre, talking with Pierre in

"'Success cannot possibly be, nor has it ever been, the result of strategy or firearms or num bers.'

"'From the feeling that is in me, that is in him'pointing to Timokhine'and that is in each individual

"'The former,' he says, 'have nothing in view but their personal interests. The critical moment for them is the

moment at which they are able to supplant a rival, to win a cross or a new order. I see only one thing.

Tomorrow one hundred thousand Russians and one hundred thousand Frenchmen will meet to fight; they

"'There's the truth, your Excellency, the real truth,' murmurs Timokhine; 'it is not a time to spare oneself.

Would you believe it, the men of my battalion have not tasted brandy? "It's not a day for that," they said.'"

During the momentous battle which followed, Pierre was struck by the steadfastness under fire which has

"The fall of each man acted as an increasing stimulus. The faces of the soldiers brightened more and more, as

In contrast with this picture of fine "morale" is that of the young whitefaced officer, looking nervously

In other places Tolstoy does full justice to the courage and patriotism of all grades in the Rus sian army, but

it is constantly evident that his sympathies are most heartily with the rank and file. What genuine feeling and

"Plato Karataev was about fifty, judging by the number of campaigns in which he had served; he could not

have told his exact age himself, and when he laughed, as he often did, he showed two rows of strong, white

teeth. There was not a grey hair on his head or in his beard, and his bearing wore the stamp of activity,

resolution, and above all, stoicism. His face, though much lined, had a touching expression of simplicity,

youth, and innocence. When he spoke, in his soft singsong voice, his speech flowed as from a well spring.

He never thought about what he had said or was going to say next, and the vivacity and the rhythmical

inflections of his voice gave it a penetrating persuasiveness. Night and morn ing, when going to rest or

getting up, he said, 'O God, let me sleep like a stone and rise up like a loaf.' And, sure enough, he had no

sooner lain down than he slept like a lump of lead, and in the morning on waking he was bright and lively,

and ready for any work. He could do anything, just not very well nor very ill; he cooked, sewed, planed

wood, cobbled his boots, and was always occupied with some job or other, only allowing himself to chat and

sing at night. He sang, not like a singer who knows he has listeners, but as the birds sing to God, the Father of

all, feeling it as necessary as walking or stretching himself. His singing was tender, sweet, plaintive, almost

feminine, in keeping with his serious countenance. When, after some weeks of captivity his beard had grown

again, he seemed to have got rid of all that was not his true self, the borrowed face which his soldiering life

had given him, and to have become, as before, a peasant and a man of the people. In the eyes of the other

prisoners Plato was just a common soldier, whom they chaffed at times and sent on all manner of er rands;

but to Pierre he remained ever after the personification of simplicity and truth, such as he had divined him to

This clearly is a study from life, a leaf from Tolstoy's "Crimean Journal " It harmonises with the point of view

revealed in the "Letters from Sebastopol" (especially in the second and third series), and shows, like them,

the change effected by the realities of war in the intolerant young aristocrat, who previously excluded all but

the commeilfaut from his consideration. With widened outlook and new ideals he returned to St.

Petersburg at the close of the Crimean campaign, to be welcomed by the elite of letters and courted by

society. A few years before he would have been delighted with such a reception. Now it jarred on his

awakened sense of the tragedy of existence. He found himself entirely out of sym pathy with the group of

literary men who gath ered round him, with Turgenev at their head. In Tolstoy's eyes they were false, paltry,

and immoral, and he was at no pains to disguise his opinions. Dissension, leading to violent scenes, soon

broke out between Turgenev and Tolstoy; and the latter, completely disillusioned both in regard to his great

contemporary and to the lit erary world of St. Petersburg, shook off the dust of the capital, and, after

resigning his commission in the army, went abroad on a tour through Ger many, Switzerland, and France.

In France his growing aversion from capital punishment became intensified by his witnessing a public

execution, and the painful thoughts aroused by the scene of the guillotine haunted his sensitive spirit for long.

He left France for Switzerland, and there, among beautiful natural surroundings, and in the society of friends,

"A fresh, sweetscented flower seemed to have blossomed in my spirit; to the weariness and in difference to

all things which before possessed me had succeeded, without apparent transition, a thirst for love, a confident

Those halcyon days ushered in the dawn of an intimate friendship between himself and a lady who in the

correspondence which ensued usually styled herself his aunt, but was in fact a second cousin. This lady, the

Countess Alexandra A. Tolstoy, a Maid of Honour of the Bedchamber, moved exclusively in Court circles.

She was in telligent and sympathetic, but strictly orthodox and mondaine, so that, while Tolstoy's view of

life gradually shifted from that of an aristocrat to that of a social reformer, her own remained unaltered; with

the result that at the end of some forty years of frank and affectionate interchange of ideas, they awoke to the

painful consciousness that the last link of mutual understanding had snapped and that their friendship was at

But the letters remain as a valuable and inter esting record of one of Tolstoy's rare friendships with women,

revealing in his unguarded confi dences fine shades of his manysided nature, and throwing light on the

impression he made both on his intimates and on those to whom he was only known as a writer, while his

moral philosophy was yet in embryo. They are now about to ap pear in book form under the auspices of M.

Stakhovich, to whose kindness in giving me free access to the originals I am indebted for the ex tracts which

follow. From one of the countess's first letters we learn that the feelings of affection, hope, and happiness

which possessed Tolstoy in Switzerland irresistibly communicated themselves to those about him.

"You are good in a very uncommon way, she writes," and that is why it is difficult to feel unhappy in your

company. I have never seen you without wishing to be a better creature. Your presence is a consoling idea. . .

. know all the elements in you that revive one's heart, possibly without your being even aware of it."

A few years later she gives him an amusing account of the impression his writings had already made on an

"I owe you a small episode. Not long ago, when lunching with the Emperor, I sat next our little Bismarck,

and in a spirit of mischief I began sounding him about you. But I had hardly ut tered your name when he

went off at a gallop with the greatest enthusiasm, firing off the list of your perfections left and right, and so

long as he declaimed your praises with gesticulations, cut and thrust, powder and shot, it was all very well

and quite in character; but seeing that I listened with interest and attention my man took the bit in his teeth,

and flung himself into a psychic apoth eosis. On reaching full pitch he began to get muddled, and

floundered so helplessly in his own phrases! all the while chewing an excellent cutlet to the bone, that at last I

realised nothing but the tips of his earsthose two great ears of his. What a pity I can't repeat it verbatim!

but how? There was nothing left but a jumble of confused sounds and broken words."

Tolstoy on his side is equally expansive, and in the early stages of the correspondence falls occa sionally

"As a child I believed with passion and with out any thought. Then at the age of fourteen I began to think

about life and preoccupied myself with religion, but it did not adjust itself to my theories and so I broke with

it. Without it I was able to live quite contentedly for ten years . . . everything in my life was evenly dis

tributed, and there was no room for religion. Then came a time when everything grew intelli gible; there

He goes on to tell of the two years that he spent in the Caucasus before the Crimean War, when his mind,

jaded by youthful excesses, gradually regained its freshness, and he awoke to a sense of communion with

"I have my notes of that time, and now read ing them over I am not able to understand how a man could

attain to the state of mental exaltation which I arrived at. It was a torturing but a happy time."

"In those two years of intellectual work, I dis covered a truth which is ancient and simple, but which yet I

know better than others do. I found out that immortal life is a reality, that love is a reality, and that one must

At this point one realises the gulf which divides the Slavonic from the English temperament. No average

Englishman of sevenandtwenty (as Tol stoy was then) would pursue reflections of this kind, or if he did,

To Tolstoy and his aunt, on the contrary, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to indulge in egoistic

abstractions and to expatiate on them; for a Russian feels none of the Anglo Saxon's mauvaise honte in

describing his spiritual condition, and is no more daunted by metaphysics than the latter is by arguments on

To attune the AngloSaxon reader's mind to sympathy with a mentality so alien to his own, requires that

Tolstoy's environment should be de scribed more fully than most of his biographers have cared to do. This

prefatory note aims, therefore, at being less strictly biographical than illustrative of the contributory elements

and cir cumstances which subconsciously influenced Tol stoy's spiritual evolution, since it is apparent

that in order to judge a man's actions justly one must be able to appreciate the motives from which they

spring; those motives in turn requiring the key which lies in his temperament, his associations, his nationality.

Such a key is peculiarly necessary to English or American students of Tolstoy, because of the marked

contrast existing between the Rus sian and the Englishman or American in these respects, a contrast by

which Tolstoy himself was forcibly struck during the visit to Switzerland, of which mention has been already

made. It is diffi cult to restrain a smile at the poignant mental dis comfort endured by the sensitive Slav in

the company of the frigid and silent English frequent ers of the Schweitzerhof ("Journal of Prince D.

Nekhludov " Lucerne, 1857), whose reserve, he realised, was "not based on pride, but on the absence of any

desire to draw nearer to each other"; while he looked back regretfully to the pension in Paris where the table

d' hote was a scene of spontaneous gaiety. The problem of British taciturnity passed his comprehension; but

for us the enigma of Tolstoy's temperament is half solved if we see him not harshly silhouetted against a

blank wall, but suffused with his native atmosphere, amid his native surroundings. Not till we understand the

main outlines of the Rus sian temperament can we realise the individuality of Tolstoy himself: the

So vast an agglomeration of races as that which constitutes the Russian empire cannot obviously be

represented by a single type, but it will suffice for our purposes to note the characteristics of the inhabitants

of Great Russia among whom Tolstoy spent the greater part of his lifetime and to whom be belonged by birth

It may be said of the average Russian that in exchange for a precocious childhood he retains much of a child's

lightness of heart throughout his later years, alternating with attacks of morbid despondency. He is usually

very susceptible to feminine charm, an ardent but unstable lover, whose passions are apt to be as shortlived as

they are violent. Storytelling and longwinded dis cussions give him keen enjoyment, for he is gar

rulous, metaphysical, and argumentative. In money matters careless and extravagant, dilatory and venal in

affairs; fond, especially in the peas ant class, of singing, dancing, and carousing; but his irresponsible gaiety

and heedlessness of conse quences balanced by a fatalistic courage and en durance in the face of suffering

and danger. Capable, besides, of high flights of idealism, which result in epics, but rarely in actions, owing to

the Slavonic inaptitude for sustained and or ganised effort. The Englishman by contrast ap pears cold and

calculating, incapable of rising above questions of practical utility; neither inter ested in other men's

antecedents and experiences nor willing to retail his own. The catechism which Plato puts Pierre through on

their first en counter ("War and Peace") as to his family, possessions, and what not, are precisely similar to

those to which I have been subjected over and over again by chance acquaintances in country houses or by

fellow travellers on journeys by boat or train. The naivete and kindliness of the ques tioner makes it

impossible to resent, though one may feebly try to parry his probing. On the other hand he offers you free

access to the inmost recesses of his own soul, and stupefies you with the candour of his revelations. This, of

course, relates more to the landed and professional classes than to the peasant, who is slower to express him

self, and combines in a curious way a firm belief in the omnipotence and wisdom of his social su periors

with a rooted distrust of their intentions regarding himself. He is like a beast of burden who flinches from

every approach, expecting al ways a kick or a blow. On the other hand, his affection for the animals who

share his daily work is one of the most attractive points in his char acter, and one which Tolstoy never

wearied of emphasisingdescribing, with the simple pathos of which he was master, the moujik inured to

his own privations but pitiful to his horse, shielding him from the storm with his own coat, or saving him

from starvation with his own meagre ration; and mindful of him even in his prayers, invoking, like Plato, the

blessings of Florus and Laura, pa tron saints of horses, because "one mustn't forget the animals."

The characteristics of a people so embedded in the soil bear a closer relation to their native land scape than

our own migratory populations, and patriotism with them has a deep and vital mean ing, which is expressed

This spirit of patriotism which Tolstoy repudi ated is none the less the animating power of the noble epic,

"War and Peace," and of his peasant tales, of his rare gift of reproducing the expressive Slav vernacular, and

of his magical art of infusing his pictures of Russian scenery not merely with beauty, but with spiritual

significance. I can think of no prose writer, unless it be Thoreau, so wholly under the spell of Nature as

Tolstoy; and while Thoreau was preoccupied with the normal phenomena of plant and animal life, Tolstoy,

coming near to Pantheism, found responses to his moods in trees, and gained spiritual expansion from the

illimitable skies and plains. He fre quently brings his heroes into touch with Nature, and endows them with

all the innate mysticism of his own temperament, for to him Nature was "a guide to God " So in the twofold

incident of Prince Andre and the oak tree ("War and Peace") the Prince, though a man of action rather than of

sentiment and habitually cynical, is ready to find in the aged oak by the roadside, in early spring, an animate

"'Springtime, love, happiness?are you still cherishing those deceptive illusions?' the old oak seemed to say.

'Isn't it the same fiction ever? There is neither spring, nor love, nor happiness! Look at those poor

weatherbeaten firs, always the same . . . look at the knotty arms issuing from all up my poor mutilated

trunkhere I am, such as they have made me, and I do not be lieve either in your hopes or in your

And after thus exercising his imagination, Prince Andre still casts backward glances as he passes by,

"but the oak maintained its obstinate and sullen immovability in the midst of the flowers and grass growing at

its feet. 'Yes, that oak is right, right a thousand times over. One must leave illusions to youth. But the rest of

Six weeks later he returns homeward the same way, roused from his melancholy torpor by his recent meeting

"The day was hot, there was storm in the air; a slight shower watered the dust on the road and the grass in the

ditch; the left side of the wood remained in the shade; the right side, lightly stirred by the wind, glittered all

wet in the sun; everything was in flower, and from near and far the nightingales poured forth their song. 'I

fancy there was an oak here that understood me,' said Prince Andre to himself, looking to the left and

attracted unawares by the beauty of the very tree he sought. The transformed old oak spread out in a dome of

deep, luxuriant, blooming ver dure, which swayed in a light breeze in the rays of the setting sun. There were

no longer cloven branches nor rents to be seen; its former aspect of bitter defiance and sullen grief had disap

peared; there were only the young leaves, full of sap that had pierced through the centenarian bark, making

the beholder question with surprise if this patriarch had really given birth to them. 'Yes, it is he, indeed!' cried

Prince Andre, and he felt his heart suffused by the intense joy which the springtime and this new life gave

him . . . 'No, my life cannot end at thirtyone! . . . It is not enough myself to feel what is within me, others

must know it too! Pierre and that "slip" of a girl, who would have fled into cloudland, must learn to know me!

In letters to his wife, to intimate friends, and in his diary, Tolstoy's love of Nature is often times expressed.

The hair shirt of the ascetic and the prophet's mantle fall from his shoulders, and all the poet in him wakes

when, "with a feel ing akin to ecstasy," he looks up from his smoothrunning sledge at "the enchanting,

starry winter sky overhead," or in early spring feels on a ramble "intoxicated by the beauty of the morn ing,"

while he notes that the buds are swelling on the lilacs, and "the birds no longer sing at ran dom," but have

But though such allusions abound in his diary and private correspondence, we must turn to "The Cossacks,"

and "Conjugal Happiness" for the exquisitely elaborated rural studies, which give those early romances their

What is interesting to note is that this artistic freshness and joy in Nature coexisted with acute intermittent

attacks of spiritual lassitude. In "The Cossacks," the doubts, the mental gropings of Oleninewhose

personality but thinly veils that of Tolstoyhaunt him betimes even among the delights of the Caucasian

woodland; Serge, the fatalistic hero of "Conjugal Happiness," calmly acquiesces in the inevitableness of

Doubt and despondency, increased by the vexa tions and failures attending his philanthropic en deavours,

"The disputes over arbitration had become so painful to me, the schoolwork so vague, my doubts arising from

the wish to teach others, while dis sembling my own ignorance of what should be taught, were so

heartrending that I fell ill. I might then have reached the despair to which I all but succumbed fifteen years

later, if there had not been a side of life as yet unknown to me which promised me salvation: this was family

In a word, his marriage with Mademoiselle Sophie Andreevna Bers (daughter of Dr. Bers of Moscow) was

consummated in the autumn of 1862after a somewhat protracted courtship, owing to her extreme

youthand Tolstoy entered upon a period of happiness and mental peace such as he had never known. His

letters of this period to Countess A. A. Tolstoy, his friend Fet, and others, ring with enraptured allusions to

his newfound joy. Lassitude and indecision, mysti cism and altruism, all were swept aside by the im

petus of triumphant love and of allsufficing conjugal happiness. When in June of the follow ing year a

child was born, and the young wife, her features suffused with "a supernatural beauty" lay trying to smile at

the husband who knelt sobbing beside her, Tolstoy must have real ised that for once his prophetic intuition

had been unequal to its task. If his imagination could have conceived in prenuptial days what depths of

emotion might be wakened by fatherhood, he would not have treated the birth of Masha's first child in

"Conjugal Happiness" as a trivial ma terial event, in no way affecting the mutual rela tions of the

disillusioned pair. He would have understood that at this supreme crisis, rather than in the vernal hour of

love's avowal, the heart is illumined with a joy which is fated "never to re turn."

The parting of the ways, so soon reached by Serge and Masha, was in fact delayed in Tolstoy's own life by

his wife's intelligent assistance in his literary work as an untiring amanuensis, and in the mutual anxieties and

pleasures attending the care of a large family of young children. Wider horizons opened to his mental vision,

his whole being was quickened and invigorated. "War and Peace," "Anna Karenina," all the splendid fruit of

the teeming years following upon his mar riage, bear witness to the stimulus which his genius had received.

His dawning recognition of the power and extent of female influence appears in cidentally in the sketches of

high society in those two masterpieces as well as in the eloquent closing passages of "What then must we

do?" (1886). Having affirmed that "it is women who form pub lic opinion, and in our day women are

particu larly powerful," he finally draws a picture of the ideal wife who shall urge her husband and train her

children to selfsacrifice. "Such women rule men and are their guiding stars. O women mothers! The

salvation of the world lies in your hands!" In that appeal to the mothers of the world there lurks a protest

which in later writings developed into overwhelming condemnation. True, he chose motherhood for the type

of self sacrificing love in the treatise "On Life," which appeared soon after "What then must we do?" but

maternal love, as exemplified in his own home and elsewhere, appeared to him as a noble in stinct

The roots of maternal love are sunk deep in conservatism. The child's physical wellbeing is the first

essential in the mother's eyesthe growth of a vigorous body by which a vigorous mind may be fitly

tenantedand this form of materialism which Tolstoy as a father accepted, Tolstoy as idealist condemned;

while the penury he courted as a lightening of his soul's burden was averted by the strenuous exertions of his

wife. So a rift grew without blame attaching to either, and Tolstoy henceforward wandered solitary in spirit

through a wilderness of thought, seeking rest and finding none, coming perilously near to suicide before he

To many it will seem that the finest outcome of that period of mental groping, internal strug gle, and

contending with current ideas, lies in the abovementioned "What then must we do?" Certain it is that no

human document ever re vealed the soul of its author with greater sincer ity. Not for its practical

suggestions, but for its impassioned humanity, its infectious altruism, "What then must we do?" takes its rank

among the world's few living books. It marks that stage of Tolstoy's evolution when he made successive

essays in practical philanthropy which filled him with discouragement, yet were "of use to his soul" in

teaching him how far below the surface lie the seeds of human misery. The slums of Moscow, crowded with

beings sunk beyond re demption; the faminestricken plains of Samara where disease and starvation

reigned, notwith standing the stream of charity set flowing by Tol stoy's appeals and notwithstanding his

untiring personal devotion, strengthened further the con viction, so constantly affirmed in his writings, of

the impotence of money to alleviate distress. Whatever negations of this dictum our own sys tems of

charitable organizations may appear to offer, there can be no question but that in Russia it held and holds

The social condition of Russia is like a tideless sea, whose sullen quiescence is broken from time to time by

terrific storms which spend themselves in unavailing fury. Reaction follows upon every forward motion, and

But in the period of peace following upon the close of the Crimean War the soul of the Russian people was

deeply stirred by the spirit of Prog ress, and hope rose high on the accession of Alex ander II.

The emancipation of the serfs was only one among a number of projected reforms which en gaged men's

minds. The national conscience awoke and echoed the cry of the exiled patriot Herzen, "Now or never!"

Educational enter prise was aroused, and some forty schools for peasant children were started on the model

of that opened by Tolstoy at Yasnaya Polyana (1861). The literary world throbbed with new life, and a

brilliant company of young writers came to the surface, counting among them names of European celebrity,

such as Dostoevsky, Ne krassov, and Saltykov. Unhappily the reign of Progress was short. The bureaucratic

circle hem ming in the Czar took alarm, and made haste to secure their ascendancy by fresh measures of

op pression. Many schools were closed, including that of Tolstoy, and the nascent liberty of the Press was

In this lamentable manner the history of Rus sia's internal misrule and disorder has continued to repeat itself

for the last sixty years, revolving in the same vicious circle of fierce repression and persecution and utter

disregard of the rights of individuals, followed by fierce reprisals on the part of the persecuted; the voice of

protest no sooner raised than silenced in a prison cell or among Siberian snowfields, yet rising again and

again with inextinguishable reiteration; appeals for political freedom, for constitutional govern ment, for

better systems and wider dissemination of education, for liberty of the Press, and for an enlightened treatment

of the masses, callously re ceived and rejected. The answer with which these appeals have been met by the

rulers of Rus sia is only too well known to the civilised world, but the obduracy of Pharoah has called forth

the plagues of Egypt. Despite the unrivalled agrarian fertility of Russia, famines recur with dire frequency,

with disease and riot in their train, while the ignominious termination of the Russo Japanese war showed

that even the magnificent morale of the Russian soldier had been under mined and was tainted by the

rottenness of the authorities set over him. What in such circum stances as these can a handful of

philanthropists achieve, and what avails almsgiving or the scat tering of largesse to a people on the point

In these conditions Tolstoy's abhorrence of money, and his assertion of its futility as a pana cea for human

suffering, appears not merely com prehensible but inevitable, and his renunciation of personal property the

strictly logical outcome of his conclusions. The partition of his estates between his wife and children, shortly

before the outbreak of the great famine in 1892, served to relieve his mind partially; and the writings of

Henry George, with which he became acquainted at this critical time, were an additional incentive to

concentrate his thoughts on the land question. He began by reading the American propagandist's "Social

Problems," which arrested his attention by its main principles and by the clearness and novelty of his

arguments. Deeply impressed by the study of this book, no sooner had he finished it than he possessed

himself of its forerunner, "Progress and Poverty," in which the essence of George's revolutionary doctrines is

The plan of land nationalisation there explained provided Tolstoy with well thoughtout and log ical

reasons for a policy that was already more than sympathetic to him. Here at last was a means of ensuring

economic equality for all, from the largest landowner to the humblest peasant a practical suggestion how

Henry George's ideas and methods are easy of comprehension. The land was made by God for every human

creature that was born into the world, and therefore to confine the ownership of land to the few is wrong. If a

man wants a piece of land, he ought to pay the rest of the community for the enjoyment of it. This payment or

rent should be the only tax paid into the Treasury of the State. Taxation on men's own property (the produce

of their own labour) should be done away with, and a rent graduated according to the site value of the land

should be substituted. Monop olies would cease without violently and unjustly disturbing society with

confiscation and redistribu tion. No one would keep land idle if he were taxed according to its value to the

community, and not according to the use to which he individ ually wished to put it. A man would then read

ily obtain possession of land, and could turn it to account and develop it without being taxed on his own

industry. All human beings would thus be come free in their lives and in their labour. They would no longer

be forced to toil at demor alising work for low wages; they would be inde pendent producers instead of

earning a living by providing luxuries for the rich, who had enslaved them by monopolising the land. The

single tax thus created would ultimately overthrow the pres ent "civilisation" which is chiefly built up on

Tolstoy gave his wholehearted adhesion to this doctrine, predicting a day of enlightenment when men would

no longer tolerate a form of slavery which he considered as revolting as that which had so recently been

abolished. Some long conversations with Henry George, while he was on a visit to Yasnaya Polyana, gave

additional strength to Tolstoy's conviction that in these theories lay the elements essential to the trans

formation and rejuvenation of human nature, go ing far towards the levelling of social inequalities. But to

inoculate the landed proprietors of Russia as a class with those theories was a task which even his genius

He recognised the necessity of proceeding from the particular to the general, and that the perfect ing of

human institutions was impossible without a corresponding perfection in the individual. To this end therefore

the remainder of his life was dedicated. He had always held in aversion what he termed external epidemic

influences: he now endeavoured to free himself not only from all current conventions, but from every

association which he had formerly cherished. Selfanalysis and general observation had taught him that men

are sensual beings, and that sensualism must die for want of food if it were not for sex instincts, if it were not

for Art, and especially for Music. This view of life he forcibly expressed in the "Kreutzer Sonata," in which

Woman and Music, the two magnets of his youth, were impeached as powers of evil. Already, in "War and

Peace" and in "Anna Karenina," his descriptions of fe male charms resembled catalogues of weapons

against which a man must arm himself or perish. The beautiful Princess Helena, with her gleam ing

shoulders, her faultless white bosom, and her eternal smile is evidently an object of aversion to her creator;

even as the Countess Betsy, with her petty coquetries and devices for attracting atten tion at the Opera and

elsewhere, is a target for his contempt. "Woman is a stumblingblock in a man's career," remarks a

philosophical husband in "Anna Karenina." "It is difficult to love a woman and do any good work, and the

Even in his correspondence with the Countess A. A. Tolstoy this slighting tone prevails. "A woman has but

one moral weapon instead of the whole male arsenal. That is love, and only with this weapon is feminine

education successfully car ried forward " Tolstoy, in fact, betrayed a touch of orientalism in his attitude

towards women. In part no doubt as a result of his motherless youth, in part to the fact that his idealism was

never stimulated by any one woman as it was by individual men, his views retained this colouring on sex

questions while they became widened and modified in almost every other field of human philosophy. It was

only that, with a revulsion of feeling not seldom experienced by earnest thinkers, attraction was succeeded by

a repulsion which reached the high note of exasperation when he wrote to a man friend, "A woman in good

None the less, he showed great kindness and sympathy to the women who sought his society, appealing to

him for guidance. One of these (an American, and herself a practical philanthropist), Miss Jane Addams,

expressed with feeling her sense of his personal influence. "The glimpse of Tolstoy has made a profound

impression on me, not so much by what he said, as the life, the gentleness, the soul of him. I am sure you will

understand my saying that I got more of Tolstoy's philosophy from our conversations than I had gotten from

As frequently happens in the lives of reformers, Tolstoy found himself more often in affinity with strangers

than with his own kin. The estrange ment of his ideals from those of his wife neces sarily affected their

conjugal relations, and the decline of mutual sympathy inevitably induced physical alienation. The stress of

mental anguish arising from these conditions found vent in pages of his diaries (much of which I have been

per mitted to read), pages containing matter too sa cred and intimate to use. The diaries shed a flood of

light on Tolstoy's ideas, motives, and manner of life, and have modified some of my opinions, explaining

many hitherto obscure points, while they have also enhanced my admiration for the man. They not only touch

on many delicate subjectson his relations to his wife and family but they also give the true reasons for

leaving his home at last, and explain why he did not do so before. The time, it seems to me, is not ripe for

Despite a strong rein of restraint his mental distress permeates the touching letter of fare well which he

wrote some sixteen years before his death. He, however, shrank from acting upon it, being unable to satisfy

himself that it was a right step. This letter has already appeared in foreign publications,* but it is quoted here

* And in Birukov's short Life of Tolstoy, 1911. of the light which it throws on the character and disposition

of the writer, the workings of his mind being of greater moment to us than those impul sive actions by

"I have suffered long, dear Sophie, from the discord between my life and my beliefs.

"I cannot constrain you to alter your life or your accustomed ways. Neither have I had the strength to leave

you ere this, for I thought my absence might deprive the little ones, still so young, of whatever influence I

may have over them, and above all that I should grieve you. But I can no longer live as I have lived these last

sixteen years, sometimes battling with you and ir ritating you, sometimes myself giving way to the

influences and seductions to which I am accus tomed and which surround me. I have now re solved to do

what I have long desired: to go away . . . Even as the Hindoos, at the age of sixty, betake themselves to the

jungle; even as every aged and religiousminded man desires to conse crate the last years of his life to God

and not to idle talk, to making jokes, to gossiping, to lawn tennis; so I, having reached the age of seventy,

long with all my soul for calm and solitude, and if not perfect harmony, at least a cessation from this horrible

"If I had gone away openly there would have been entreaties, discussions: I should have wa vered, and

perhaps failed to act on my decision, whereas it must be so. I pray of you to forgive me if my action grieves

you. And do you, Sophie, in particular let me go, neither seeking me out, nor bearing me illwill, nor

blaming me . . . the fact that I have left you does not mean that I have cause of complaint against you . . . I

know you were not able, you were incapable of thinking and seeing as I do, and therefore you could not

change your life and make sacrifices to that which you did not accept. Besides, I do not blame you; on the

contrary, I remember with love and gratitude the thirtyfive long years of our life in common, and especially

the first half of the time when, with the courage and devotion of your maternal nature, you bravely bore what

you re garded as your mission. You have given largely of maternal love and made some heavy sacrifices . . .

but during the latter part of our life to gether, during the last fifteen years, our ways have parted. I cannot

think myself the guilty one; I know that if I have changed it is not owing to you, or to the world, but because I

could not do otherwise; nor can I judge you for not having followed me, and I thank you for what you have

The personal isolation he craved was never to be his; but the isolation of spirit essential to leadership,

whether of thought or action, grew year by year, so that in his own household he was veritably "in it but not

At times his loneliness weighed upon him, as when he wrote: "You would find it difficult to imagine how

isolated I am, to what an extent my true self is despised by those who surround me." But he must, none the

less, have realised, as all prophets and seers have done, that solitariness of soul and freedom from the petty

complexities of social life are necessary to the mystic whose constant endeavour is to simplify and to

Notwithstanding the isolation of his inner life he remainedor it might more accurately be said he

Appeals for guidance came to him from all parts of the worldAmerica, France, China, Japanwhile

Yasnaya Polyana was the frequent resort of those needing advice, sympathy, or prac tical assistance. None

appealed to him in vain; at the same time, he was exceedingly chary of ex plicit rules of conduct. It might be

said of Tol stoy that he became a spiritual leader in spite of himself, so averse was he from assuming

author ity. His aim was ever to teach his followers themselves to hear the inward monitory voice, and to

obey it of their own accord. "To know the meaning of Life, you must first know the meaning of Love," he

would say; "and then see that you do what love bids you " His distrust of "epidemic ideas" extended to

"We must not go to meet each other, but go each of us to God. You say it is easier to go all together? Why

yes, to dig or to mow. But one can only draw near to God in isolation . . . I picture the world to myself as a

vast temple, in which the light falls from above in the very centre. To meet together all must go to wards the

light. There we shall find ourselves, gathered from many quarters, united with men we did not expect to see;

The humility which had so completely sup planted his youthful arrogance, and which made him shrink from

impelling others to follow in his steps, endued him also with the teachableness of a child towards those whom

he accepted as his spiritual mentors. It was a peasant noncon formist writer, Soutaev, who by conversing

with him on the revelations of the Gospels helped him to regain his childhood's faith, and incidentally

brought him into closer relations with religious, but otherwise untaught, men of the people. He saw how

instead of railing against fate after the manner of their social superiors, they endured sickness and misfortune

with a calm confidence that all was by the will of God, as it must be and should be. From his peasant teachers

he drew the watchwords Faith, Love, and Labour, and by their light he established that concord in his own

life without which the concord of the universe re mains impossible to realise. The process of in ward

struggletold with unsparing truth in "Confession"is finely painted in "Father Serge," whose life story

points to the conclusion at which Tolstoy ultimately arrived, namely, that not in withdrawal from the

common trials and temptations of men, but in sharing them, lies our best fulfilment of our duty towards

mankind and towards God. Tolstoy gave practical effect to this principle, and to this longfelt desire to be of

use to the poor of the country, by editing and pub lishing, aided by his friend Chertkov,* popular

* In Russia and out of it Mr. Chertkov has been the subject of violent attack. Many of the misunderstandings

of Tolstoy's later years have also been attributed by critics, and by those who hate or belittle his ideas, to the

influence of this friend. These at tacks are very regrettable and require a word of protest. From tales, suited

to the means and intelligence of the humblest peasant. The undertaking was initiated in 1885, and continued

for many years to occupy much of Tolstoy's time and energies. He threw himself with ardour into his

editorial duties; read ing and correcting manuscripts, returning them sometimes to the authors with advice as

to their reconstruction, and making translations from for eign worksall this in addition to his own orig

inal contributions, in which he carried out the principle which he constantly laid down for his collaborators,

that literary graces must be set aside, and that the mental calibre of those for whom the books were primarily

intended must be constantly borne in mind. He attained a splendid fulfilment of his own theories, employing

the moujik's expressive vernacular in portraying his homely wisdom, religious faith, and goodness of nature.

Sometimes the prevailing simplicity of style and motive is tinged with a vague colour ing of oriental legend,

the beginning Mr. Chertkov has striven to spread the ideas of Tolstoy, and has won neither glory nor money

from his faithful and singlehearted devotion. He has carried on his work with a rare love and sympathy in

spite of difficulties. No one appre ciated or valued his friendship and selfsacrifice more than Tolstoy

himself, who was firmly attached to him from the date of his first meeting, consulting him and confiding in

him at every moment, even during Mr. Chertkov's long exile. modern literature has awakened so universal a

sense of sympathy and admiration, perhaps be cause none has been so entirely a labour of love.

The series of educational primers which Tol stoy prepared and published concurrently with the "Popular

Tales" have had an equally large, though exclusively Russian, circulation, being ad mirably suited to their

purposethat of teach ing young children the rudiments of history, geography, and science. Little leisure

The history of Tolstoy as a man of letters forms a separate page of his biography, and one into which it is not

possible to enter in the brief compass of this introduction. It requires, how ever, a passing allusion. Tolstoy

even in his early days never seems to have approached near to that manner of life which the literary man

leads: neither to have shut himself up in his study, nor to have barred the entrance to disturbing friends. On

the one hand, he was fond of society, and dur ing his brief residence in St. Petersburg was never so

engrossed in authorship as to forego the pleas ure of a ball or evening entertainment. Little wonder, when

one looks back at the brilliant young officer surrounded and petted by the great hos tesses of Russia. On the

other hand, he was no devotee at the literary altar. No patron of lit erature could claim him as his constant

visitor; no inner circle of men of letters monopolised his idle hours. Afterwards, when he left the capital and

settled in the country, he was almost entirely cut off from the association of literary men, and never seems to

have sought their companionship. Nevertheless, he had all through his life many fast friends, among them

such as the poet Fet, the nov elist Chekhov, and the great Russian librarian Stassov, who often came to him.

These visits always gave him pleasure. The discussions, whether on the literary movements of the day or on

the merits of Goethe or the humour of Gogol, were welcome interruptions to his everabsorbing

metaphysical studies. In later life, also, though never in touch with the rising generation of authors, we find

him corresponding with them, criticising their style and subject matter. When Andreev, the most modern of

all modern Russian writers, came to pay his respects to Tolstoy some months before his death, he was

received with cordiality, although Tolstoy, as he expressed him self afterwards, felt that there was a great

Literature, as literature, had lost its charm for him. "You are perfectly right," he writes to a friend; "I care

only for the idea, and I pay no attention to my style " The idea was the impor tant thing to Tolstoy in

everything that he read or wrote. When his attention was drawn to an illuminating essay on the poet

Lermontov he was pleased with it, not because it demonstrated Ler montov's position in the literary history

of Rus sia, but because it pointed out the moral aims which underlay the wild Byronism of his works. He

reproached the novelist Leskov, who had sent him his latest novel, for the "exuberance" of his flowers of

speech and for his florid sentences beautiful in their way, he says, but inexpedient and unnecessary. He

even counselled the younger generation to give up poetry as a form of expres sion and to use prose instead.

Poetry, he main tained, was always artificial and obscure. His attitude towards the art of writing remained to

the end one of hostility. Whenever he caught himself working for art he was wont to reproach himself, and

his diaries contain many recrimina tions against his own weakness in yielding to this besetting temptation.

The greater number of stories and plays con tained in these volumes date from the years fol lowing upon

Tolstoy's pedagogic activity. Long intervals, however, elapsed in most cases between the original synopsis

and the final touches. Thus "Father Serge," of which he sketched the outline to Mr. Chertkov in 1890, was so

often put aside to make way for purely ethical writings that not till 1898 does the entry occur in his diary,

"To day, quite unexpectedly, I finished Serge " A year previously a dramatic incident had come to his

knowledge, which he elaborated in the play entitled "The Man who was dead " It ran on the lines familiarised

by Enoch Arden and similar stories, of a wife deserted by her husband and supported in his absence by a

benefactor, whom she subsequently marries. In this instance the supposed dead man was suddenly

resuscitated as the result of his own admissions in his cups, the wife and her second husband being

consequently arrested and condemned to a term of imprison ment. Tolstoy seriously attacked the subject

during the summer of 1900, and having brought it within a measurable distance of completion in a shorter

time than was usual with him, submitted it to the judgment of a circle of friends. The drama made a deep

impression on the privileged few who read it, and some mention of it appeared in the newspapers.

Shortly afterwards a young man came to see Tolstoy in private. He begged him to refrain from publishing

"The Man who was dead," as it was the history of his mother's life, and would dis tress her gravely, besides

possibly occasioning further police intervention. Tolstoy promptly consented, and the play remained, as it

now ap pears, in an unfinished condition. He had al ready felt doubtful whether "it was a thing God would

approve," Art for Art's sake having in his eyes no right to existence. For this reason a didactic tendency is

increasingly evident in these later stories. "After the Ball" gives a painful picture of Russian military cruelty;

"The Forged Coupon" traces the cancerous growth of evil, and demonstrates with dramatic force the cumu

Of the three plays included in these volumes, "The Light that shines in Darkness" has a spe cial claim to our

attention as an example of auto biography in the guise of drama. It is a speci men of Tolstoy's gift of

seeing himself as others saw him, and viewing a question in all its bear ings. It presents not actions but

ideas, giving with entire impartiality the opinions of his home circle, of his friends, of the Church and of the

State, in regard to his altruistic propaganda and to the anarchism of which he has been accused. The scene of

the renunciation of the estates of the hero may be taken as a literal version of what actually took place in

regard to Tolstoy himself, while the dialogues by which the piece is carried forward are more like verbatim

This play was, in addition, a medium by which Tolstoy emphasised his abhorrence of military service, and

probably for this reason its produc tion is absolutely forbidden in Russia. A word may be said here on

Tolstoy's socalled Anarchy, a term admitting of grave misconstruction. In that he denied the benefit of

existing governments to the people over whom they ruled, and in that he stigmatised standing armies as

"collections of disciplined murderers," Tolstoy was an Anarchist; but in that he reprobated the methods of

violence, no matter how righteous the cause at stake, and upheld by word and deed the gospel of Love and

submission, he cannot be judged guilty of Anar chism in its full significance. He could not, how ever,

suppress the sympathy which he felt with those whose resistance to oppression brought them into deadly

conflict with autocracy. He found in the Caucasian chieftain, Hadji Murat, a sub ject full of human interest

and dramatic possibili ties; and though some eight years passed before he corrected the manuscript for the

last time (in 1903), it is evident from the numbers of entries in his diary that it had greatly occupied his

thoughts so far back even as the period which he spent in Tiflis prior to the Crimean war. It was then that the

final subjugation of the Caucasus took place, and Shamil and his devoted band made their last struggle for

freedom. After the lapse of half a century, Tolstoy gave vent in "Hadji Murat" to the resentment which the

military despotism of Nicholas I. had roused in his sensitive and fearless spirit.

Courage was the dominant note in Tolstoy's character, and none have excelled him in portray ing brave

men. His own fearlessness was of the rarest, in that it was both physical and moral. The mettle tried and

proved at Sebastopol sus tained him when he had drawn on himself the bitter animosity of "Holy Synod"

and the relent less anger of Czardom. In spite of his non resistance doctrine, Tolstoy's courage was not of

the passive order. It was his natural bent to rouse his foes to combat, rather than wait for their attack, to put

on the defensive every false hood and every wrong of which he was cognisant. Truth in himself and in

others was what he most desired, and that to which he strove at all costs to attain. He was his own severest

critic, weigh ing his own actions, analysing his own thoughts, and baring himself to the eyes of the world

with unflinching candour. Greatest of autobiogra phers, he extenuates nothing: you see the whole man with

his worst faults and best qualities; weak nesses accentuated by the energy with which they are charactered,

apparent waste of mental forces bent on solving the insoluble, inherited tastes and prejudices, altruistic

impulses and virile passions, egoism and idealism, all strangely mingled and continually warring against each

other, until from the deaththroes of spiritual conflict issued a new birth and a new life. In the ancient

Scripture "God is love" Tolstoy discerned fresh meaning, and strove with superhuman energy to bring home

that meaning to the world at large. His doctrine in fact appears less as a new light in the darkness than as a

revival of the pure flame of "the Mystic of the Galilean hills," whose teaching he accepted while denying His

Of Tolstoy's beliefs in regard to the Christian religion it may be said that with advancing years he became

more and more disposed to regard religious truth as one continuous stream of spirit ual thought flowing

through the ages of man's history, emanating principally from the inspired prophets and seers of Israel, India,

and China. Finally, in 1909, in a letter to a friend he summed up his conviction in the following words:

"For me the doctrine of Jesus is simply one of those beautiful religious doctrines which we have received

from Egyptian, Jewish, Hindoo, Chi nese, and Greek antiquity. The two great prin ciples of Jesus: love of

Godin a word absolute perfectionand love of one's neighbour, that is to say, love of all men without

distinction, have been preached by all the sages of the world Krishna, Buddha, Laotse, Confucius,

Socrates, Plato, Epictetus, Marcus Aurelius, and among the moderns, Rousseau, Pascal, Kant, Emerson,

Channing, and many others. Religious and moral truth is everywhere and always the same. I have no

predilection whatever for Christianity. If I have been particularly interested in the doc trine of Jesus it is,

firstly, because I was born in that religion and have lived among Christians; secondly, because I have found a

great spiritual joy in freeing the doctrine in its purity from the astounding falsifications. wrought by the

Tolstoy's lifework was indeed a splendid striv ing to free truth from falsehood, to simplify the complexities

of civilisation and demonstrate their futility. Realists as gifted have come and gone and left but little trace. It

is conceivable that the great trilogy of "Anna Karenina," " War and Peace," and "Resurrection" may one day

be for gotten, but Tolstoy's teaching stands on firmer foundations, and has stirred the hearts of thou sands

who are indifferent to the finest display of psychic analysis. He has taught men to venture beyond the limits

set by reason, to rise above the actual and to find the meaning of life in love. It was his mission to probe our

moral ulcers to the roots and to raise moribund ideals from the dust, breathing his own vitality into them, till

they rose before our eyes as living aspirations. The spir itual joy of which he wrote was no rhetorical

hyperbole; it was manifest in the man himself, and was the fount of the lofty idealism which made him not

Idealism is one of those large abstractions which are invested by various minds with varying shades of

meaning, and which find expression in an infinite number of forms. Ideals bred and fos tered in the heart of

man receive at birth an im press from the life that engenders them, and when that life is tempesttossed the

thought that springs from it must bear a birthmark of the storm. That birthmark is stamped on all Tolstoy's

utter ances, the simplest and the most metaphysical. But though he did not pass scathless through the

purging fires, nor escape with eyes undimmed from the mystic light which flooded his soul, his ideal is not

thereby invalidated. It was, he admitted, unattainable, but none the less a state of perfec tion to which we

"There is nothing wrong in not living up to the ideal which you have made for yourself, but what is wrong is,

if on looking back, you cannot see that you have made the least step nearer to your ideal."

How far Tolstoy's doctrines may influence suc ceeding generations it is impossible to foretell; but when

time has extinguished what is merely personal or racial, the divine spark which he re ceived from his great

spiritual forerunners in other times and countries will undoubtedly be found alight. His universality enabled

him to unite himself closely with them in mental sympathy; sometimes so closely, as in the case of J. J.

Rous seau, as to raise analogies and comparisons de signed to show that he merely followed in a well

worn pathway. Yet the similarity of Tolstoy's ideas to those of the author of the "Contrat So cial" hardly

goes beyond a mutual distrust of Art and Science as aids to human happiness and virtue, and a desire to

establish among mankind a true sense of brotherhood. For the rest, the appeals which they individually made

to Human ity were as dissimilar as the currents of their lives, and equally dissimilar in effect.

The magic flute of Rousseau's eloquence breathed fanaticism into his disciples, and a desire to mass

themselves against the foes of liberty. Tolstoy's trumpetcall sounds a deeper note. It pierces the heart,

summoning each man to the in quisition of his own conscience, and to justify his existence by labour, that

The exaltation which he awakens owes nothing to rhythmical language nor to subtle interpreta tions of

sensuous emotion; it proceeds from a per ception of eternal truth, the truth that has love, faith, courage, and

NOTEOwing to circumstances entirely outside the control of the editor some of these translations have

Father Serge. 189098. Introduction to the History of a Mother. 1894. Memoirs of a Mother. 1894. The

Young Czar. 1894. Diary of a Lunatic. 1896. Hadji Murat. 18961904. The Light that shines in Darkness.

18981901. The Man who was dead. 1900. After the Ball. 1903. The Forged Coupon. 1904. Alexis. 1905.

Diary of Alexander I. 1905. The Dream. 1906. Father Vassily. 1906. There are no Guilty People. 1909. The

Wisdom of Children. 1909. The Cause of it All. 1910. Chodynko. 1910. Two Travellers. Date uncertain.

FEDOR MIHAILOVICH SMOKOVNIKOV, the presi dent of the local Income Tax Department, a man of

unswerving honestyand proud of it, too a gloomy Liberal, a freethinker, and an enemy to every

manifestation of religious feeling, which he thought a relic of superstition, came home from his office feeling

very much annoyed. The Gov ernor of the province had sent him an extraordi narily stupid minute, almost

Fedor Mihailovich felt embittered, and wrote at once a sharp answer. On his return home everything seemed

It was five minutes to five, and he expected the dinner to be served at once, but he was told it was not ready.

He banged the door and went to his study. Somebody knocked at the door. "Who the devil is that?" he

The door opened and a boy of fifteen came in, the son of Fedor Mihailovich, a pupil of the fifth class of the

It had been arranged that the father should pay his son a monthly allowance of three roubles as pocket money.

Fedor Mihailovich frowned, took out of his pocketbook a coupon of two roubles fifty kopeks which he

found among the bank notes, and added to it fifty kopeks in silver out of the loose change in his purse. The

"I would not ask for it, but I have borrowed a small sum from a friend, and promised upon my word of

honour to pay it off. My honour is dear to me, and that is why I want another three rou bles. I don't like

"You have an allowance of three roubles and you ought to be content. I had not fifty kopeks when I was your

"Now, all my comrades have much more. Petrov and Ivanitsky have fifty roubles a month."

"And I tell you that if you behave like them you will be a scoundrel. Mind that."

"What is there to mind? You never under stand my position. I shall be disgraced if I don't pay my debt. It is

Fedor Mihailovich jumped from his seat and pounced upon his son. "Be off, I say!" he shouted. "You deserve

His son was at once frightened and embittered. The bitterness was even greater than the fright. With his head

bent down he hastily turned to the door. Fedor Mihailovich did not intend to strike him, but he was glad to

vent his wrath, and went on shouting and abusing the boy till he had closed the door.

When the maid came in to announce that din ner was ready, Fedor Mihailovich rose.

He went to the diningroom with a sullen face. At table his wife made some remark, but he gave her such a

short and angry answer that she ab stained from further speech. The son also did not lift his eyes from his

plate, and was silent all the time. The trio finished their dinner in si lence, rose from the table and separated,

After dinner the boy went to his room, took the coupon and the change out of his pocket, and threw the

He sat down to work, and began to study Latin grammar out of a dog'seared book. After a while he rose,

closed and bolted the door, shifted the money into a drawer, took out some ciga rette papers, rolled one up,

He spent nearly two hours over his grammar and writing books without understanding a word of what he saw

before him; then he rose and be gan to stamp up and down the room, trying to recollect all that his father

had said to him. All the abuse showered upon him, and worst of all his father's angry face, were as fresh in

his mem ory as if he saw and heard them all over again. "Silly boy! You ought to get a good thrash ing!"

And the more he thought of it the angrier be grew. He remembered also how his father said: "I see what a

scoundrel you will turn out. I know you will. You are sure to become a cheat, if you go on like that. . . " He

had cer tainly forgotten how he felt when he was young! "What crime have I committed, I wonder? I wanted

to go to the theatre, and having no money borrowed some from Petia Grouchetsky. Was that so very wicked

of me? Another father would have been sorry for me; would have asked how it all happened; whereas he just

called me names. He never thinks of anything but himself. When it is he who has not got something he wants

that is a different matter! Then all the house is upset by his shouts. And II am a scoundrel, a cheat, he

says. No, I don't love him, although he is my father. It may be wrong, but I hate him."

There was a knock at the door. The servant brought a lettera message from his friend. They want an

The letter ran as follows: " I ask you now for the third time to pay me back the six roubles you have

borrowed; you are trying to avoid me. That is not the way an honest man ought to be have. Will you please

send the amount by my messenger? I am myself in a frightful fix. Can you not get the money

somewhere?Yours, ac cording to whether you send the money or not, with scorn, or love, Grouchetsky."

"There we have it! Such a pig! Could he not wait a while? I will have another try."

Mitia went to his mother. This was his last hope. His mother was very kind, and hardly ever refused him

anything. She would probably have helped him this time also out of his trouble, but she was in great anxiety:

her younger child, Petia, a boy of two, had fallen ill. She got angry with Mitia for rushing so noisily into the

nursery, and refused him almost without listening to what he had to say. Mitia muttered something to him

self and turned to go. The mother felt sorry for him. "Wait, Mitia,"" she said; "I have not got the money you

"What is the use of having it tomorrow, when I want it today? I am going to see a friend. That is all I have

"Nothing else is left to me. He will tell me how to pawn my watch," he thought, touching his watch in his

Mitia went to his room, took the coupon and the watch from the drawer, put on his coat, and went to Mahin.

MAHIN was his schoolfellow, his senior, a grown up young man with a moustache. He gambled, had a

large feminine acquaintance, and always had ready cash. He lived with his aunt. Mitia quite realised that

Mahin was not a respectable fellow, but when he was in his company he could not help doing what he

wished. Mahin was in when Mitia called, and was just preparing to go to the theatre. His untidy room smelt

"That's awful, old chap," said Mahin, when Mitia telling him about his troubles, showed the coupon and the

fifty kopeks, and added that he wanted nine roubles more. "We might, of course, go and pawn your watch.

"Something quite simple " Mahin took the coupon in his hand. " Put ONE before the 2.50 and it will be

"Why, certainly; the thousand roubles notes have coupons of 12.50. I have cashed one in the same way."

"Well, yes or no?" asked Mahin, taking the pen and smoothing the coupon with the fingers of his left hand.

"Nonsense, indeed," thought Mitia, and again his father's hard words came back to his memory. "Scoundrel!

As you called me that, I might as well be it " He looked into Mahin's face. Mahin looked at him, smiling with

"Now let us go to the shop across the road; they sell photographers' materials there. I just happen to want a

framefor this young person here " He took out of his pocket a photograph of a young lady with large eyes,

THE two boys, having rung the doorbell, entered the empty shop, which had shelves along the walls and

photographic appliances on them, together with showcases on the counters. A plain woman, with a kind

face, came through the inner door and asked from behind the counter what they required.

"At what price?" asked the woman; she wore mittens on her swollen fingers with which she rap idly handled

"These are fifty kopeks each; and these are a little more expensive. There is rather a pretty one, of quite a new

"All right, I will have this. But could not you make it cheaper? Let us say one rouble."

"Well, I will take it," said Mahin, and put the coupon on the counter. "Wrap up the frame and give me

change. But please be quick. We must be off to the theatre, and it is getting late."

"You have plenty of time," said the shop keeper, examining the coupon very closely because of her

"It will look lovely in that frame, don't you think so? " said Mahin, turning to Mitia.

"I have only fifty kopeks in cash. But what are you afraid of? You don't think, I suppose, that we want to

She made a calculation on the counter, opened the desk, took out a tenroubles note, looked for change and

"Please make a parcel of the frame," said Mahin, taking the money in a leisurely fashion.

Mitia only breathed freely when the door bell rang behind them, and they were again in the street.

"There are ten roubles for you, and let me have the rest. I will give it back to you."

Mahin went off to the theatre, and Mitia called on Grouchetsky to repay the money he had bor rowed from

AN hour after the boys were gone Eugene Mihail ovich, the owner of the shop, came home, and be gan to

"Oh, you clumsy fool! Idiot that you are!" he shouted, addressing his wife, after having seen the coupon and

"But I have often seen you, Eugene, accepting coupons in payment, and precisely twelve rouble ones,"

retorted his wife, very humiliated, grieved, and all but bursting into tears. "I really don't know how they

contrived to cheat me," she went on. "They were pupils of the school, in uni form. One of them was quite a

"A comme il faut fool, that is what you are!" The husband went on scolding her, while he counted the cash. . .

. When I accept coupons, I see what is written on them. And you probably looked only at the boys' pretty

"That is just like you men! Blaming every body around you. But when it is you who lose fiftyfour roubles

"I don't want to talk to you," said his wife, and went to her room. There she began to re mind herself that her

family was opposed to her marriage, thinking her present husband far below her in social rank, and that it was

she who insisted on marrying him. Then she went on thinking of the child she had lost, and how indifferent

her husband had been to their loss. She hated him so intensely at that moment that she wished for his death.

Her wish frightened her, however, and she hurriedly began to dress and left the house. When her husband

came from the shop to the inner rooms of their flat she was gone. Without waiting for him she had dressed

and gone off to friendsa teacher of French in the school, a Russified Pole, and his wifewho had invited

THE guests at the party had tea and cakes offered to them, and sat down after that to play whist at a number

The partners of Eugene Mihailovich's wife were the host himself, an officer, and an old and very stupid lady

in a wig, a widow who owned a musicshop; she loved playing cards and played remarkably well. But it was

Eugene Mihailo vich's wife who was the winner all the time. The best cards were continually in her hands.

At her side she had a plate with grapes and a pear and was in the best of spirits.

"And Eugene Mihailovich? Why is he so late?" asked the hostess, who played at another table.

"Probably busy settling accounts," said Eugene Mihailovich's wife. "He has to pay off the tradesmen, to get in

firewood " The quarrel she had with her husband revived in her memory; she frowned, and her hands, from

"Oh, there he is.We have just been speak ing of you," said the hostess to Eugene Mihailo vich, who

"I was busy," answered Eugene Mihailovich, in a gay voice, rubbing his hands. And to his wife's surprise he

And Eugene Mihailovich related with great in dignation to the company presenthis wife add ing more

details to his narrativehow his wife had been cheated by two unscrupulous schoolboys.

"Well, and now let us sit down to work," he said, taking his place at one of the whisttables when his turn

EUGENE MIHAILOVICH had actually used the cou pon to buy firewood from the peasant Ivan Mi

ronov, who had thought of setting up in business on the seventeen roubles he possessed. He hoped in this way

to earn another eight roubles, and with the twentyfive roubles thus amassed he intended to buy a good

strong horse, which he would want in the spring for work in the fields and for driv ing on the roads, as his

Ivan Mironov's commercial method consisted in buying from the stores a cord of wood and di viding it into

five cartloads, and then driving about the town, selling each of these at the price the stores charged for a

quarter of a cord. That unfortunate day Ivan Mironov drove out very early with half a cartload, which he soon

sold. He loaded up again with another cartload which he hoped to sell, but he looked in vain for a cus tomer;

no one would buy it. It was his bad luck all that day to come across experienced towns people, who knew all

the tricks of the peasants in selling firewood, and would not believe that he had actually brought the wood

from the country as he assured them. He got hungry, and felt cold in his ragged woollen coat. It was nearly

below zero when evening came on; his horse which he had treated without mercy, hoping soon to sell it to the

knacker's yard, refused to move a step. So Ivan Mironov was quite ready to sell his firewood at a loss when

"Buy my cartload of firewood, sir. I will give it to you cheap. My poor horse is tired, and can't go any

"From the country, sir. This firewood is from our place. Good dry wood, I can assure you."

Ivan Mironov began by asking a high price, but reduced it once, and finished by selling the cartload for just

"I'm giving it to you cheap, just to please you, sir.Besides, I am glad it is not a long way to your house," he

Eugene Mihailovich did not bargain very much. He did not mind paying a little more, because he was

delighted to think he could make use of the coupon and get rid of it. With great difficulty Ivan Mironov

managed at last, by pulling the shafts himself, to drag his cart into the courtyard, where he was obliged to

unload the firewood un aided and pile it up in the shed. The yardporter was out. Ivan Mironov hesitated at

first to ac cept the coupon, but Eugene Mihailovich insisted, and as he looked a very important person the

He went by the backstairs to the servants' room, crossed himself before the ikon, wiped his beard which was

covered with icicles, turned up the skirts of his coat, took out of his pocket a leather purse, and out of the

purse eight roubles and fifty kopeks, and handed the change to Eu gene Mihailovich. Carefully folding the

coupon, he put it in the purse. Then, according to cus tom, he thanked the gentleman for his kindness, and,

using the whiphandle instead of the lash, he belaboured the halffrozen horse that he had doomed to an

Arriving there, Ivan Mironov called for vodka and tea for which he paid eight kopeks. Com fortable and

warm after the tea, he chatted in the very best of spirits with a yardporter who was sitting at his table. Soon

he grew communicative and told his companion all about the conditions of his life. He told him he came from

the village Vassilievsky, twelve miles from town, and also that he had his allotment of land given to him by

his family, as he wanted to live apart from his father and his brothers; that he had a wife and two children; the

elder boy went to school, and did not yet help him in his work. He also said he lived in lodgings and intended

going to the horse fair the next day to look for a good horse, and, may be, to buy one. He went on to state

that he had now nearly twentyfive roublesonly one rouble shortand that half of it was a coupon. He

took the coupon out of his purse to show to his new friend. The yardporter was an illiterate man, but he said

he had had such coupons given him by lodgers to change; that they were good; but that one might also chance

on forged ones; so he advised the peasant, for the sake of security, to change it at once at the counter. Ivan

Mironov gave the coupon to the waiter and asked for change. The waiter, however, did not bring the change,

but came back with the manager, a bald headed man with a shining face, who was holding the coupon in his

"Your money is no good," he said, showing the coupon, but apparently determined not to give it back.

"I will not. You fellows have got to be pun ished for such tricks. Of course, you did it your selfyou and

"Sidor! Call a policeman," said the barman to the waiter. Ivan Mironov was rather drunk, and in that

condition was hard to manage. He seized the manager by the collar and began to shout.

"Give me back my money, I say. I will go to the gentleman who gave it to me. I know where he lives."

The manager had to struggle with all his force to get loose from Ivan Mironov, and his shirt was torn,

The waiter took hold of Ivan Mironov; at that moment the policeman arrived. Looking very important, he

As to the coupon, the policeman put it in his pocket; Ivan Mironov, together with his horse, was brought to

IVAN MIRONOV had to spend the night in the po licestation, in the company of drunkards and thieves. It

was noon of the next day when he was summoned to the police officer; put through a close examination, and

sent in the care of a po liceman to Eugene Mihailovich's shop. Ivan Mi ronov remembered the street and

The policeman asked for the shopkeeper, showed him the coupon and confronted him with Ivan Mironov,

who declared that he had received the coupon in that very place. Eugene Mihailo vich at once assumed a

"You are mad, my good fellow," he said. "I have never seen this man before in my life," he added, addressing

"Why, you must be dreaming I You have sold your firewood to some one else," said Eu gene Mihailovich.

"But wait a minute. I will go and ask my wife whether she bought any fire wood yesterday " Eugene

Mihailovich left them and immediately called the yardporter Vassily, a strong, handsome, quick, cheerful,

He told Vassily that if any one should inquire where the last supply of firewood was bought, he was to say

"A peasant has come," he said to Vassily, "who has declared to the police that I gave him a forged coupon.

He is a fool and talks non sense, but you, are a clever man. Mind you say that we always get the firewood

from the stores. And, by the way, I've been thinking some time of giving you money to buy a new jacket,"

added Eu gene Mihailovich, and gave the man five roubles. Vassily looking with pleasure first at the five

"I know, those peasant folks have no brains. Ignorance, of course. Don't you be uneasy. I know what I have to

Ivan Mironov, with tears in his eyes, implored Eugene Mihailovich over and over again to ac knowledge the

coupon he had given him, and the yardporter to believe what he said, but it proved quite useless; they both

insisted that they had never bought firewood from a peasant in the street. The policeman brought Ivan

Mironov back to the policestation, and he was charged with forging the coupon. Only after taking the ad

vice of a drunken office clerk in the same cell with him, and bribing the police officer with five rou bles, did

Ivan Mironov get out of jail, without the coupon, and with only seven roubles left out of the twentyfive he

Of these seven roubles he spent three in the publichouse and came home to his wife dead drunk, with a

His wife was expecting a child, and felt very ill. She began to scold her husband; he pushed her away, and

she struck him. Without answer ing a word he lay down on the plank and began to weep bitterly.

Not till the next day did he tell his wife what had actually happened. She believed him at once, and

thoroughly cursed the dastardly rich man who had cheated Ivan. He was sobered now, and remembering the

advice a workman had given him, with whom he had many a drink the day before, decided to go to a lawyer

THE lawyer consented to take proceedings on be half of Ivan Mironov, not so much for the sake of the fee,

Both parties appeared in the court when the case was tried, and the yardporter Vassily was summoned as

witness. They repeated in the court all they had said before to the police officials. Ivan Mironov again called

to his aid the name of the Divinity, and reminded the shopkeeper of the hour of death. Eugene Mihailovich,

although quite aware of his wickedness, and the risks he was running, despite the rebukes of his conscience,

could not now change his testimony, and went on calmly to deny all the allegations made against him.

The yardporter Vassily had received another ten roubles from his master, and, quite unper turbed, asserted

with a smile that he did not know anything about Ivan Mironov. And when he was called upon to take the

oath, he overcame his inner qualms, and repeated with assumed ease the terms of the oath, read to him by the

old priest appointed to the court. By the holy Cross and the Gospel, he swore that he spoke the whole truth.

The case was decided against Ivan Mironov, who was sentenced to pay five roubles for expenses. This sum

Eugene Mihailovich generously paid for him. Before dismissing Ivan Mironov, the judge severely

admonished him, saying he ought to take care in the future not to accuse respectable people, and that he also

ought to be thankful that he was not forced to pay the costs, and that he had escaped a prosecution for slander,

"I offer my humble thanks," said Ivan Mi ronov; and, shaking his head, left the court with a heavy sigh.

The whole thing seemed to have ended well for Eugene Mihailovich and the yardporter Vassily. But only in

appearance. Something had hap pened which was not noticed by any one, but which was much more

Vassily had left his village and settled in town over two years ago. As time went on he sent less and less

money to his father, and he did not ask his wife, who remained at home, to join him. He was in no need of

her; he could in town have as many wives as he wished, and much better ones too than that clumsy,

villagebred woman. Vas sily, with each recurring year, became more and more familiar with the ways of

the town people, forgetting the conventions of a country life. There everything was so vulgar, so grey, so

poor and untidy. Here, in town, all seemed on the contrary so refined, nice, clean, and rich; so or derly too.

And he became more and more con vinced that people in the country live just like wild beasts, having no

idea of what life is, and that only life in town is real. He read books written by clever writers, and went to the

perform ances in the Peoples' Palace. In the country, people would not see such wonders even in dreams. In

the country old men say: "Obey the law, and live with your wife; work; don't eat too much; don't care for

finery," while here, in town, all the clever and learned peoplethose, of course, who know what in reality

Previous to the incident of the forged coupon, Vassily could not actually believe that rich people lived

without any moral law. But after that, still more after having perjured himself, and not being the worse for it

in spite of his fearson the contrary, he had gained ten roubles out of it Vassily became firmly convinced

that no moral laws whatever exist, and that the only thing to do is to pursue one's own interests and pleasures.

This he now made his rule in life. He accord ingly got as much profit as he could out of pur chasing goods

for lodgers. But this did not pay all his expenses. Then he took to stealing, when ever chance

offeredmoney and all sorts of val uables. One day he stole a purse full of money from Eugene

Mihailovich, but was found out. Eugene Mihailovich did not hand him over to the police, but dismissed him

Vassily had no wish whatever to return home to his village, and remained in Moscow with his sweetheart,

looking out for a new job. He got one as yardporter at a grocer's, but with only small wages. The next day

after he had entered that service he was caught stealing bags. The grocer did not call in the police, but gave

him a good thrashing and turned him out. After that he could not find work. The money he had left was soon

gone; he had to sell all his clothes and went about nearly in rags. His sweetheart left him. But

notwithstanding, he kept up his high spirits, and when the spring came he started to walk home.

PETER NIKOLAEVICH SVENTIZKY, a short man in black spectacles (he had weak eyes, and was

threatened with complete blindness), got up, as was his custom, at dawn of day, had a cup of tea, and putting

on his short fur coat trimmed with astrachan, went to look after the work on his es tate.

Peter Nikolaevich had been an official in the Customs, and had gained eighteen thousand rou bles during his

service. About twelve years ago he quitted the servicenot quite of his own ac cord: as a matter of fact he

had been compelled to leaveand bought an estate from a young landowner who had dissipated his

fortune. Peter Nikolaevich had married at an earlier period, while still an official in the Customs. His wife,

who belonged to an old noble family, was an orphan, and was left without money. She was a tall, stoutish,

goodlooking woman. They had no children. Peter Nikolaevich had considerable practical talents and a

strong will. He was the son of a Polish gentleman, and knew nothing about agriculture and land management;

but when he acquired an estate of his own, he man aged it so well that after fifteen years the waste piece of

land, consisting of three hundred acres, became a model estate. All the buildings, from the dwellinghouse to

the corn stores and the shed for the fire engine were solidly built, had iron roofs, and were painted at the right

time. In the tool house carts, ploughs, harrows, stood in per fect order, the harness was well cleaned and

oiled. The horses were not very big, but all homebred, grey, well fed, strong and devoid of blemish.

The threshing machine worked in a roofed barn, the forage was kept in a separate shed, and a paved drain

was made from the stables. The cows were homebred, not very large, but giving plenty of milk; fowls were

also kept in the poultry yard, and the hens were of a special kind, laying a great quantity of eggs. In the

orchard the fruit trees were well whitewashed and propped on poles to enable them to grow straight.

Everything was looked aftersolid, clean, and in perfect order. Peter Nikolaevich rejoiced in the perfect

condi tion of his estate, and was proud to have achieved itnot by oppressing the peasants, but, on the

Among the nobles of his province he belonged to the advanced party, and was more inclined to liberal than

conservative views, always taking the side of the peasants against those who were still in favour of serfdom.

"Treat them well, and they will be fair to you," he used to say. Of course, he did not overlook any

carelessness on the part of those who worked on his estate, and he urged them on to work if they were lazy;

but then he gave them good lodging, with plenty of good food, paid their wages without any delay, and gave

Walking cautiously on the melting snowfor the time of the year was FebruaryPeter Nikol aevich

passed the stables, and made his way to the cottage where his workmen were lodged. It was still dark, the

darker because of the dense fog; but the windows of the cottage were lighted. The men had already got up.

His intention was to urge them to begin work. He had arranged that they should drive out to the forest and

"What is that?" he thought, seeing the door of the stable wide open. "Hallo, who is there?"

No answer. Peter Nikolaevich stepped into the stable. It was dark; the ground was soft under his feet, and the

air smelt of dung; on the right side of the door were two loose boxes for a pair of grey horses. Peter

Nikolaevich stretched out his hand in their directionone box was empty. He put out his footthe horse

might have been lying down. But his foot did not touch anything solid. "Where could they have taken the

horse?" he thought. They cer tainly had not harnessed it; all the sledges stood still outside. Peter

Stepan was the head of the workmen's gang. He was just stepping out of the cottage.

"Here I am!" he said, in a cheerful voice. "Oh, is that you, Peter Nikolaevich? Our men are coming."

Proshka came with the lantern. They all went to the stable, and Stepan knew at once what had happened.

"Yes, the brigands! I don't see 'Mashka.' 'Hawk' is here. But 'Beauty' is not. Nor yet 'Dapplegrey.'"

Peter Nikolaevich did not utter a word at first. He only frowned and took deep breaths.

"Oh," he said after a while. "If only I could lay hands on them! Who was on guard?"

Peter Nikolaevich called in the police, and making an appeal to all the authorities, sent his men to track the

"Wicked people," said Peter Nikolaevich. "How could they! I was always so kind to them. Now, wait!

IN the meanwhile the horses, the grey ones, had all been disposed of; Mashka was sold to the gip sies for

eighteen roubles; Dapplegrey was ex changed for another horse, and passed over to another peasant who

lived forty miles away from the estate; and Beauty died on the way. The man who conducted the whole affair

wasIvan Mi ronov. He had been employed on the estate, and knew all the whereabouts of Peter

Nikolaevich. He wanted to get back the money he had lost, and stole the horses for that reason.

After his misfortune with the forged coupon, Ivan Mironov took to drink; and all he possessed would have

gone on drink if it had not been for his wife, who locked up his clothes, the horses' collars, and all the rest of

what he would other wise have squandered in publichouses. In his drunken state Ivan Mironov was

continually thinking, not only of the man who had wronged him, but of all the rich people who live on

robbing the poor. One day he had a drink with some peasants from the suburbs of Podolsk, and was walking

home together with them. On the way the peasants, who were completely drunk, told him they had stolen a

horse from a peasant's cottage. Ivan Mironov got angry, and began to abuse the horsethieves.

"What a shame!" he said. "A horse is like a brother to the peasant. And you robbed him of it? It is a great sin,

I tell you. If you go in for stealing horses, steal them from the landowners. They are worse than dogs, and

The talk went on, and the peasants from Po dolsk told him that it required a great deal of cunning to steal a

"You must know all the ins and outs of the place, and must have somebody on the spot to help you."

Then it occurred to Ivan Mironov that he knew a landownerSventizky; he had worked on his estate, and

Sventizky, when paying him off, had deducted one rouble and a half for a broken tool. He remembered well

Ivan Mironov called on Peter Nikolaevich pre tending to ask for employment, but really in or der to get the

information he wanted. He took precautions to make sure that the watchman was absent, and that the horses

were standing in their boxes in the stable. He brought the thieves to the place, and helped them to carry off

They divided their gains, and Ivan Mironov returned to his wife with five roubles in his pocket. He had

nothing to do at home, having no horse to work in the field, and therefore continued to steal horses in

PETER NIKOLAEVICH SVENTIZKY did his best to discover who had stolen his horses. He knew

somebody on the estate must have helped the thieves, and began to suspect all his staff. He inquired who had

slept out that night, and the gang of the working men told him Proshka had not been in the whole night.

Proshka, or Prokofy Nikolaevich, was a young fellow who had just fin ished his military service, handsome,

and skilful in all he did; Peter Nikolaevich employed him at times as coachman. The district constable was a

friend of Peter Nikolaevich, as were the provin cial head of the police, the marshal of the nobility, and also

the rural councillor and the examining magistrate. They all came to his house on his saint's day, drinking the

cherry brandy he offered them with pleasure, and eating the nice preserved mushrooms of all kinds to

accompany the liqueurs. They all sympathised with him in his trouble and tried to help him.

"You always used to take the side of the peas ants," said the district constable, "and there you are! I was

right in saying they are worse than wild beasts. Flogging is the only way to keep them in order. Well, you say

"My pleasure has nothing to do with the mat ter. Tell me where you were that night."

The reason why Proshka did not say where he had been that night was that he had spent it with his

sweetheart, Parasha, and had promised not to give her away. He kept his word. No proofs were discovered

against him, and he was soon dis charged. But Peter Nikolaevich was convinced that Prokofy had been at

the bottom of the whole affair, and began to hate him. One day Proshka bought as usual at the merchant's two

measures of oats. One and a half he gave to the horses, and half a measure he gave back to the merchant; the

money for it he spent in drink. Peter Nikolae vich found it out, and charged Prokofy with cheat ing. The

Prokofy had a rather proud nature, and thought himself superior to others. Prison was a great humiliation for

him. He came out of it very depressed; there was nothing more to be proud of in life. And more than that, he

felt extremely bitter, not only against Peter Nikolaevich, but against the whole world.

On the whole, as all the people around him no ticed, Prokofy became another man after his im prisonment,

both careless and lazy; he took to drink, and he was soon caught stealing clothes at some woman's house, and

All that Peter Nikolaevich discovered about his grey horses was the hide of one of them, Beauty, which had

been found somewhere on the estate. The fact that the thieves had got off scotfree irritated Peter

Nikolaevich still more. He was unable now to speak of the peasants or to look at them without anger. And

AFTER having got rid of the coupon, Eugene Mihailovich forgot all about it; but his wife, Ma ria

Vassilievna, could not forgive herself for hav ing been taken in, nor yet her husband for his cruel words.

And most of all she was furious against the two boys who had so skilfully cheated her. From the day she had

accepted the forged coupon as payment, she looked closely at all the school boys who came in her way in

the streets. One day she met Mahin, but did not recognise him, for on seeing her he made a face which quite

changed his features. But when, a fortnight after the incident with the coupon, she met Mitia Smokovnikov

She let him pass her, then turned back and followed him, and arriving at his house she made inquiries as to

whose son he was. The next day she went to the school and met the divinity instructor, the priest Michael

Vedensky, in the hall. He asked her what she wanted. She an swered that she wished to see the head of the

school. "He is not quite well," said the priest. "Can I be of any use to you, or give him your message?"

Maria Vassilievna thought that she might as well tell the priest what was the matter. Michael Vedensky was a

widower, and a very ambitious man. A year ago he had met Mitia Smokovni kov's father in society, and had

had a discussion with him on religion. Smokovnikov had beaten him decisively on all points; indeed, he had

made him appear quite ridiculous. Since that time the priest had decided to pay special attention to

Smokovnikov's son; and, finding him as indifferent to religious matters as his father was, he began to

When Maria Vassilievna told him what young Smokovnikov had done to her, Vedensky could not help

feeling an inner satisfaction. He saw in the boy's conduct a proof of the utter wickedness of those who are not

guided by the rules of the Church. He decided to take advantage of this great opportunity of warning

unbelievers of the perils that threatened them. At all events, he wanted to persuade himself that this was the

only motive that guided him in the course he had re solved to take. But at the bottom of his heart he was

"Yes, it is very sad indeed," said Father Mi chael, toying with the cross he was wearing over his priestly

robes, and passing his hands over its polished sides. "I am very glad you have given me your confidence. As

a servant of the Church I shall admonish the young manof course with the utmost kindness. I shall

certainly do it in the way that befits my holy office," said Father Michael to himself, really thinking that he

had forgotten the illfeeling the boy's father had to wards him. He firmly believed the boy's soul to be the

The next day, during the divinity lesson which Father Michael was giving to Mitia Smokovni kov's class, he

narrated the incident of the forged coupon, adding that the culprit had been one of the pupils of the school. "It

was a very wicked thing to do," he said; "but to deny the crime is still worse. If it is true that the sin has been

com mitted by one of you, let the guilty one confess." In saying this, Father Michael looked sharply at Mitia

Smokovnikov. All the boys, following his glance, turned also to Mitia, who blushed, and felt extremely ill at

ease, with large beads of perspiration on his face. Finally, he burst into tears, and ran out of the classroom.

His mother, noticing his trouble, found out the truth, ran at once to the photographer's shop, paid over the

twelve roubles and fifty kopeks to Maria Vas silievna, and made her promise to deny the boy's guilt. She

further implored Mitia to hide the truth from everybody, and in any case to withhold it from his father.

Accordingly, when Fedor Mihailovich had heard of the incident in the divinity class, and his son, questioned

by him, had denied all accusations, he called at once on the head of the school, told him what had happened,

expressed his indignation at Father Michael's conduct, and said he would not let matters remain as they were.

Father Michael was sent for, and immediately fell into a hot dispute with Smokovnikov.

"A stupid woman first falsely accused my son, then retracts her accusation, and you of course could not hit on

"I did not slander him, and I must beg you not to address me in such a way. You forget what is due to my

"Your perversity in matters of religion is known to everybody in the town!" replied Father Michael; and he

"Gentlemen! Father Michael!" exclaimed the director of the school, trying to appease their wrath. But they

"It is my duty as a priest to look after the religious and moral education of our pupils."

"Oh, cease your pretence to be religious! Oh, stop all this humbug of religion! As if I did not know that you

"I consider it beneath my dignity to talk to a man like you," said Father Michael, very much hurt by

Michael Vedensky carried on his studies in the academy for priests, and that is why, for a long time past, he

ceased to believe in what he con fessed to be his creed and in what he preached from the pulpit; he only

knew that men ought to force themselves to believe in what he tried to make himself believe.

Smokovnikov was not shocked by Father Mi chael's conduct; he only thought it illustrative of the influence

the Church was beginning to exercise on society, and he told all his friends how his son had been insulted by

Seeing not only young minds, but also the elder generation, contaminated by atheistic tendencies, Father

Michael became more and more convinced of the necessity of fighting those tendencies. The more he

condemned the unbelief of Smokovnikov, and those like him, the more confident he grew in the firmness of

his own faith, and the less he felt the need of making sure of it, or of bringing his life into harmony with it.

His faith, acknowl edged as such by all the world around him, be came Father Michael's very best weapon

The thoughts aroused in him by his conflict with Smokovnikov, together with the annoyance of being blamed

by his chiefs in the school, made him carry out the purpose he had entertained ever since his wife's deathof

taking monastic orders, and of following the course carried out by some of his fellowpupils in the academy.

One of them was already a bishop, another an archimandrite and on the way to become a bishop.

At the end of the term Michael Vedensky gave up his post in the school, took orders under the name of

Missael, and very soon got a post as rector in a seminary in a town on the river Volga.

MEANWHILE the yardporter Vassily was march ing on the open road down to the south.

He walked in daytime, and when night came some policeman would get him shelter in a peas ant's cottage.

He was given bread everywhere, and sometimes he was asked to sit down to the evening meal. In a village in

the Orel district, where he had stayed for the night, he heard that a merchant who had hired the landowner's

or chard for the season, was looking out for strong and able men to serve as watchmen for the fruit crops.

Vassily was tired of tramping, and as he had also no desire whatever to go back to his native village, he went

to the man who owned the orchard, and got engaged as watchman for five roubles a month.

Vassily found it very agreeable to live in his orchard shed, and all the more so when the apples and pears

began to grow ripe, and when the men from the barn supplied him every day with large bundles of fresh straw

from the threshing ma chine. He used to lie the whole day long on the fragrant straw, with fresh, delicately

smell ing apples in heaps at his side, looking out in every direction to prevent the village boys from stealing

fruit; and he used to whistle and sing meanwhile, to amuse himself. He knew no end of songs, and had a fine

voice. When peasant women and young girls came to ask for apples, and to have a chat with him, Vassily

gave them larger or smaller apples according as he liked their looks, and received eggs or money in re turn.

The rest of the time he had nothing to do, but to lie on his back and get up for his meals in the kitchen. He

had only one shirt left, one of pink cotton, and that was in holes. But he was strongly built and enjoyed

excellent health. When the kettle with black gruel was taken from the stove and served to the working men,

Vassily used to eat enough for three, and filled the old watchman on the estate with unceasing wonder. At

nights Vassily never slept. He whistled or shouted from time to time to keep off thieves, and his piercing,

One night a company of young lads from the village made their way stealthily to the orchard to shake down

apples from the trees. Vassily, coming noiselessly from behind, attacked them; they tried to escape, but he

Vassily's first shed stood at the farthest end of the orchard, but after the pears had been picked he had to

remove to another shed only forty paces away from the house of his master. He liked this new place very

much. The whole day long he could see the young ladies and gentlemen en joying themselves; going out for

drives in the evenings and quite late at nights, playing the piano or the violin, and singing and dancing. He

saw the ladies sitting with the young students on the window sills, engaged in animated conversation, and

then going in pairs to walk the dark avenue of lime trees, lit up only by streaks of moon light. He saw the

servants running about with food and drink, he saw the cooks, the stewards, the laundresses, the gardeners,

the coachmen, hard at work to supply their masters with food and drink and constant amusement. Sometimes

the young people from the master's house came to the shed, and Vassily offered them the choicest apples,

juicy and red. The young ladies used to take large bites out of the apples on the spot, praising their taste, and

spoke French to one an otherVassily quite understood it was all about himand asked Vassily to sing

Vassily felt the greatest admiration for his master's mode of living, which reminded him of what he had seen

in Moscow; and he became more and more convinced that the only thing that mat tered in life was money.

He thought and thought how to get hold of a large sum of money. He remembered his former ways of making

small profits whenever he could, and came to the con clusion that that was altogether wrong. Occa sional

stealing is of no use, he thought. He must arrange a wellprepared plan, and after getting all the information

After the feast of Nativity of the Blessed Vir gin Mary, the last crop of autumn apples was gathered; the

master was content with the results, paid off Vassily, and gave him an extra sum as reward for his faithful

Vassily put on his new jacket, and a new hat both were presents from his master's son but did not make

his way homewards. He hated the very thought of the vulgar peasants' life. He went back to Moscow in

company of some drunken soldiers, who had been watchmen in the orchard together with him. On his arrival

there he at once resolved, under cover of night, to break into the shop where he had been employed, and

beaten, and then turned out by the proprietor without be ing paid. He knew the place well, and knew where

the money was locked up. So he bade the soldiers, who helped him, keep watch outside, and forcing the

courtyard door entered the shop and took all the money he could lay his hands on. All this was done very

cleverly, and no trace was left of the burglary. The money Vassily had found in the shop amounted to 370

roubles. He gave a hundred roubles to his assistants, and with the rest left for another town where he gave

way to dissipation in company of friends of both sexes. The police traced his movements, and when at last he

was arrested and put into prison he had hardly anything left out of the money which he had stolen.

IVAN MIRONOV had become a very clever, fear less and successful horsethief. Afimia, his wife, who at

first used to abuse him for his evil ways, as she called it, was now quite content and felt proud of her

husband, who possessed a new sheep skin coat, while she also had a warm jacket and a new fur cloak.

In the village and throughout the whole dis trict every one knew quite well that Ivan Mironov was at the

bottom of all the horsestealing; but nobody would give him away, being afraid of the consequences.

Whenever suspicion fell on him, he managed to clear his character. Once during the night he stole horses

from the pasture ground in the village Kolotovka. He generally preferred to steal horses from landowners or

tradespeople. But this was a harder job, and when he had no chance of success he did not mind robbing

peasants too. In Kolotovka he drove off the horses with out making sure whose they were. He did not go

himself to the spot, but sent a young and clever fellow, Gerassim, to do the stealing for him. The peasants

only got to know of the theft at dawn; they rushed in all directions to hunt for the rob bers. The horses,

Ivan Mironov intended to leave them there till the following night, and then to transport them with the utmost

haste a hundred miles away to a man he knew. He visited Gerassim in the forest, to see how he was getting

on, brought him a pie and some vodka, and was returning home by a side track in the forest where he hoped

to meet nobody. But by illluck, he chanced on the keeper of the forest, a retired soldier.

"There were none to be found," answered Ivan Mironov, showing the basket of lime bark he had taken with

"Yes, mushrooms are scarce this summer," said the soldier. He stood still for a moment, pon dered, and then

went his way. He clearly saw that something was wrong. Ivan Mironov had no business whatever to take

early morning walks in that forest. The soldier went back after a while and looked round. Suddenly he heard

the snorting of horses in the ravine. He made his way cautiously to the place whence the sounds came. The

grass in the ravine was trodden down, and the marks of horses' hoofs were clearly to be seen. A little further

he saw Gerassim, who was sitting and eating his meal, and the horses tied to a tree.

The soldier ran to the village and brought back the bailiff, a police officer, and two witnesses. They

surrounded on three sides the spot where Gerassim was sitting and seized the man. He did not deny anything;

but, being drunk, told them at once how Ivan Mironov had given him plenty of drink, and induced him to

steal the horses; he also said that Ivan Mironov had promised to come that night in order to take the horses

away. The peasants left the horses and Gerassim in the ra vine, and hiding behind the trees prepared to lie in

ambush for Ivan Mironov. When it grew dark, they heard a whistle. Gerassim answered it with a similar

sound. The moment Ivan Mironov de scended the slope, the peasants surrounded him and brought him back

to the village. The next morning a crowd assembled in front of the bailiff's cottage. Ivan Mironov was

brought out and sub jected to a close examination. Stepan Pelageush kine, a tall, stooping man with long

arms, an aquiline nose, and a gloomy face was the first to put questions to him. Stepan had terminated his

military service, and was of a solitary turn of mind. When he had separated from his father, and started his

own home, he had his first experi ence of losing a horse. After that he worked for two years in the mines,

and made money enough to buy two horses. These two had been stolen by Ivan Mironov.

"Tell me where my horses are!" shouted Stepan, pale with fury, alternately looking at the ground and at Ivan

Ivan Mironov denied his guilt. Then Stepan aimed so violent a blow at his face that he smashed his nose and

Ivan Mironov kept silent, trying to avoid the blows by stooping. Stepan hit him twice more with his long arm.

"Beat him, all of you!" cried the bailiff, and the whole crowd rushed upon Ivan Mironov. He fell without a

Stepan seized a stone out of those that had been collected for the purpose, and with a heavy blow smashed

IVAN MIRONOV'S murderers were brought to trial, Stepan Pelageushkine among them. He had a heavier

charge to answer than the others, all the witnesses having stated that it was he who had smashed Ivan

Mironov's head with a stone. Stepan concealed nothing when in court. He con tented himself with

explaining that, having been robbed of his two last horses, he had informed the police. Now it was

comparatively easy at that time to trace the horses with the help of profes sional thieves among the gipsies.

But the police officer would not even permit him, and no search had been ordered.

"But why did not the others attack him. It was you alone who broke his head open."

"That is false. We all fell upon him. The village agreed to kill him. I only gave the final stroke. What is the

The judges were astonished at Stepan's wonder ful coolness in narrating the story of his crime how the

peasants fell upon Ivan Mironov, and how he had given the final stroke. Stepan act ually did not see

anything particularly revolting in this murder. During his military service he had been ordered on one

occasion to shoot a soldier, and, now with regard to Ivan Mironov, he saw nothing loathsome in it. "A man

shot is a dead manthat's all. It was him today, it might be me tomorrow," he thought. Stepan was only

sentenced to one year's imprisonment, which was a mild punishment for what he had done. His peasant's

dress was taken away from him and put in the prison stores, and he had a prison suit and felt boots given to

him instead. Stepan had never had much respect for the authorities, but now he became quite convinced that

all the chiefs, all the fine folk, all except the Czarwho alone had pity on the peasants and was justall

were robbers who suck blood out of the people. All he heard from the deported convicts, and those sentenced

to hard labour, with whom he had made friends in prisons, confirmed him in his views. One man had been

sentenced to hard labour for having con victed his superiors of a theft; another for having struck an official

who had unjustly confiscated the property of a peasant; a third because he forged bank notes. The

welltodopeople, the mer chants, might do whatever they chose and come to no harm; but a poor

peasant, for a trumpery reason or for none at all, was sent to prison to become food for vermin.

He had visits from his wife while in prison. Her life without him was miserable enough, when, to make it

worse, her cottage was destroyed by fire. She was completely ruined, and had to take to begging with her

children. His wife's misery embittered Stepan still more. He got on very badly with all the people in the

prison; was rude to every one; and one day he nearly killed the cook with an axe, and therefore got an

additional year in prison. In the course of that year he received the news that his wife was dead, and that he

When Stepan had finished his time in prison, he was taken to the prison stores, and his own dress was taken

"I have no home. I shall have to go on the road. Robbery will not be a pleasant occupa tion."

And Stepan left the prison. Nevertheless he took the road to his own place. He had nowhere else to turn.

On his way he stopped for a night's rest in an inn that had a public bar attached to it. The inn was kept by a fat

man from the town, Vladimir, and he knew Stepan. He knew that Stepan had been put into prison through ill

luck, and did not mind giving him shelter for the night. He was a rich man, and had persuaded his neighbour's

wife to leave her husband and come to live with him. She lived in his house as his wife, and helped him in his

Stepan knew all about the innkeeper's affairs how he had wronged the peasant, and how the woman who

was living with him had left her hus band. He saw her now sitting at the table in a rich dress, and looking

very hot as she drank her tea. With great condescension she asked Stepan to have tea with her. No other

travellers were stopping in the inn that night. Stepan was given a place in the kitchen where he might sleep.

Ma trenathat was the woman's namecleared the table and went to her room. Stepan went to lie down

on the large stove in the kitchen, but he could not sleep, and the wood splinters put on the stove to dry were

crackling under him, as he tossed from side to side. He could not help thinking of his host's fat paunch

protruding under the belt of his shirt, which had lost its colour from having been washed ever so many times.

Would not it be a good thing to make a good clean incision in that paunch. And that woman, too, he thought.

One moment he would say to himself, "I had better go from here tomorrow, bother them all!" But then again

Ivan Mironov came back to his mind, and he went on thinking of the innkeeper's paunch and Matrena's white

"I must do it at once, or dawn will be here " He had seen in the evening before he went to bed a knife and an

axe. He crawled down from the stove, took the knife and axe, and went out of the kitchen door. At that very

moment he heard the lock of the entrance door open. The inn keeper was going out of the house to the

court yard. It all turned out contrary to what Stepan desired. He had no opportunity of using the knife; he

just swung the axe and split the innkeep er's head in two. The man tumbled down on the threshold of the

Stepan stepped into the bedroom. Matrena jumped out of bed, and remained standing by its side. With the

IN a small district town, some distance away from the other buildings, an old man, a former official, who had

taken to drink, lived in his own house with his two daughters and his soninlaw. The married daughter was

also addicted to drink and led a bad life, and it was the elder daughter, the widow Maria Semenovna, a

wrinkled woman of fifty, who supported the whole family. She had a pension of two hundred and fifty

roubles a year, and the family lived on this. Maria Semenovna did all the work in the house, looked after the

drunken old father, who was very weak, attended to her sister's child, and managed all the cooking and the

washing of the family. And, as is al ways the case, whatever there was to do, she was expected to do it, and

was, moreover, continually scolded by all the three people in the house; her brotherinlaw used even to beat

her when he was drunk. She bore it all patiently, and as is also always the case, the more work she had to

face, the quicker she managed to get through it. She helped the poor, sacrificing her own wants; she gave

Once the lame, crippled village tailor was work ing in Maria Semenovna's house. He had to mend her old

father's coat, and to mend and re pair Maria Semenovna's furjacket for her to wear in winter when she

The lame tailor was a clever man, and a keen observer: he had seen many different people ow ing to his

profession, and was fond of reflection, condemned as he was to a sedentary life.

Having worked a week at Maria Semenovna's, he wondered greatly about her life. One day she came to the

kitchen, where he was sitting with his work, to wash a towel, and began to ask him how he was getting on.

He told her of the wrong he had suffered from his brother, and how he now lived on his own allotment of

"I thought I should have been better off that way," he said. "But I am now just as poor as before."

"It is much better never to change, but to take life as it comes," said Maria Semenovna. "Take life as it

"Why, I wonder at you, Maria Semenovna," said the lame tailor. "You alone do the work, and you are so

"I dare say you have found out in books that we are rewarded in heaven for the good we do here."

"In books as well," she said, and read to him the Sermon on the Mount. The tailor was much impressed.

When he had been paid for his job and gone home, he did not cease to think about Maria Semenovna, both

PETER NIKOLAEVICH SVENTIZKY'S views of the peasantry had now changed for the worse, and the

peasants had an equally bad opinion of him. In the course of a single year they felled twentyseven oaks in

his forest, and burnt a barn which had not been insured. Peter Nikolaevich came to the con clusion that there

At that very time the landowner, Liventsov, was trying to find a manager for his estate, and the Marshal of

the Nobility recommended Peter Nikolaevich as the ablest man in the district in the management of land. The

estate owned by Liventsov was an extremely large one, but there was no revenue to be got out of it, as the

peasants appropriated all its wealth to their own profit. Peter Nikolaevich undertook to bring everything into

order; rented out his own land to somebody else; and settled with his wife on the Liventsov estate, in a distant

Peter Nikolaevich was always fond of order, and wanted things to be regulated by law; and now he felt less

able of allowing those raw and rude peasants to take possession, quite illegally too, of property that did not

belong to them. He was glad of the opportunity of giving them a good lesson, and set seriously to work at

once. One peasant was sent to prison for stealing wood; to another he gave a thrashing for not having made

way for him on the road with his cart, and for not having lifted his cap to salute him. As to the pasture ground

which was a subject of dispute, and was considered by the peasants as their prop erty, Peter Nikolaevich

informed the peasants that any of their cattle grazing on it would be driven away by him.

The spring came and the peasants, just as they had done in previous years, drove their cattle on to the

meadows belonging to the landowner. Peter Nikolaevich called some of the men work ing on the estate and

ordered them to drive the cattle into his yard. The peasants were working in the fields, and, disregarding the

screaming of the women, Peter Nikolaevich's men succeeded in driving in the cattle. When they came home

the peasants went in a crowd to the cattleyard on the estate, and asked for their cattle. Peter Nikolae vich

came out to talk to them with a gun slung on his shoulder; he had just returned from a ride of inspection. He

told them that he would not let them have their cattle unless they paid a fine of fifty kopeks for each of the

horned cattle, and twenty kopeks for each sheep. The peasants loudly declared that the pasture ground was

their property, because their fathers and grandfathers had used it, and protested that he had no right whatever

"Give back our cattle, or you will regret it," said an old man coming up to Peter Nikolaevich.

"How shall I regret it?" cried Peter Niko laevich, turning pale, and coming close to the old man.

"You dare to strike me? Come along, you fellows, let us take back our cattle by force."

The crowd drew close to him. Peter Niko laevich tried to push his way, through them, but the peasants

His gun, accidentally discharged in the melee, killed one of the peasants. Instantly the fight began. Peter

Nikolaevich was trodden down, and five minutes later his mutilated body was dragged into the ravine.

The murderers were tried by martial law, and two of them sentenced to the gallows.

IN the village where the lame tailor lived, in the Zemliansk district of the Voronesh province, five rich

peasants hired from the landowner a hundred and five acres of rich arable land, black as tar, and let it out on

lease to the rest of the peasants at fifteen to eighteen roubles an acre. Not one acre was given under twelve

roubles. They got a very profitable return, and the five acres which were left to each of their company

practically cost them nothing. One of the five peasants died, and the lame tailor received an offer to take his

When they began to divide the land, the tailor gave up drinking vodka, and, being consulted as to how much

land was to be divided, and to whom it should be given, he proposed to give allotments to all on equal terms,

not taking from the tenants more than was due for each piece of land out of the sum paid to the landowner.

"We are no heathens, I should think," he said. "It is all very well for the masters to be unfair, but we are true

"It is in the Book, in the Gospels. just come to me on Sunday. I will read you a few passages, and we will

They did not all come to him on Sunday, but three came, and he began reading to them.

He read five chapters of St. Matthew's Gospel, and they talked. One man only, Ivan Chouev, accepted the

lesson and carried it out completely, following the rule of Christ in everything from that day. His family did

the same. Out of the arable land he took only what was his due, and refused to take more.

The lame tailor and Ivan had people calling on them, and some of these people began to grasp the meaning of

the Gospels, and in consequence gave up smoking, drinking, swearing, and using bad language and tried to

help one another. They also ceased to go to church, and took their ikons to the village priest, saying they did

not want them any more. The priest was frightened, and reported what had occurred to the bishop. The bishop

was at a loss what to do. At last he resolved to send the archimandrite Missael to the village, the one who had

ASKING Father Missael on his arrival to take a seat, the bishop told him what had happened in his diocese.

"It all comes from weakness of spirit and from ignorance. You are a learned man, and I rely on you. Go to the

"If your Grace bids me go, and you give me your blessing, I will do my best," said Father Missael. He was

very pleased with the task en trusted to him. Every opportunity he could find to demonstrate the firmness of

his faith was a boon to him. In trying to convince others he was chiefly intent on persuading himself that he

"Do your best. I am greatly distressed about my flock," said the bishop, leisurely taking a cup with his white

"Why is there only one kind of jam? Bring another," he said to the servant. "I am greatly distressed," he went

Missael earnestly desired to prove his zeal; but, being a man of small means, he asked to be paid for the

expenses of his journey; and being afraid of the rough people who might be illdis posed towards him, he

also asked the bishop to get him an order from the governor of the province, so that the local police might

help him in case of need. The bishop complied with his wishes, and Missael got his things ready with the help

of his servant and his cook. They furnished him with a case full of wine, and a basket with the victuals he

might need in going to such a lonely place. Fully provided with all he wanted, he started for the village to

which he was commissioned. He was pleasantly conscious of the importance of his mission. All his doubts as

His thoughts, far from being concerned with the real foundation of his creedthis was ac cepted as an

THE village priest and his wife received Father Missael with great honours, and the next day after he had

arrived the parishioners were invited to assemble in the church. Missael in a new silk cassock, with a large

cross on his chest, and his long hair carefully combed, ascended the pulpit; the priest stood at his side, the

deacons and the choir at a little distance behind him, and the side entrances were guarded by the police. The

After the service Missael delivered a sermon, admonishing the dissenters to return to the bosom of their

mother, the Church, threatening them with the torments of hell, and promising full for giveness to those who

The dissenters kept silent at first. Then, be ing asked questions, they gave answers. To the question why

they dissented, they said that their chief reason was the fact that the Church wor shipped gods made of

When asked by Missael whether they actually considered the holy ikons to be mere planks of wood, Chouev

"Just look at the back of any ikon you choose and you will see what they are made of."

When asked why they turned against the priests, their answer was that the Scripture says: "As you have

received it without fee, so you must give it to the others; whereas the priests require pay ment for the grace

they bestow by the sacraments." To all attempts which Missael made to oppose them by arguments founded

on Holy Writ, the tailor and Ivan Chouev gave calm but very firm answers, contradicting his assertions by

Missael got angry and threatened them with persecution by the authorities. Their answer was: It is said, I

The discussion came to nothing, and all would have ended well if Missael had not preached the next day at

mass, denouncing the wicked seducers of the faithful and saying that they deserved the worst punishment.

Coming out of the church, the crowd of peasants began to consult whether it would not be well to give the

infidels a good lesson for disturbing the minds of the community. The same day, just when Missael was

enjoying some salmon and gangfish, dining at the village priest's in company with the inspector, a violent

brawl arose in the village. The peasants came in a crowd to Chouev's cottage, and waited for the dissenters to

The dissenters assembled in the cottage num bered about twenty men and women. Missael's sermon and the

attitude of the orthodox peasants, together with their threats, aroused in the mind of the dissenters angry

feelings, to which they had before been strangers. It was near evening, the women had to go and milk the

A boy who stepped out of the door was beaten and driven back into the house. The people within began

consulting what was to be done, and could come to no agreement. The tailor said, "We must bear whatever is

done to us, and not resist." Chouev replied that if they decided on that course they would, all of them, be

beaten to death. In consequence, he seized a poker and went out of the house. "Come!" he shouted, let us

follow the law of Moses!" And, falling upon the peasants, he knocked out one man's eye, and in the

meanwhile all those who had been in his house contrived to get out and make their way home.

Two years previous to those events a strong and handsome young girl of an eastern type, Katia Turchaninova,

came from the Don military settle ments to St. Petersburg to study in the university college for women. In

that town she met a stu dent, Turin, the son of a district governor in the Simbirsk province, and fell in love

with him. But her love was not of the ordinary type, and she had no desire to become his wife and the mother

of his children. He was a dear comrade to her, and their chief bond of union was a feeling of re volt they had

in common, as well as the hatred they bore, not only to the existing forms of gov ernment, but to all those

who represented that government. They had also in common the sense that they both excelled their enemies

in culture, in brains, as well as in morals. Katia Turchan inova was a gifted girl, possessed of a good mem

ory, by means of which she easily mastered the lec tures she attended. She was successful in her ex

aminations, and, apart from that, read all the new est books. She was certain that her vocation was not to

bear and rear children, and even looked on such a task with disgust and contempt. She thought herself chosen

by destiny to destroy the present government, which was fettering the best abilities of the nation, and to

reveal to the people a higher standard of life, inculcated by the latest writers of other countries. She was

handsome, a little inclined to stoutness: she had a good com plexion, shining black eyes, abundant black

hair. She inspired the men she knew with feelings she neither wished nor had time to share, busy as she was

with propaganda work, which consisted chiefly in mere talking. She was not displeased, how ever, to inspire

these feelings; and, without dress ing too smartly, did not neglect her appearance. She liked to be admired,

as it gave her opportuni ties of showing how little she prized what was valued so highly by other women.

In her views concerning the method of fighting the government she went further than the majority of her

comrades, and than her friend Turin; all means, she taught, were justified in such a struggle, not excluding

murder. And yet, with all her revo lutionary ideas, Katia Turchaninova was in her soul a very kind girl,

ready to sacrifice herself for the welfare and the happiness of other people, and sincerely pleased when she

She went in the summer to stay with a friend, a schoolmistress in a small town on the river Volga. Turin lived

near that town, on his father's estate. He often came to see the two girls; they gave each other books to read,

and had long discussions, expressing their common indignation with the state of affairs in the country. The

The estate of the Turins was situated in the neighbourhood of the Liventsov estate, the one that was entrusted

to the management of Peter Nikolaevich Sventizky. Soon after Peter Niko laevich had settled there, and

begun to en force order, young Turin, having observed an in dependent tendency in the peasants on the

Livent sov estate, as well as their determination to up hold their rights, became interested in them. He

came often to the village to talk with the men, and developed his socialistic theories, insisting par ticularly

After Peter Nikolaevich had been murdered, and the murderers sent to trial, the revolutionary group of the

small town boiled over with indigna tion, and did not shrink from openly expressing it. The fact of Turin's

visits to the village and his propaganda work among the students, became known to the authorities during the

trial. A search was made in his house; and, as the police found a few revolutionary leaflets among his ef

Katia Turchaninova followed him to the metrop olis, and went to visit him in prison. She was not admitted

on the day she came, and was told to come on the day fixed by regulations for visits to the prisoners. When

that day arrived, and she was finally allowed to see him, she had to talk to him through two gratings

separating the pris oner from his visitor. This visit increased her in dignation against the authorities. And

her feel ings become all the more revolutionary after a visit she paid to the office of a gendarme officer who

had to deal with the Turin case. The offi cer, a handsome man, seemed obviously disposed to grant her

exceptional favours in visiting the prisoner, if she would allow him to make love to her. Disgusted with him,

she appealed to the chief of police. He pretendedjust as the officer did when talking officially to herto

be power less himself, and to depend entirely on orders coming from the minister of state. She sent a

THE minister was receiving petitioners at the usual hour appointed for the reception. He had talked

successively to three of them, and now a pretty young woman with black eyes, who was holding a petition in

her left hand, approached. The minister's eyes gleamed when he saw how attract ive the petitioner was, but

"What do you want?" he asked, coming down to where she stood. Without answering his ques tion the

young woman quickly drew a revolver from under her cloak and aiming it at the min ister's chest firedbut

The minister rushed at her, trying to seize her hand, but she escaped, and taking a step back, fired a second

time. The minister ran out of the room. The woman was immediately seized. She was trembling violently,

and could not utter a single word; after a while she suddenly burst into a hys terical laugh. The minister was

That woman was Katia Turchaninova. She was put into the prison of preliminary detention. The minister

received congratulations and marks of sympathy from the highest quarters, and even from the emperor

himself, who appointed a com mission to investigate the plot that had led to the attempted assassination. As

a matter of fact there was no plot whatever, but the police officials and the detectives set to work with the

utmost zeal to discover all the threads of the nonexisting con spiracy. They did everything to deserve the

fees they were paid; they got up in the small hours of the morning, searched one house after another, took

copies of papers and of books they found, read diaries, personal letters, made extracts from them on the very

best notepaper and in beautiful handwriting, interrogated Katia Turchaninova ever so many times, and

confronted her with all those whom they suspected of conspiracy, in order to extort from her the names of her

The minister, a goodnatured man at heart, was sincerely sorry for the pretty girl. But he said to himself that

he was bound to consider his high state duties imposed upon him, even though they did not imply much work

and trouble. So, when his former colleague, a chamberlain and a friend of the Turins, met him at a court ball

and tried to rouse his pity for Turin and the girl Turchani nova, he shrugged his shoulders, stretching the red

ribbon on his white waistcoat, and said: "Je ne demanderais pas mieux que de relacher cette pau vre fillette,

mais vous savez le devoir." And in the meantime Katia Turchaninova was kept in prison. She was at times in

a quiet mood, com municated with her fellowprisoners by knocking on the walls, and read the books that

were sent to her. But then came days when she had fits of desperate fury, knocking with her fists against the

ONE day Maria Semenovna came home from the treasurer's office, where she had received her pen sion. On

"Good day, Maria Semenovna! Have you re ceived your money?" the schoolmaster asked, in a loud voice

"I have," answered Maria Semenovna. "But it was not much; just enough to fill the holes."

"Oh, there must be some tidy pickings out of such a lot of money," said the schoolmaster, and passed on,

"Goodbye," said Maria Semenovna. While she was looking at her friend, she met a tall man face to face,

who had very long arms and a stern look in his eyes. Coming to her house, she was very startled on again

seeing the same man with the long arms, who had evidently followed her. He remained standing another

Maria Semenovna felt somewhat frightened at first. But when she had entered the house, and had given her

father and her nephew Fedia the presents she had brought for them, and she had patted the dog Treasure, who

whined with joy, she forgot her fears. She gave the money to her father and began to work, as there was

After he had killed the innkeeper, he did not return to town. Strange to say, he was not sorry to have

committed that murder. His mind went back to the murdered man over and over again during the following

day; and he liked the recol lection of having done the thing so skilfully, so cleverly, that nobodywould ever

discover it, and he would not therefore be prevented from mur dering other people in the same way. Sitting

in the publichouse and having his tea, he looked at the people around him with the same thought how he

should murder them. In the evening he called at a carter's, a man from his village, to spend the night at his

house. The carter was not in. He said he would wait for him, and in the meanwhile began talking to the

carter's wife. But when she moved to the stove, with her back turned to him, the idea entered his mind to kill

her. He mar velled at himself at first, and shook his head; but the next moment he seized the knife he had

hid den in his boot, knocked the woman down on the floor, and cut her throat. When the children be gan to

scream, he killed them also and went away. He did not look out for another place to spend the night, but at

once left the town. In a village some distance away he went to the inn and slept there. The next day he

returned to the district town, and there he overheard in the street Maria Semenovna's talk with the

schoolmaster. Her look frightened him, but yet he made up his mind to creep into her house, and rob her of

the money she had received. When the night came he broke the lock and entered the house. The first person

who heard his steps was the younger daughter, the married one. She screamed. Stepan stabbed her

immediately with his knife. Her husband woke up and fell upon Stepan, seized him by his throat, and

struggled with him desperately. But Stepan was the stronger man and overpowered him. After murdering

him, Stepan, excited by the long fight, stepped into the next room be hind a partition. That was Maria

Semenovna's bedroom. She rose in her bed, looked at Stepan with her mild frightened eyes, and crossed

Stepan came close to her, in order to seize her hands and prevent her struggling with him, but she did not

even try to lift her arms or offer any resistance; she pressed her hands to her chest, and sighed heavily.

"Oh, what a great sin!" she cried. "How can you! Have mercy on yourself. To destroy somebody's soul . . .

Stepan could not stand her voice any longer, and drew his knife sharply across her throat. "Stop that talk!" he

said. She fell back with a hoarse cry, and the pillow was stained with blood. He turned away, and went round

the rooms in order to collect all he thought worth taking. Having made a bundle of the most valuable things,

he lighted a cigarette, sat down for a while, brushed his clothes, and left the house. He thought this murder

would not matter to him more than those he had committed before; but before he got a night's lodging, he felt

suddenly so exhausted that he could not walk any farther. He stepped down into the gutter and remained lying

THE whole time he was lying in the gutter Stepan saw continually before his eyes the thin, kindly, and

frightened face of Maria Semenovna, and seemed to hear her voice. "How can you?" she went on saying in

his imagination, with her pe culiar lisping voice. Stepan saw over again and over again before him all he

had done to her. In horror he shut his eyes, and shook his hairy head, to drive away these thoughts and

recollections. For a moment he would get rid of them, but in their place horrid black faces with red eyes ap

peared and frightened him continuously. They grinned at him, and kept repeating, "Now you have done away

with her you must do away with yourself, or we will not leave you alone " He opened his eyes, and again he

saw HER and heard her voice; and felt an immense pity for her and a deep horror and disgust with himself.

Once more he shut his eyes, and the black faces reap peared. Towards the evening of the next day he rose

and went, with hardly any strength left, to a publichouse. There he ordered a drink, and repeated his

demands over and over again, but no quantity of liquor could make him intoxicated. He was sitting at a table,

"I am the man who murdered all the Dobrot vorov people last night," he answered.

He was arrested, bound with ropes, and brought to the nearest policestation; the next day he was transferred

to the prison in the town. The in spector of the prison recognised him as an old in mate, and a very

turbulent one; and, hearing that he had now become a real criminal, accosted him very harshly.

"You had better be quiet here," he said in a hoarse voice, frowning, and protruding his lower jaw. "The

moment you don't behave, I'll flog you to death! Don't try to escapeI will see to that!"

"I have no desire to escape," said Stepan, drop ping his eyes. "I surrendered of my own free will."

"Shut up! You must look straight into your superior's eyes when you talk to him," cried the inspector, and

At that moment Stepan again saw the murdered woman before him, and heard her voice; he did not pay

The inspector expected Stepan to be violent, to talk to the other prisoners, to make attempts to escape from

prison. But nothing of the kind ever happened. Whenever the guard or the inspector himself looked into his

cell through the hole in the door, they saw Stepan sitting on a bag filled with straw, holding his head with his

hands and whispering to himself. On being brought before the examining magistrate charged with the inquiry

into his case, he did not behave like an ordinary convict. He was very absentminded, hardly list ening to

the questions; but when he heard what was asked, he answered truthfully, causing the utmost perplexity to the

magistrate, who, accus tomed as he was to the necessity of being very clever and very cunning with

convicts, felt a strange sensation just as if he were lifting up his foot to ascend a step and found none. Stepan

told him the story of all his murders; and did it frowning, with a set look, in a quiet, businesslike voice, trying

to recollect all the circumstances of his crimes. "He stepped out of the house," said Stepan, telling the tale of

his first murder, "and stood barefooted at the door; I hit him, and he just groaned; I went to his wife, . . ." And

One day the magistrate, visiting the prison cells, asked Stepan whether there was anything he had to complain

of, or whether he had any wishes that might be granted him. Stepan said he had no wishes whatever, and had

nothing to complain of the way he was treated in prison. The magis trate, on leaving him, took a few steps

in the foul passage, then stopped and asked the governor who had accompanied him in his visit how this pris

"I simply wonder at him," said the governor, who was very pleased with Stepan, and spoke kindly of him.

"He has now been with us about two months, and could be held up as a model of good behaviour. But I am

afraid he is plotting some mischief. He is a daring man, and excep tionally strong."

DURING the first month in prison Stepan suffered from the same agonising vision. He saw the grey wall of

his cell, he heard the sounds of the prison; the noise of the cell below him, where a number of convicts were

confined together; the striking of the prison clock; the steps of the sentry in the passage; but at the same time

he saw HER with that kindly face which conquered his heart the very first time he met her in the street, with

that thin, stronglymarked neck, and he heard her soft, lisping, pathetic voice: "To destroy some body's soul

After a while her voice would die away, and then black faces would appear. They would ap pear whether he

had his eyes open or shut. With his closed eyes he saw them more distinctly. When he opened his eyes they

vanished for a moment, melting away into the walls and the door; but after a while they reappeared and

surrounded him from three sides, grinning at him and saying over and over: "Make an end! Make an end!

Hang yourself! Set yourself on fire!" Stepan shook all over when he heard that, and tried to say all the prayers

he knew: "Our Lady" or "Our Father " At first this seemed to help. In say ing his prayers he began to

recollect his whole life; his father, his mother, the village, the dog "Wolf," the old grandfather lying on the

stove, the bench on which the children used to play; then the girls in the village with their songs, his horses

and how they had been stolen, and how the thief was caught and how he killed him with a stone. He

recollected also the first prison he was in and his leaving it, and the fat innkeeper, the carter's wife and the

children. Then again SHE came to his mind and again he was terrified. Throwing his prison overcoat off his

shoulders, he jumped out of bed, and, like a wild animal in a cage, be gan pacing up and down his tiny cell,

hastily turn ing round when he had reached the damp walls. Once more he tried to pray, but it was of no use

The autumn came with its long nights. One evening when the wind whistled and howled in the pipes, Stepan,

after he had paced up and down his cell for a long time, sat down on his bed. He felt he could not struggle

any more; the black demons had overpowered him, and he had to submit. For some time he had been looking

at the funnel of the oven. If he could fix on the knob of its lid a loop made of thin shreds of narrow linen

straps it would hold. . . . But he would have to man age it very cleverly. He set to work, and spent two days

in making straps out of the linen bag on which he slept. When the guard came into the cell he covered the bed

with his overcoat. He tied the straps with big knots and made them double, in order that they might be strong

enough to hold his weight. During these preparations he was free from tormenting visions. When the straps

were ready he made a slipknot out of them, and put it round his neck, stood up in his bed, and hanged

himself. But at the very moment that his tongue began to protrude the straps got loose, and he fell down. The

guard rushed in at the noise. The doctor was called in, Stepan was brought to the infirmary. The next day he

recovered, and was removed from the infirmary, no more to soli tary confinement, but to share the common

In the common cell he lived in the company of twenty men, but felt as if he were quite alone. He did not

notice the presence of the rest; did not speak to anybody, and was tormented by the old agony. He felt it most

of all when the men were sleeping and he alone could not get one moment of sleep. Continually he saw HER

before his eyes, heard her voice, and then again the black devils with their horrible eyes came and tortured

He again tried to say his prayers, but, just as before, it did not help him. One day when, after his prayers, she

was again before his eyes, he be gan to implore her dear soul to forgive him his sin, and release him.

Towards morning, when he fell down quite exhausted on his crushed linen bag, he fell asleep at once, and in

his dream she came to him with her thin, wrinkled, and severed neck. "Will you forgive me?" he asked. She

looked at him with her mild eyes and did not answer. "Will you forgive me?" And so he asked her three

times. But she did not say a word, and he awoke. From that time onwards he suffered less, and seemed to

come to his senses, looked around him, and began for the first time to talk to the other men in the cell.

STEPAN'S cell was shared among others by the former yardporter, Vassily, who had been sen tenced to

deportation for robbery, and by Chouev, sentenced also to deportation. Vassily sang songs the whole day long

with his fine voice, or told his adventures to the other men in the cell. Chouev was working at something all

Stepan asked him why he was put into prison, and Chouev answered that he was being perse cuted because

of his true Christian faith by the priests, who were all of them hypocrites and hated those who followed the

law of Christ. Stepan asked what that true law was, and Chouev made clear to him that the true law consists

in not wor shipping gods made with hands, but worshipping the spirit and the truth. He told him how he had

learnt the truth from the lame tailor at the time when they were dividing the land.

" The Scriptures give an answer to that," said Chouev, and read aloud to him Matthew xxv. 31:

"When the Son of Man shall come in His glory, and all the holy angels with Him, then shall He sit upon the

throne of His glory: and before Him shall be gathered all nations: and He shall separate them one from

another, as a shepherd divideth His sheep from the goats: and He shall set the sheep on His right hand, but the

goats on the left. Then shall the King say unto them on His right hand, Come, ye blessed of My Father,

inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world: for I was an hungred, and ye gave Me

meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave Me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took Me in: naked, and ye clothed Me: I

was sick, and ye visited Me: I was in prison, and ye came unto Me. Then shall the righteous answer Him,

saying, Lord, when saw we Thee an hungred, and fed Thee? or thirsty, and gave Thee drink? When saw we

Thee a stranger, and took Thee in? or naked, and clothed Thee? Or when saw we Thee sick, or in prison, and

came unto Thee? And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, inasmuch as ye have

done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me. Then shall He say also unto them

on the left hand, Depart from Me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his an gels: for

I was an hungred, and ye gave Me no meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave Me no drink: I was a stranger and ye

took Me not in: naked, and ye clothed Me not; sick, and in prison, and ye visited Me not. Then shall they also

answer Him, saying, Lord, when saw we Thee an hun gred, or athirst, or a stranger, or naked, or sick, or in

prison, and did not minister unto Thee? Then shall He answer them, saying, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch

as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to Me. And these shall go away into everlasting

Vassily, who was sitting on the floor at Chouev's side, and was listening to his reading the Gospel, nodded his

handsome head in approval. "True," he said in a resolute tone. "Go, you cursed vil lains, into everlasting

punishment, since you did not give food to the hungry, but swallowed it all yourself. Serves them right! I

"And will they never be pardoned?" asked Stepan, who had listened silently, with his hairy head bent low

"Wait a moment, and be silent," said Chouev to Vassily, who went on talking about the rich who had not

"Wait, I say!" said Chouev, again turning over the leaves of the Gospel. Having found what he was looking

for, Chouev smoothed the page with his large and strong hand, which had become exceedingly white in

"And there were also two other malefactors, led with Him"it means with Christ"to be put to death. And

when they were come to the place, which is called Calvary, there they crucified Him, and the malefactors,

one on the right hand, and the other on the left. Then said Jesus, 'Father, forgive them; for they know not

what they do.' And the people stood beholding. And the rulers also with them derided Him, saying, 'He

saved others; let Him save Himself if He be Christ, the chosen of God.' And the soldiers also mocked Him,

coming to Him, and offering Him vinegar, and saying, 'If Thou be the King of the Jews save Thyself.' And a

superscription also was written over Him in letters of Greek, and Latin, and Hebrew, 'This is the King of the

Jews.' And one of the malefactors which were hanged railed on Him, saying, 'If thou be Christ, save Thyself

and us.' But the other answering rebuked Him, saying, 'Dost not thou fear God, seeing thou art in the same

condemnation? And we indeed justly, for we receive the due reward of our deeds: but this man hath done

nothing amiss.' And he said unto Jesus, 'Lord, remember me when Thou comest into Thy kingdom.' And Je

sus said unto him, 'Verily I say unto thee, today shalt thou be with Me in paradise.'"

Stepan did not say anything, and was sitting in thought, as if he were listening.

Now he knew what the true faith was. Those only will be saved who have given food and drink to the poor

and visited the prisoners; those who have not done it, go to hell. And yet the male factor had repented on the

cross, and went never theless to paradise. This did not strike him as being inconsistent. Quite the contrary.

The one confirmed the other: the fact that the merciful will go to Heaven, and the unmerciful to hell, meant

that everybody ought to be merciful, and the malefactor having been forgiven by Christ meant that Christ was

merciful. This was all new to Stepan, and he wondered why it had been hidden from him so long.

From that day onward he spent all his free time with Chouev, asking him questions and listening to him. He

saw but a single truth at the bottom of the teaching of Christ as revealed to him by Chouev: that all men are

brethren, and that they ought to love and pity one another in order that all might be happy. And when he

listened to Chouev, everything that was consistent with this fundamental truth came to him like a thing he

had known before and only forgotten since, while whatever he heard that seemed to contradict it, he would

take no notice of, as he thought that he simply had not understood the real meaning. And from that time

STEPAN had been very submissive and meek ever since he came to the prison, but now he made the prison

authorities and all his fellowprisoners wonder at the change in him. Without being or dered, and out of his

proper turn he would do all the very hardest work in prison, and the dirtiest too. But in spite of his humility,

the other pris oners stood in awe of him, and were afraid of him, as they knew he was a resolute man,

possessed of great physical strength. Their respect for him increased after the incident of the two tramps who

fell upon him; he wrenched himself loose from them and broke the arm of one of them in the fight. These

tramps had gambled with a young prisoner of some means and deprived him of all his money. Stepan took his

part, and de prived the tramps of their winnings. The tramps poured their abuse on him; but when they

attacked him, he got the better of them. When the Gov ernor asked how the fight had come about, the

tramps declared that it was Stepan who had begun it. Stepan did not try to exculpate himself, and bore

patiently his sentence which was three days in the punishmentcell, and after that solitary con finement.

In his solitary cell he suffered because he could no longer listen to Chouev and his Gospel. He was also afraid

that the former visions of HER and of the black devils would reappear to torment him. But the visions were

gone for good. His soul was full of new and happy ideas. He felt glad to be alone if only he could read, and if

he had the Gospel. He knew that he might have got hold of the Gospel, but he could not read.

He had started to learn the alphabet in his boyhood, but could not grasp the joining of the syllables, and

remained illiterate. He made up his mind to start reading anew, and asked the guard to bring him the Gospels.

They were brought to him, and he sat down to work. He contrived to recollect the letters, but could not join

them into syllables. He tried as hard as he could to understand how the letters ought to be put to gether to

form words, but with no result whatever. He lost his sleep, had no desire to eat, and a deep sadness came over

"Since you do, read it in the Gospels. Here it is," said the guard, showing him the prayer in the Gospels.

Stepan began to read it, comparing the letters he knew with the familiar sounds.

And all of a sudden the mystery of the sylla bles was revealed to him, and he began to read. This was a great

joy. From that moment he could read, and the meaning of the words, spelt out with such great pains, became

Stepan did not mind any more being alone. He was so full of his work that he did not feel glad when he was

transferred back to the common cell, his private cell being needed for a political prisoner who had been just

IN the meantime Mahin, the schoolboy who had taught his friend Smokovnikov to forge the cou pon, had

finished his career at school and then at the university, where he had studied law. He had the advantage of

being liked by women, and as he had won favour with a viceminister's former mistress, he was appointed

when still young as examining magistrate. He was dishonest, had debts, had gambled, and had seduced many

women; but he was clever, sagacious, and a good magistrate. He was appointed to the court of the district

where Stepan Pelageushkine had been tried. When Stepan was brought to him the first time to give evidence,

his sincere and quiet answers puzzled the magistrate. He somehow uncon sciously felt that this man,

brought to him in fet ters and with a shorn head, guarded by two soldiers who were waiting to take him back

to prison, had a free soul and was immeasurably su perior to himself. He was in consequence some what

troubled, and had to summon up all his courage in order to go on with the inquiry and not blunder in his

questions. He was amazed that Stepan should narrate the story of his crimes as if they had been things of long

Stepan smiled with a sad smile. "Now," he said, "I would not do it even if I were to be burned alive."

Now it was not Chouev, but Stepan who used to read the gospel in the common cell. Some of the prisoners

were singing coarse songs, while others listened to Stepan reading the gospel and talking about what he had

read. The most attentive among those who listened were two of the pris oners, Vassily, and a convict called

Mahorkin, a murderer who had become a hangman. Twice during his stay in this prison he was called upon to

do duty as hangman, and both times in far away places where nobody could be found to ex ecute the

Two of the peasants who had killed Peter Nikolaevich Sventizky, had been sentenced to the gallows, and

Mahorkin was ordered to go to Pensa to hang them. On all previous occasions he used to write a petition to

the governor of the provincehe knew well how to read and to write stating that he had been ordered to

fulfil his duty, and asking for money for his expenses. But now, to the greatest astonishment of the prison

authorities, he said he did not intend to go, and added that he would not be a hangman any more.

"Did you get that from Pelageushkine? A nice sort of a prison prophet! You just wait and see what this will

When Mahin was told of that incident, he was greatly impressed by the fact of Stepan's influence on the

hangman, who refused to do his duty, run ning the risk of being hanged himself for insub ordination.

AT an evening party at the Eropkins, Mahin, who was paying attentions to the two young daughters of the

housethey were rich matches, both of themhaving earned great applause for his fine singing and playing

the piano, began telling the company about the strange convict who had con verted the hangman. Mahin

told his story very accurately, as he had a very good memory, which was all the more retentive because of his

total in difference to those with whom he had to deal. He never paid the slightest attention to other peo

ple's feelings, and was therefore better able to keep all they did or said in his memory. He got interested in

Stepan Pelageushkine, and, although he did not thoroughly understand him, yet asked himself involuntarily

what was the matter with the man? He could not find an answer, but feel ing that there was certainly

something remarkable going on in Stepan's soul, he told the company at the Eropkins all about Stepan's

conversion of the hangman, and also about his strange behaviour in prison, his reading the Gospels and his

great influence on the rest of the prisoners. All this made a special impression on the younger daugh ter of

the family, Lisa, a girl of eighteen, who was just recovering from the artificial life she had been living in a

boardingschool; she felt as if she had emerged out of water, and was taking in the fresh air of true life with

ecstasy. She asked Mahin to tell her more about the man Pelageush kine, and to explain to her how such a

great change had come over him. Mahin told her what he knew from the police official about Stepan's last

murder, and also what he had heard from Pela geushkine himselfhow he had been conquered by the

humility, mildness, and fearlessness of a kind woman, who had been his last victim, and how his eyes had

Lisa Eropkin was not able to sleep that night. For a couple of months a struggle had gone on in her heart

between society life, into which her sis ter was dragging her, and her infatuation for Mahin, combined with

a desire to reform him. This second desire now became the stronger. She had already heard about poor Maria

Seme novna. But, after that kind woman had been murdered in such a ghastly way, and after Mahin, who

learnt it from Stepan, had communicated to her all the facts concerning Maria Semenovna's life, Lisa herself

passionately desired to become like her. She was a rich girl, and was afraid that Mahin had been courting her

because of her money. So she resolved to give all she possessed to the poor, and told Mahin about it.

Mahin was very glad to prove his disinterest edness, and told Lisa that he loved her and not her money.

Such proof of his innate nobility made him admire himself greatly. Mahin helped Lisa to carry out her

decision. And the more he did so, the more he came to realise the new world of Lisa's spiritual ambitions,

ALL were silent in the common cell. Stepan was lying in his bed, but was not yet asleep. Vassily approached

him, and, pulling him by his leg, asked him in a whisper to get up and to come to him. Stepan stepped out of

"Tomorrow I shall stir them up" He pointed to the prisoners asleep in their beds. "They will give me

away, and I shall be trans ferred to the cell in the upper floor. I know my way from there. What I want you

for is to un screw the prop in the door of the mortuary." "I can do that. But where will you go?"

"I am not a murderer, to be sure. I have not destroyed a living soul in my life. As for steal ing, I don't see

"Bother them all!" Suppose I rob a church, who will be hurt? This time I will take care not to break into a

small shop, but will get hold of a lot of money, and then I will help people with it. I will give it to all good

One of the prisoners rose in his bed and lis tened. Stepan and Vassily broke off their con versation. The

next day Vassily carried out his idea. He began complaining of the bread in prison, saying it was moist, and

induced the pris oners to call the governor and to tell him of their discontent. The governor came, abused

them all, and when he heard it was Vassily who had stirred up the men, he ordered him to be transferred into

solitary confinement in the cell on the upper floor. This was all Vassily wanted.

VASSILY knew well that cell on the upper floor. He knew its floor, and began at once to take out bits of it.

When he had managed to get under the floor he took out pieces of the ceiling beneath, and jumped down into

the mortuary a floor below. That day only one corpse was lying on the table. There in the corner of the room

were stored bags to make hay mattresses for the prisoners. Vas sily knew about the bags, and that was why

the mortuary served his purposes. The prop in the door had been unscrewed and put in again. He took it out,

opened the door, and went out into the passage to the lavatory which was being built. In the lavatory was a

large hole connecting the third floor with the basement floor. After hav ing found the door of the lavatory he

went back to the mortuary, stripped the sheet off the dead body which was as cold as ice (in taking off the

sheet Vassily touched his hand), took the bags, tied them together to make a rope, and carried the rope to the

lavatory. Then he attached it to the crossbeam, and climbed down along it. The rope did not reach the

ground, but he did not know how much was wanting. Anyhow, he had to take the risk. He remained hanging

in the air, and then jumped down. His legs were badly hurt, but he could still walk on. The basement had two

windows; he could have climbed out of one of them but for the grating protecting them. He had to break the

grating, but there was no tool to do it with. Vassily began to look around him, and chanced on a piece of

plank with a sharp edge; armed with that weapon he tried to loosen the bricks which held the grating. He

worked a long time at that task. The cock crowed for the second time, but the grating still held. At last he had

loosened one side; and then he pushed the plank under the loosened end and pressed with all his force. The

grating gave way completely, but at that moment one of the bricks fell down heavily. The noise could have

been heard by the sentry. Vassily stood motionless. But silence reigned. He climbed out of the win dow. His

way of escape was to climb the wall. An outhouse stood in the corner of the courtyard. He had to reach its

roof, and pass thence to the top of the wall. But he would not be able to reach the roof without the help of the

plank; so he had to go back through the basement window to fetch it. A moment later he came out of the

window with the plank in his hands; he stood still for a while listening to the steps of the sentry. His

expectations were justified. The sentry was walking up and down on the other side of the courtyard. Vassily

came up to the outhouse, leaned the plank against it, and began climbing. The plank slipped and fell on the

ground. Vas sily had his stockings on; he took them off so that be could cling with his bare feet in coming

down. Then he leaned the plank again against the house, and seized the waterpipe with his hands. If only

this time the plank would hold! A quick move ment up the waterpipe, and his knee rested on the roof. The

sentry was approaching. Vassily lay motionless. The sentry did not notice him, and passed on. Vassily leaped

to his feet; the iron roof cracked under him. Another step or two, and he would reach the wall. He could touch

it with his hand now. He leaned forward with one hand, then with the other, stretched out his body as far as

he could, and found himself on the wall. Only, not to break his legs in jump ing down, Vassily turned round,

remained hang ing in the air by his hands, stretched himself out, loosened the grip of one hand, then the

other. "Help, me, God!" He was on the ground. And the ground was soft. His legs were not hurt, and he ran at

the top of his speed. In a suburb, Malania opened her door, and he crept under her warm coverlet, made of

THE wife of Peter Nikolaevich Sventizky, a tall and handsome woman, as quiet and sleek as a wellfed

heifer, had seen from her window how her husband had been murdered and dragged away into the fields. The

horror of such a sight to Natalia Ivanovna was so intensehow could it be otherwise?that all her other

feelings van ished. No sooner had the crowd disappeared from view behind the garden fence, and the voices

had become still; no sooner had the barefooted Malania, their servant, run in with her eyes start ing out of

her head, calling out in a voice more suited to the proclamation of glad tidings the news that Peter

Nikolaevich had been murdered and thrown into the ravine, than Natalia Ivan ovna felt that behind her first

sensation of horror, there was another sensation; a feeling of joy at her deliverance from the tyrant, who

through all the nineteen years of their married life had made her work without a moment's rest. Her joy made

her aghast; she did not confess it to herself, but hid it the more from those around. When his mutilated,

yellow and hairy body was being washed and put into the coffin, she cried with hor ror, and wept and

sobbed. When the coroner a special coroner for serious casescame and was taking her evidence, she

noticed in the room, where the inquest was taking place, two peasants in irons, who had been charged as the

principal culprits. One of them was an old man with a curly white beard, and a calm and severe coun

tenance. The other was rather young, of a gipsy type, with bright eyes and curly dishevelled hair. She

declared that they were the two men who had first seized hold of Peter Nikolaevich's hands. In spite of the

gipsylike peasant looking at her with his eyes glistening from under his moving eyebrows, and saying

reproachfully: "A great sin, lady, it is. Remember your death hour!" in spite of that, she did not feel at all

sorry for them. On the contrary, she began to hate them during the inquest, and wished desperately to take

A month later, after the case, which was com mitted for trial by courtmartial, had ended in eight men being

sentenced to hard labour, and in twothe old man with the white beard, and the gipsy boy, as she called the

otherbeing con demned to be hanged, Natalia felt vaguely uneasy. But unpleasant doubts soon pass away

under the solemnity of a trial. Since such high authorities considered that this was the right thing to do, it

The execution was to take place in the village itself. One Sunday Malania came home from church in her new

dress and her new boots, and announced to her mistress that the gallows were being erected, and that the

hangman was expected from Moscow on Wednesday. She also an nounced that the families of the convicts

Natalia Ivanovna did not go out of her house; she did not wish to see the gallows and the people in the

village; she only wanted what had to hap pen to be over quickly. She only considered her own feelings, and

On Tuesday the village constable called on Natalia Ivanovna. He was a friend, and she of fered him vodka

and preserved mushrooms of her own making. The constable, after eating a little, told her that the execution

"A very strange thing has happened. There is no hangman to be found. They had one in Moscow, my son told

me, but he has been reading the Gospels a good deal and says: 'I will not commit a murder.' He had himself

been sen tenced to hard labour for having committed a mur der, and now he objects to hang when the law

or ders him. He was threatened with flogging. 'You may flog me,' he said, 'but I won't do it.'"

Natalia Ivanovna grew red and hot at the thought which suddenly came into her head.

"How so, since the judges have passed it? The Czar alone has the right of amnesty."

"But it is on my account they are to die," said that stupid woman, Natalia Ivanovna. "And I forgive them."

The story of the hangman having refused to do his duty, and preferring to take the flogging instead, suddenly

changed the soul of Natalia Ivanovna. The pity and the horror she felt the moment she heard that the peasants

"Filip Vassilievich, my friend. Write that tel egram for me. I want to appeal to the Czar to pardon them."

The constable shook his head. "I wonder whether that would not involve us in trouble?"

"Is not she a kind woman," thought the con stable. "Very kindhearted, to be sure. If my wife had such a

heart, our life would be a para dise, instead of what it is now " And he wrote the telegram,

" To his Imperial Majesty, the Emperor. "Your Majesty's loyal subject, the widow of Pe ter Nikolaevich

Sventizky, murdered by the peas ants, throws herself at the sacred feet (this sentence, when he wrote it

down, pleased the con stable himself most of all) of your Imperial Majesty, and implores you to grant an

amnesty to the peasants so and so, from such a province, district, and village, who have been sentenced to

The telegram was sent by the constable him self, and Natalia Ivanovna felt relieved and happy. She had a

feeling that since she, the widow of the murdered man, had forgiven the murderers, and was applying for an

LISA EROPKIN lived in a state of continual ex citement. The longer she lived a true Christian life as it had

been revealed to her, the more con vinced she became that it was the right way, and her heart was full of

She had two immediate aims before her. The one was to convert Mahin; or, as she put it to herself, to arouse

his true nature, which was good and kind. She loved him, and the light of her love revealed the divine

element in his soul which is at the bottom of all souls. But, further, she saw in him an exceptionally kind and

tender heart, as well as a noble mind. Her other aim was to abandon her riches. She had first thought of

giving away what she possessed in order to test Mahin; but afterwards she wanted to do so for her own sake,

for the sake of her own soul. She began by simply giving money to any one who wanted it. But her father

stopped that; besides which, she felt disgusted at the crowd of suppli cants who personally, and by letters,

besieged her with demands for money. Then she resolved to apply to an old man, known to be a saint by his

life, and to give him her money to dispose of in the way he thought best. Her father got angry with her when

he heard about it. During a vio lent altercation he called her mad, a raving luna tic, and said he would take

Her father's irritation proved contagious. Losing all control over herself, and sobbing with rage, she behaved

Then she asked his forgiveness. He said he did not mind what she said; but she saw plainly that he was

offended, and in his heart did not forgive her. She did not feel inclined to tell Mahin about her quarrel with

her father; as to her sister, she was very cold to Lisa, being jealous of Mahin's love for her.

"I ought to confess to God," she said to her self. As all this happened in Lent, she made up her mind to fast

in preparation for the communion, and to reveal all her thoughts to the father con fessor, asking his advice

At a small distance from her town a monastery was situated, where an old monk lived who had gained a great

reputation by his holy life, by his sermons and prophecies, as well as by the mar vellous cures ascribed to

The monk had received a letter from Lisa's father announcing the visit of his daughter, and telling him in

what a state of excitement the young girl was. He also expressed the hope in that letter that the monk would

influence her in the right way, urging her not to depart from the golden mean, and to live like a good

The monk received Lisa after he had seen many other people, and being very tired, began by quietly

recommending her to be modest and to submit to her present conditions of life and to her parents. Lisa

listened silently, blushing and flushed with excitement. When he had finished admonishing her, she began

saying with tears in her eyes, timidly at first, that Christ bade us leave father and mother to follow Him.

Getting more and more excited, she told him her conception of Christ. The monk smiled slightly, and replied

as he generally did when admonishing his peni tents; but after a while he remained silent, repeating with

heavy sighs, "O God!" Then he said, "Well, come to confession to morrow," and blessed her with his

The next day Lisa came to confession, and without renewing their interrupted conversation, he absolved her

Lisa's purity, her devotion to God and her ar dent soul, impressed the monk deeply. He had desired long ago

to renounce the world entirely; but the brotherhood, which drew a large income from his work as a preacher,

insisted on his con tinuing his activity. He gave way, although he had a vague feeling that he was in a false

posi tion. It was rumoured that he was a miracle working saint, whereas in reality he was a weak man,

proud of his success in the world. When the soul of Lisa was revealed to him, he saw clearly into his own

soul. He discovered how different he was to what he wanted to be, and realised the desire of his heart.

Soon after Lisa's visit he went to live in a sep arate cell as a hermit, and for three weeks did not officiate

again in the church of the friary. After the celebration of the mass, he preached a sermon denouncing his own

From that day he preached every fortnight, and his sermons attracted increasing audiences. His fame as a

preacher spread abroad. His sermons were extraordinarily fearless and sin cere, and deeply impressed all

VASSILY was actually carrying out the object he bad in leaving the prison. With the help of a few friends he

broke into the house of the rich mer chant Krasnopuzov, whom he knew to be a miser and a debauchee.

Vassily took out of his writing desk thirty thousand roubles, and began disposing of them as he thought

right. He even gave up drink, so as not to spend that money on himself, but to distribute it to the poor;

helping poor girls to get married; paying off people's debts, and do ing this all without ever revealing

himself to those he helped; his only desire was to distribute his money in the right way. As he also gave

His heart was singing for joy. When at last he was arrested and put to trial, he confessed with pride that he

had robbed the fat merchant. "The money," he said, "was lying idle in that fool's desk, and he did not even

know how much he had, whereas I have put it into circulation and helped a lot of good people."

The counsel for the defence spoke with such good humour and kindness that the jury felt in clined to

discharge Vassily, but sentenced him nevertheless to confinement in prison. He thanked the jury, and assured

NATALIA IVANOVNA SVENTIZKY'S telegram proved useless. The committee appointed to deal with the

petitions in the Emperor's name, de cided not even to make a report to the Czar. But one day when the

Sventizky case was dis cussed at the Emperor's luncheontable, the chair man of the committee, who was

present, mentioned the telegram which had been received from Sven tizky's widow.

The Emperor sighed, shrugged his shoulders, adorned with epaulettes. "The law," he said; and raised his glass

All those present pretended to admire the wis dom of the sovereign's words. There was no further question

about the telegram. The two peasants, the old man and the young boy, were hanged by a Tartar hangman

The old man's wife wanted to dress the body of her husband in a white shirt, with white bands which serve as

stockings, and new boots, but she was not allowed to do so. The two men were buried together in the same pit

"Princess Sofia Vladimirovna tells me he is a very remarkable preacher," remarked the old Em press, the

Emperor's mother, one day to her son: "Faites le venir. Il peut precher a la cathedrale."

"No, it would be better in the palace church," said the Emperor, and ordered the hermit Isidor to be invited.

All the generals, and other high officials, as sembled in the church of the imperial palace; it was an event to

A thin and grey old man appeared, looked at those present, and said: "In the name of God, the Son, and the

At first all went well, but the longer he spoke the worse it became. "Il devient de plus en plus aggressif," as

the Empress put it afterwards. He fulminated against every one. He spoke about the executions and charged

the government with having made so many necessary. How can the government of a Christian country kill

Everybody looked at everybody else, thinking of the bad taste of the sermon, and how unpleas ant it must be

When Isidor had said Amen, the metropolitan approached, and asked him to call on him.

After Isidor had had a talk with the metropol itan and with the attorneygeneral, he was imme diately sent

away to a friary, not his own, but one at Suzdal, which had a prison attached to it; the prior of that friary was

EVERY one tried to look as if Isidor's sermon contained nothing unpleasant, and nobody men tioned it. It

seemed to the Czar that the hermit's words had not made any impression on himself; but once or twice during

that day he caught him self thinking of the two peasants who had been hanged, and the widow of Sventizky

who had asked an amnesty for them. That day the Em peror had to be present at a parade; after which he

went out for a drive; a reception of ministers came next, then dinner, after dinner the theatre. As usual, the

Czar fell asleep the moment his head touched the pillow. In the night an awful dream awoke him: he saw

gallows in a large field and corpses dangling on them; the tongues of the corpses were protruding, and their

bodies moved and shook. And somebody shouted, "It is you you who have done it " The Czar woke up

bathed in perspiration and began to think. It was the first time that he had ever thought of the responsibilities

But only dimly could he see himself as a mere human being, and he could not consider his mere human wants

and duties, because of all that was required of him as Czar. As to acknowledging that human duties were

HAVING served his second term in the prison, Pro kofy, who had formerly worked on the Sventizky estate,

was no longer the brisk, ambitious, smartly dressed fellow he had been. He seemed, on the contrary, a

complete wreck. When sober he would sit idle and would refuse to do any work, however much his father

scolded him; moreover, he was continually seeking to get hold of some thing secretly, and take it to the

publichouse for a drink. When he came home he would continue to sit idle, coughing and spitting all the

Once in spring he could not get any sleep; he was longing to have a drink. There was nothing in the house he

could lay his hand on to take to the publichouse. He put on his cap and went out. He walked along the street

up to the house where the priest and the deacon lived together. The deacon's harrow stood outside leaning

against the hedge. Prokofy approached, took the har row upon his shoulder, and walked to an inn kept by a

woman, Petrovna. She might give him a small bottle of vodka for it. But he had hardly gone a few steps when

the deacon came out of his house. It was already dawn, and he saw that Prokofy was carrying away his

The neighbours rushed out from their houses. Prokofy was seized, brought to the police station, and then

sentenced to eleven months' imprison ment. It was autumn, and Prokofy had to be transferred to the prison

hospital. He was coughing badly; his chest was heaving from the exertion; and he could not get warm. Those

who were stronger contrived not to shiver; Prokofy on the contrary shivered day and night, as the su

perintendent would not light the fires in the hos pital till November, to save expense.

Prokofy suffered greatly in body, and still more in soul. He was disgusted with his surroundings, and hated

every onethe deacon, the superin tendent who would not light the fires, the guard, and the man who was

lying in the bed next to his, and who had a swollen red lip. He began also to hate the new convict who was

brought into hospital. This convict was Stepan. He was suffering from some disease on his head, and was

transferred to the hospital and put in a bed at Prokofy's side. After a time that hatred to Stepan changed, and

Prokofy became, on the con trary, extremely fond of him; he delighted in talking to him. It was only after a

talk with Stepan that his anguish would cease for a while. Stepan always told every one he met about his last

Far from shrieking, or anything of that kind," he said to Prokofy, "she did not move. 'Kill me! There I am,'

"Well, of course, it is very dreadful to kill. I had one day to slaughter a sheep, and even that made me half

mad. I have not destroyed any liv ing soul; why then do those villains kill me? I have done no harm to

"I have not seen anything yet showing that God exists, and I don't believe in Him, brother. I think when a

"You are wrong to think like that. I have murdered so many people, whereas she, poor soul, was helping

Prokofy suffered greatly when death drew near. He could hardly breathe. But in the very last hour he felt

suddenly relieved from all pain. He called Stepan to him. "Farewell, brother," he said. "Death has come, I see.

I was so afraid of it before. And now I don't mind. I only wish it to come quicker."

IN the meanwhile, the affairs of Eugene Mihailo vich had grown worse and worse. Business was very slack.

There was a new shop in the town; he was losing his customers, and the interest had to be paid. He borrowed

again on interest. At last his shop and his goods were to be sold up. Eugene Mihailovich and his wife applied

to every one they knew, but they could not raise the four hundred roubles they needed to save the shop any

They had some hope of the merchant Krasno puzov, Eugene Mihailovich's wife being on good terms with

his mistress. But news came that Krasnopuzov had been robbed of a huge sum of money. Some said of half a

million roubles. "And do you know who is said to be the thief?" said Eugene Mihailovich to his wife.

"Vassily, our former yardporter. They say he is squan dering the money, and the police are bribed by him."

"I knew he was a villain. You remember how he did not mind perjuring himself? But I did not expect it

"I hear he has recently been in the courtyard of our house. Cook says she is sure it was he. She told me he

"How extraordinary!" said Eugene Mihailo vich, and tore open the envelope. To his great amazement

several hundred rouble notes fell out. "Four hundred roubles!" he exclaimed, hardly believing his eyes. "What

The envelope also contained a badlyspelt letter, addressed to Eugene Mihailovich. "It is said in the

Gospels," ran the letter, " do good for evil. You have done me much harm; and in the coupon case you made

me wrong the peasants greatly. But I have pity for you. Here are four hundred notes. Take them, and

"Very extraordinary!" said Eugene Mihailo vich to his wife and to himself. And each time he remembered

FOURTEEN priests were kept in the Suzdal friary prison, chiefly for having been untrue to the or thodox

faith. Isidor had been sent to that place also. Father Missael received him according to the instructions he had

been given, and without talking to him ordered him to be put into a sep arate cell as a serious criminal. After

a fort night Father Missael, making a round of the prison, entered Isidor's cell, and asked him whether there

"There is a great deal I wish for," answered Isidor; "but I cannot tell you what it is in the presence of anybody

They looked at each other, and Missael saw he had nothing to be afraid of in remaining alone with Isidor. He

ordered Isidor to be brought into his own room, and when they were alone, he said,

"Brother," said Isidor. "What are you do ing to yourself! Have mercy on your own soul. You are the worst

A month after Missael sent a report, asking that Isidor should be released as he had repented, and he also

asked for the release of the rest of the prisoners. After which he resigned his post.

TEN years passed. Mitia Smokovnikov had fin ished his studies in the Technical College; he was now an

engineer in the gold mines in Siberia, and was very highly paid. One day he was about to make a round in the

district. The governor of fered him a convict, Stepan Pelageushkine, to ac company him on his journey.

"Not if it is this one. He is a holy man. You may ask anybody, they will all tell you so."

The governor smiled. "He had committed six murders, and yet he is a holy man. I go bail for him."

Mitia Smokovnikov took Stepan, now a bald headed, lean, tanned man, with him on his journey. On their

way Stepan took care of Smokovnikov, like his own child, and told him his story; told him why he had been

And, strange to say, Mitia Smokovnikov, who up to that time used to spend his time drinking, eating, and

gambling, began for the first time to meditate on life. These thoughts never left him now, and produced a

complete change in his habits. After a time he was offered a very advantageous position. He refused it, and

made up his mind to buy an estate with the money he had, to marry, and to devote himself to the peasantry,

HE carried out his intentions. But before retiring to his estate he called on his father, with whom he had been

on bad terms, and who had settled apart with his new family. Mitia Smokovnikov wanted to make it up. The

old man wondered at first, and laughed at the change he noticed in his son; but after a while he ceased to find

fault with him, and thought of the many times when it was he who was the guilty one.

Thus spoke our excellent friend, Ivan Vasilie vich, after a conversation between us on the impos sibility of

improving individual character without a change of the conditions under which men live. Nobody had

actually said that one could not of oneself understand good and evil; but it was a habit of Ivan Vasilievich to

answer in this way the thoughts aroused in his own mind by conversation, and to illustrate those thoughts by

relating inci dents in his own life. He often quite forgot the reason for his story in telling it; but he always

"Take my own case. My whole life was moulded, not by environment, but by something quite different."

"Oh, that is a long story. I should have to tell you about a great many things to make you understand."

"What happened was that I was very much in love. I have been in love many times, but this was the most

serious of all. It is a thing of the past; she has married daughters now. It was Varinka B " Ivan

Vasilievich mentioned her surname. "Even at fifty she is remarkably hand some; but in her youth, at

eighteen, she was ex quisitetall, slender, graceful, and stately. Yes, stately is the word; she held herself

very erect, by instinct as it were; and carried her head high, and that together with her beauty and height gave

her a queenly air in spite of being thin, even bony one might say. It might indeed have been deterring had it

not been for her smile, which was always gay and cordial, and for the charming light in her eyes and for her

"Description, indeed! I could not possibly de scribe her so that you could appreciate her. But that does not

matter; what I am going to tell you happened in the forties. I was at that time a student in a provincial

university. I don't know whether it was a good thing or no, but we had no political clubs, no theories in our

universities then. We were simply young and spent our time as young men do, studying and amusing

ourselves. I was a very gay, lively, careless fellow, and had plenty of money too. I had a fine horse, and used

to go tobogganing with the young ladies. Skating had not yet come into fashion. I went to drinking parties

with my comradesin those days we drank nothing but champagneif we had no champagne we drank

nothing at all. We never drank vodka, as they do now. Evening parties and balls were my favourite

"Come, there is no need to be modest," inter rupted a lady near him. "We have seen your photograph. Not

"Handsome, if you like. That does not mat ter. When my love for her was at its strongest, on the last day of

the carnival, I was at a ball at the provincial marshal's, a goodnatured old man, rich and hospitable, and a

court chamberlain. The guests were welcomed by his wife, who was as goodnatured as himself. She was

dressed in pucecoloured velvet, and had a diamond diadem on her forehead, and her plump, old white

shoul ders and bosom were bare like the portraits of Empress Elizabeth, the daughter of Peter the Great.

"It was a delightful ball. It was a splendid room, with a gallery for the orchestra, which was famous at the

time, and consisted of serfs belong ing to a musical landowner. The refreshments were magnificent, and the

champagne flowed in rivers. Though I was fond of champagne I did not drink that night, because without it I

was drunk with love. But I made up for it by danc ing waltzes and polkas till I was ready to drop of

course, whenever possible, with Varinka. She wore a white dress with a pink sash, white shoes, and white kid

gloves, which did not quite reach to her thin pointed elbows. A disgusting engineer named Anisimov robbed

me of the mazurka with herto this day I cannot forgive him. He asked her for the dance the minute she

arrived, while I had driven to the hairdresser's to get a pair of gloves, and was late. So I did not dance the

mazurka with her, but with a German girl to whom I had previously paid a little attention; but I am afraid I

did not behave very politely to her that evening. I hardly spoke or looked at her, and saw nothing but the tall,

slender figure in a white dress, with a pink sash, a flushed, beaming, dimpled face, and sweet, kind eyes. I

was not alone; they were all looking at her with admiration, the men and women alike, although she outshone

"Although I was not nominally her partner for the mazurka, I did as a matter of fact dance nearly the whole

time with her. She always came for ward boldly the whole length of the room to pick me out. I flew to meet

her without waiting to be chosen, and she thanked me with a smile for my intuition. When I was brought up

to her with somebody else, and she guessed wrongly, she took the other man's hand with a shrug of her slim

"Whenever there was a waltz figure in the mazurka, I waltzed with her for a long time, and breathing fast and

smiling, she would say, 'En core'; and I went on waltzing and waltzing, as though unconscious of any bodily

"Come now, how could you be unconscious of it with your arm round her waist? You must have been

conscious, not only of your own exist ence, but of hers," said one of the party.

Ivan Vasilievich cried out, almost shouting in anger: " There you are, moderns all over! Now adays you

think of nothing but the body. It was different in our day. The more I was in love the less corporeal was she in

my eyes. Nowadays you think of nothing but the body. It was different in our day. The more I was in love the

less cor poreal was she in my eyes. Nowadays you set legs, ankles, and I don't know what. You undress the

women you are in love with. In my eyes, as Alphonse Karr saidand he was a good writer 'the one I

loved was always draped in robes of bronze.' We never thought of doing so; we tried to veil her nakedness,

"Well, I danced for the most part with her, and did not notice how time was passing. The musicians kept

playing the same mazurka tunes over and over again in desperate exhaustionyou know what it is towards

the end of a ball. Papas and mammas were already getting up from the cardtables in the drawingroom in

expectation of supper, the menservants were running to and fro bringing in things. It was nearly three

o'clock. I had to make the most of the last minutes. I chose her again for the mazurka, and for the hundredth

"'Well, here's something to console you,' she said, plucking a feather out of the fan, and giving it to me.

"I took the feather, and could only express my rapture and gratitude with my eyes. I was not only pleased and

gay, I was happy, delighted; I was good, I was not myself but some being not of this earth, knowing nothing

of evil. I hid the feather in my glove, and stood there unable to tear myself away from her.

"'Look, they are urging father to dance,' she said to me, pointing to the tall, stately figure of her father, a

colonel with silver epaulettes, who was standing in the doorway with some ladies.

"'Varinka, come here!' exclaimed our hostess, the lady with the diamond ferronniere and with shoulders like

"'Persuade your father to dance the mazurka with you, ma chere.Do, please, Peter Valdislavo vich,' she

"Varinka's father was a very handsome, well preserved old man. He had a good colour, mous taches curled

in the style of Nicolas I., and white whiskers which met the moustaches. His hair was combed on to his

forehead, and a bright smile, like his daughter's, was on his lips and in his eyes. He was splendidly set up,

with a broad military chest, on which he wore some decorations, and he had powerful shoulders and long

slim legs. He was that ultramilitary type produced by the disci pline of Emperor Nicolas I.

"When we approached the door the colonel was just refusing to dance, saying that he had quite for gotten

how; but at that instant he smiled, swung his arm gracefully around to the left, drew his sword from its

sheath, handed it to an obliging young man who stood near, and smoothed his suede glove on his right hand.

"'Everything must be done according to rule,' he said with a smile. He took the hand of his daughter, and

"At the first sound of the mazurka, he stamped one foot smartly, threw the other forward, and, at first slowly

and smoothly, then buoyantly and impetuously, with stamping of feet and clicking of boots, his tall, imposing

figure moved the length of the room. Varinka swayed gracefully beside him, rhythmically and easily, making

"All the people in the room followed every movement of the couple. As for me I not only ad mired, I

regarded them with enraptured sym pathy. I was particularly impressed with the old gentleman's boots.

They were not the modern pointed affairs, but were made of cheap leather, squaredtoed, and evidently built

by the regimental cobbler. In order that his daughter might dress and go out in society, he did not buy

fashionable boots, but wore homemade ones, I thought, and his square toes seemed to me most touching. It

was obvious that in his time he had been a good dancer; but now he was too heavy, and his legs had not

spring enough for all the beautiful steps he tried to take. Still, he contrived to go twice round the room. When

at the end, standing with legs apart, he suddenly clicked his feet together and fell on one knee, a bit heavily,

and she danced grace fully around him, smiling and adjusting her skirt, the whole room applauded.

"Rising with an effort, he tenderly took his daughter's face between his hands. He kissed her on the forehead,

and brought her to me, under the impression that I was her partner for the mazurka. I said I was not. 'Well,

never mind. just go around the room once with her,' he said, smil ing kindly, as he replaced his sword in the

"As the contents of a bottle flow readily when the first drop has been poured, so my love for Varinka seemed

to set free the whole force of lov ing within me. In surrounding her it embraced the world. I loved the

hostess with her diadem and her shoulders like Elizabeth, and her husband and her guests and her footmen,

and even the engineer Anisimov who felt peevish towards me. As for Varinka's father, with his homemade

boots and his kind smile, so like her own, I felt a sort of ten derness for him that was almost rapture.

"After supper I danced the promised quadrille with her, and though I had been infinitely happy before, I grew

"We did not speak of love. I neither asked myself nor her whether she loved me. It was quite enough to know

that I loved her. And I had only one fearthat something might come to in terfere with my great joy.

"When I went home, and began to undress for the night, I found it quite out of the question. held the little

feather out of her fan in my hand, and one of her gloves which she gave me when I helped her into the

carriage after her mother. Looking at these things, and without closing my eyes I could see her before me as

she was for an instant when she had to choose between two part ners. She tried to guess what kind of person

was represented in me, and I could hear her sweet voice as she said, 'Prideam I right?' and merrily gave me

her hand. At supper she took the first sip from my glass of champagne, looking at me over the rim with her

caressing glance. But, plainest of all, I could see her as she danced with her father, gliding along beside him,

"I was living then with my brother, who has since died. He disliked going out, and never went to dances; and

besides, he was busy preparing for his last university examinations, and was leading a very regular life. He

was asleep. I looked at him, his head buried in the pillow and half covered with the quilt; and I affectionately

pitied him, pitied him for his ignorance of the bliss I was ex periencing. Our serf Petrusha had met me with

a candle, ready to undress me, but I sent him away. His sleepy face and tousled hair seemed to me so

touching. Trying not to make a noise, I went to my room on tiptoe and sat down on my bed. No, I was too

happy; I could not sleep. Besides, it was too hot in the rooms. Without taking off my uniform, I went quietly

into the hall, put on my overcoat, opened the front door and stepped out into the street.

"It was after four when I had left the ball; going home and stopping there a while had occu pied two hours,

so by the time I went out it was dawn. It was regular carnival weatherfoggy, and the road full of

watersoaked snow just melt ing, and water dripping from the eaves. Varin ka's family lived on the edge

of town near a large field, one end of which was a parade ground: at the other end was a boardingschool for

young ladies. I passed through our empty little street and came to the main thoroughfare, where I met

pedestrians and sledges laden with wood, the run ners grating the road. The horses swung with regular paces

beneath their shining yokes, their backs covered with straw mats and their heads wet with rain; while the

drivers, in enormous boots, splashed through the mud beside the sledges. All this, the very horses themselves,

"When I approached the field near their house, I saw at one end of it, in the direction of the pa rade ground,

something very huge and black, and I heard sounds of fife and drum proceeding from it. My heart had been

full of song, and I had heard in imagination the tune of the mazurka, but this was very harsh music. It was not

"'What can that be?' I thought, and went towards the sound by a slippery path through the centre of the field.

Walking about a hundred paces, I began to distinguish many black objects through the mist. They were

"So I went along in that direction in company with a blacksmith, who wore a dirty coat and an apron, and was

carrying something. He walked ahead of me as we approached the place. The soldiers in black uniforms stood

in two rows, fac ing each other motionless, their guns at rest. Be hind them stood the fifes and drums,

"'A Tartar is being beaten through the ranks for his attempt to desert,' said the blacksmith in an angry tone, as

"I looked in the same direction, and saw be tween the files something horrid approaching me. The thing that

approached was a man, stripped to the waist, fastened with cords to the guns of two soldiers who were

leading him. At his side an officer in overcoat and cap was walking, whose figure had a familiar look. The

victim advanced under the blows that rained upon him from both sides, his whole body plunging, his feet

dragging through the snow. Now he threw himself back ward, and the subalterns who led him thrust him

forward. Now he fell forward, and they pulled him up short; while ever at his side marched the tall officer,

with firm and nervous pace. It was Varinka's father, with his rosy face and white moustache.

"At each stroke the man, as if amazed, turned his face, grimacing with pain, towards the side whence the

blow came, and showing his white teeth repeated the same words over and over. But I could only hear what

the words were when he came quite near. He did not speak them, he sobbed them out,

"'Brothers, have mercy on me! Brothers, have mercy on me!' But the brothers had, no mercy, and when the

procession came close to me, I saw how a soldier who stood opposite me took a firm step forward and lifting

his stick with a whirr, brought it down upon the man's back. The man plunged forward, but the subalterns

pulled him back, and another blow came down from the other side, then from this side and then from the

other. The colonel marched beside him, and looking now at his feet and now at the man, inhaled the air,

puffed out his cheeks, and breathed it out between his protruded lips. When they passed the place where I

stood, I caught a glimpse between the two files of the back of the man that was being pun ished. It was

something so manycoloured, wet, red, unnatural, that I could hardly believe it was a human body.

The procession moved farther away. The blows continued to rain upon the writhing, falling creature; the fifes

shrilled and the drums beat, and the tall imposing figure of the colonel moved along side the man, just as

before. Then, suddenly, the colonel stopped, and rapidly approached a man in the ranks.

"'I'll teach you to hit him gently,' I heard his furious voice say. 'Will you pat him like that? Will you?' and I

saw how his strong hand in the suede glove struck the weak, bloodless, terrified soldier for not bringing down

"'Bring new sticks!' he cried, and looking round, he saw me. Assuming an air of not know ing me, and with

a ferocious, angry frown, he hastily turned away. I felt so utterly ashamed that I didn't know where to look. It

was as if I had been detected in a disgraceful act. I dropped my eyes, and quickly hurried home. All the way I

had the drums beating and the fifes whistling in my ears. And I heard the words, 'Brothers, have mercy on

me!' or 'Will you pat him? Will you?' My heart was full of physical disgust that was almost sickness. So

much so that I halted sev eral times on my way, for I had the feeling that I was going to be really sick from

all the horrors that possessed me at that sight. I do not remem ber how I got home and got to bed. But the

mo ment I was about to fall asleep I heard and saw again all that had happened, and I sprang up.

"'Evidently he knows something I do not know,' I thought about the colonel. 'If I knew what he knows I

should certainly graspunder standwhat I have just seen, and it would not cause me such suffering.'

"But however much I thought about it, I could not understand the thing that the colonel knew. It was evening

before I could get to sleep, and then only after calling on a friend and drinking till I; was quite drunk.

"Do you think I had come to the conclusion that the deed I had witnessed was wicked? Oh, no. Since it was

done with such assurance, and was rec ognised by every one as indispensable, they doubt less knew

something which I did not know. So I thought, and tried to understand. But no matter, I could never

understand it, then or afterwards. And not being able to grasp it, I could not enter the service as I had

intended. I don't mean only the military service: I did not enter the Civil Serv ice either. And so I have been

"Yes, we know how useless you've been," said one of us. "Tell us, rather, how many people would be of any

"My love? It decreased from that day. When, as often happened, she looked dreamy and meditative, I

instantly recollected the colonel on the parade ground, and I felt so awkward and uncomfortable that I began

to see her less fre quently. So my love came to naught. Yes; such chances arise, and they alter and direct a

ALYOSHA was the younger brother. He was called the Pot, because his mother had once sent him with a pot

of milk to the deacon's wife, and he had stumbled against something and broken it. His mother had beaten

him, and the children had teased him. Since then he was nicknamed the Pot. Alyosha was a tiny, thin little

fellow, with ears like wings, and a huge nose. "Alyosha has a nose that looks like a dog on a hill!" the

children used to call after him. Alyosha went to the village school, but was not good at lessons; besides, there

was so little time to learn. His elder brother was in town, working for a merchant, so Alyosha had to help his

father from a very early age. When he was no more than six he used to go out with the girls to watch the cows

and sheep in the pasture, and a little later he looked after the horses by day and by night. And at twelve years

of age he had already begun to plough and to drive the cart. The skill was there though the strength was not.

He was always cheerful. Whenever the children made fun of him, he would either laugh or be silent. When

his father scolded him he would stand mute and listen attentively, and as soon as the scolding was over would

smile and go on with his work. Alyosha was nineteen when his brother was taken as a soldier. So his father

placed him with the merchant as a yardporter. He was given his brother's old boots, his father's old coat and

cap, and was taken to town. Alyosha was de lighted with his clothes, but the merchant was not impressed by

"I thought you would bring me a man in Sime on's place," he said, scanning Alyosha; "and you've brought

"He can do everything; look after horses and drive. He's a good one to work. He looks rather thin, but he's

The family was not a large one. It consisted of the merchant's wife: her old mother: a married son poorly

educated who was in his father's busi ness: another son, a learned one who had finished school and entered

the University, but having been expelled, was living at home: and a daughter who still went to school.

They did not take to Alyosha at first. He was uncouth, badly dressed, and had no manner, but they soon got

used to him. Alyosha worked even better than his brother had done; he was really very willing. They sent him

on all sorts of er rands, but he did everything quickly and readily, going from one task to another without

stopping. And so here, just as at home, all the work was put upon his shoulders. The more he did, the more he

was given to do. His mistress, her old mother, the son, the daughter, the clerk, and the cookall ordered him

"Alyosha, do this! Alyosha, do that! What! have you forgotten, Alyosha? Mind you don't forget, Alyosha!"

was heard from morning till night. And Alyosha ran here, looked after this and that, forgot nothing, found

His brother's old boots were soon worn out, and his master scolded him for going about in tat ters with his

toes sticking out. He ordered an other pair to be bought for him in the market. Alyosha was delighted with

his new boots, but was angry with his feet when they ached at the end of the day after so much running about.

And then he was afraid that his father would be annoyed when he came to town for his wages, to find that his

In the winter Alyosha used to get up before day break. He would chop the wood, sweep the yard, feed the

cows and horses, light the stoves, clean the boots, prepare the samovars and polish them afterwards; or the

clerk would get him to bring up the goods; or the cook would set him to knead the bread and clean the

saucepans. Then he was sent to town on various errands, to bring the daughter home from school, or to get

some olive oil for the old mother. "Why the devil have you been so long?" first one, then another, would say

to him. Why should they go? Alyosha can go. "Alyosha! Alyosha!" And Alyosha ran here and there. He

breakfasted in snatches while he was working, and rarely managed to get his dinner at the proper hour. The

cook used to scold him for being late, but she was sorry for him all the same, and would keep something hot

At holiday times there was more work than ever, but Alyosha liked holidays because everybody gave him a

tip. Not much certainly, but it would amount up to about sixty kopeks [1s 2d]his very own money. For

Alyosha never set eyes on his wages. His father used to come and take them from the merchant, and only

When he had saved up two roubles [4s], by the advice of the cook he bought himself a red knitted jacket, and

was so happy when he put it on, that he couldn't close his mouth for joy. Alyosha was not talkative; when he

spoke at all, he spoke abruptly, with his head turned away. When told to do anything, or asked if he could do

Alyosha did not know any prayer; and had for gotten what his mother had taught him. But he prayed just the

He lived like this for about a year and a half, and towards the end of the second year a most startling thing

happened to him. He discovered one day, to his great surprise, that, in addition to the relation of usefulness

existing between people, there was also another, a peculiar relation of quite a different character. Instead of a

man being wanted to clean boots, and go on errands and har ness horses, he is not wanted to be of any

service at all, but another human being wants to serve him and pet him. Suddenly Alyosha felt he was such a

He made this discovery through the cook Us tinia. She was young, had no parents, and worked as hard as

Alyosha. He felt for the first time in his life that henot his services, but he himself was necessary to

another human being. When his mother used to be sorry for him, he had taken no notice of her. It had seemed

to him quite natural, as though he were feeling sorry for him self. But here was Ustinia, a perfect stranger,

and sorry for him. She would save him some hot porridge, and sit watching him, her chin propped on her bare

arm, with the sleeve rolled up, while he was eating it. When he looked at her she would begin to laugh, and

This was such a new, strange thing to him that it frightened Alyosha. He feared that it might interfere with his

work. But he was pleased, nev ertheless, and when he glanced at the trousers that Ustinia had mended for

him, he would shake his head and smile. He would often think of her while at work, or when running on

Ustinia used to help him whenever she could, and he helped her. She told him all about her life; how she had

lost her parents; how her aunt had taken her in and found a place for her in the town; how the merchant's son

had tried to take lib erties with her, and how she had rebuffed him. She liked to talk, and Alyosha liked to

listen to her. He had heard that peasants who came up to work in the towns frequently got married to servant

girls. On one occasion she asked him if his par ents intended marrying him soon. He said that he did not

"Get along with you, Alyosha the Pot; but you've found your tongue, haven't you?" she ex claimed, slapping

At Shrovetide Alyosha's father came to town for his wages. It had come to the ears of the mer chant's wife

that Alyosha wanted to marry Ustinia, and she disapproved of it. "What will be the use of her with a baby?"

"That's all right, as far as it goes, but he's taken some sort of nonsense into his head. He wants to marry our

cook. Now I don't approve of married servants. We won't have them in the house."

"Well, now, who would have thought the fool would think of such a thing?" the old man ex claimed. "But

He went into the kitchen, and sat down at the table waiting for his son. Alyosha was out on an errand, and

"I thought you had some sense in you; but what's this you've taken into your head?" his father began.

"How, nothing? They tell me you want to get married. You shall get married when the time comes. I'll find

His father talked and talked, while Alyosha stood still and sighed. When his father had quite finished,

When he was left alone with Ustinia he told her what his father had said. (She had listened at the door.)

"It's no good; it can't come off. Did you hear? He was angrywon't have it at any price."

"Well, are you going to give up that nonsense, as your father told you?" his mistress asked, as he was putting

From that day Alyosha went about his work as usual, and no longer talked to Ustinia about their getting

married. One day in Lent the clerk told him to clear the snow from the roof. Alyosha climbed on to the roof

and swept away all the snow; and, while he was still raking out some frozen lumps from the gutter, his foot

slipped and he fell over. Unfortunately he did not fall on the snow, but on a piece of iron over the door. Us

He was taken into the lodge. The doctor ar rived, examined him, and asked where he felt the pain.

"I feel it all over," he said. "But it doesn't matter. I'm only afraid master will be annoyed. Father ought to be

"Of course I am. You can't go on living for ever. You must go when the time comes " Aly osha spoke

rapidly as usual. "Thank you, Us tinia. You've been very good to me. What a lucky thing they didn't let us

When the priest came, he prayed with his bands and with his heart. "As it is good here when you obey and do

He spoke very little; he only said he was thirsty, and he seemed full of wonder at something.

"As a daughter she no longer exists for me. Can't you understand? She simply doesn't ex ist. Still, I cannot

possibly leave her to the char ity of strangers. I will arrange things so that she can live as she pleases, but I

do not wish to hear of her. Who would ever have thought . . . the horror of it, the horror of it."

He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, and raised his eyes. These words were spoken by Prince Michael

Ivanovich to his brother Peter, who was governor of a province in Central Rus sia. Prince Peter was a man

On discovering that his daughter, who had left his house a year before, had settled here with her child, the

elder brother had come from St. Peters burg to the provincial town, where the above con versation took

Prince Michael Ivanovich was a tall, handsome, whitehaired, fresh coloured man, proud and at tractive in

appearance and bearing. His family consisted of a vulgar, irritable wife, who wran gled with him

continually over every petty detail, a son, a ne'erdowell, spendthrift and roue yet a "gentleman,"

according to his father's code, two daughters, of whom the elder had married well, and was living in St.

Petersburg; and the younger, Lisahis favourite, who had disap peared from home a year before. Only a

Prince Peter wanted to ask his brother how, and under what circumstances, Lisa had left home, and who

could possibly be the father of her child. But he could not make up his mind to in quire.

That very morning, when his wife had at tempted to condole with her brotherinlaw, Prince Peter had

observed a look of pain on his brother's face. The look had at once been masked by an expression of

unapproachable pride, and he had begun to question her about their flat, and the price she paid. At luncheon,

before the family and guests, he had been witty and sarcastic as usual. Towards every one, excepting the

chil dren, whom he treated with almost reverent ten derness, he adopted an attitude of distant hauteur. And

yet it was so natural to him that every one somehow acknowledged his right to be haughty.

In the evening his brother arranged a game of whist. When he retired to the room which had been made ready

for him, and was just beginning to take out his artificial teeth, some one tapped lightly on the door with two

Prince Michael Ivanovich recognised the voice of his sisterinlaw, frowned, replaced his teeth, and said to

His sisterinlaw was a quiet, gentle creature, who bowed in submission to her husband's will. But to many

she seemed a crank, and some did not hesitate to call her a fool. She was pretty, but her hair was always

carelessly dressed, and she herself was untidy and absentminded. She had, also, the strangest, most

unaristocratic ideas, by no means fitting in the wife of a high official. These ideas she would express most

unexpectedly, to everybody's astonishment, her husband's no less than her friends'.

"Fous pouvez me renvoyer, mais je ne m'en irai pas, je vous le dis d'avance," she began, in her characteristic,

"Dieu preserve," answered her brotherinlaw, with his usual somewhat exaggerated politeness, and brought

"Ca ne vous derange pas?" she asked, taking out a cigarette. "I'm not going to say anything unpleasant,

Michael Ivanovich sighedthe word pained him; but mastering himself at once, he answered with a tired

smile. "Our conversation can only be on one subject, and that is the subject you wish to discuss " He spoke

without looking at her, and avoided even naming the subject. But his plump, pretty little sisterinlaw was

unabashed. She continued to regard him with the same gentle, imploring look in her blue eyes, sighing even

"Michael, dear, won't you see her? I only wanted to say, that the one who is to blame"

"For heaven's sake, let us stop. I have suf fered enough. I have now but one desire, and that is to put her in

such a position that she will be independent of others, and that she shall have no further need of

communicating with me. Then she can live her own life, and my family and I need know nothing more about

"No doubt; but, dear Aline, please let us drop the matter. I feel it too deeply."

Alexandra Dmitrievna remained silent for a few moments, shaking her head. "And Masha, your wife, thinks

"Brisons la dessus et bonne nuit," said he. But she did not go. She stood silent a moment. Then,

"Peter tells me you intend to leave the money with the woman where she lives. Have you the address?"

"Don't leave it with the woman, Michael! Go yourself. Just see how she lives. If you don't want to see her,

Alexandra Dmitrievna rose, and almost in tears, being touched by her own pleading, said, "She is so

For a long while after she had gone Michael Ivanovich walked to and fro on the square of carpet. He frowned

and shivered, and ex claimed, "Oh, oh!" And then the sound of his own voice frightened him, and he was

His wounded pride tortured him. His daugh terhisbrought up in the house of her mother, the famous

Avdotia Borisovna, whom the Empress honoured with her visits, and acquaint ance with whom was an

honour for all the world! His daughter; and he had lived his life as a knight of old, knowing neither fear

nor blame. The fact that he had a natural son born of a Frenchwoman, whom he had settled abroad, did not

lower his own selfesteem. And now this daughter, for whom he had not only done every thing that a father

could and should do; this daughter to whom he had given a splendid educa tion and every opportunity to

make a match in the best Russian societythis daughter to whom he had not only given all that a girl could

desire, but whom he had really LOVED; whom he had admired, been proud ofthis daughter had repaid

He recalled the time when she was not merely his child, and a member of his family, but his darling, his joy

and his pride. He saw her again, a little thing of eight or nine, bright, intelligent, lively, impetuous, graceful,

with brilliant black eyes and flowing auburn hair. He remembered how she used to jump up on his knees and

hug him, and tickle his neck; and how she would laugh, regardless of his protests, and continue to tickle him,

and kiss his lips, his eyes, and his cheeks. He was naturally opposed to all demonstration, but this impetuous

love moved him, and he often submitted to her petting. He remembered also how sweet it was to caress her.

To remember all this, when that sweet child had become what she now was, a creature of whom he could not

He also recalled the time when she was growing into womanhood, and the curious feeling of fear and anger

that he experienced when he became aware that men regarded her as a woman. He thought of his jealous love

when she came coquet tishly to him dressed for a ball, and knowing that she was pretty. He dreaded the

passionate glances which fell upon her, that she not only did not understand but rejoiced in. "Yes," thought

he, "that superstition of woman's purity! Quite the contrary, they do not know shamethey lack this sense "

He remembered how, quite inexpli cably to him, she had refused two very good suit ors. She had become

more and more fascinated by her own success in the round of gaieties she lived in.

But this success could not last long. A year passed, then two, then three. She was a familiar figure,

beautifulbut her first youth had passed, and she had become somehow part of the ball room furniture.

Michael Ivanovich remembered how he had realised that she was on the road to spinsterhood, and desired but

one thing for her. He must get her married off as quickly as possible, perhaps not quite so well as might have

But it seemed to him she had behaved with a pride that bordered on insolence. Remembering this, his anger

rose more and more fiercely against her. To think of her refusing so many decent men, only to end in this

Then stopping, he lit a cigarette, and tried to think of other things. He would send her money, without ever

letting her see him. But memories came again. He rememberedit was not so very long ago, for she was

more than twenty then her beginning a flirtation with a boy of four teen, a cadet of the Corps of Pages

who had been staying with them in the country. She had driven the boy half crazy; he had wept in his

distraction. Then how she had rebuked her father severely, coldly, and even rudely, when, to put an end to

this stupid affair, he had sent the boy away. She seemed somehow to consider herself insulted. Since then

And then, as a last ghastly memory, there was the letter from Moscow, in which she wrote that she could not

return home; that she was a miser able, abandoned woman, asking only to be for given and forgotten. Then

the horrid recollec tion of the scene with his wife came to him; their surmises and their suspicions, which

became a cer tainty. The calamity had happened in Finland, where they had let her visit her aunt; and the

culprit was an insignificant Swede, a student, an emptyheaded, worthless creatureand married.

All this came back to him now as he paced backwards and forwards on the bedroom carpet, recollecting his

former love for her, his pride in her. He recoiled with terror before the incom prehensible fact of her

downfall, and he hated her for the agony she was causing him. He remem bered the conversation with his

sisterinlaw, and tried to imagine how he might forgive her. But as soon as the thought of "him" arose, there

surged up in his heart horror, disgust, and wounded pride. He groaned aloud, and tried to think of something

"No, it is impossible; I will hand over the money to Peter to give her monthly. And as for me, I have no

And again a curious feeling overpowered him: a mixture of selfpity at the recollection of his love for her,

DURING the last year Lisa had without doubt lived through more than in all the preceding twentyfive.

Suddenly she had realised the empti ness of her whole life. It rose before her, base and sordidthis life at

home and among the rich set in St. Petersburgthis animal existence that never sounded the depths, but only

It was well enough for a year or two, or per haps even three. But when it went on for seven or eight years,

with its parties, balls, concerts, and suppers; with its costumes and coiffures to display the charms of the

body; with its adorers old and young, all alike seemingly possessed of some unaccountable right to have

everything, to laugh at everything; and with its summer months spent in the same way, everything yielding

but a superficial pleasure, even music and reading merely touching upon life's problems, but never solving

themall this holding out no promise of change, and losing its charm more and moreshe began to despair.

Her friends directed her thoughts to charity. On the one hand, she saw poverty which was real and repulsive,

and a sham poverty even more re pulsive and pitiable; on the other, she saw the ter rible indifference of the

lady patronesses who came in carriages and gowns worth thousands. Life became to her more and more

unbearable. She yearned for something real, for life itselfnot this playing at living, not this skimming life

of its cream. Of real life there was none. The best of her memories was her love for the little cadet Koko. That

had been a good, honest, straight forward impulse, and now there was nothing like it. There could not be.

She grew more and more depressed, and in this gloomy mood she went to visit an aunt in Finland. The fresh

scenery and surroundings, the people strangely different to her own, appealed to her at any rate as a new

How and when it all began she could not clearly remember. Her aunt had another guest, a Swede. He talked

of his work, his people, the latest Swedish novel. Somehow, she herself did not know how that terrible

fascination of glances and smiles began, the meaning of which cannot be put into words.

These smiles and glances seemed to reveal to each, not only the soul of the other, but some vital and

universal mystery. Every word they spoke was invested by these smiles with a pro found and wonderful

significance. Music, too, when they were listening together, or when they sang duets, became full of the same

deep meaning. So, also, the words in the books they read aloud. Sometimes they would argue, but the

moment their eyes met, or a smile flashed between them, the discussion remained far behind. They soared

How it had come about, how and when the devil, who had seized hold of them both, first appeared behind

these smiles and glances, she could not say. But, when terror first seized her, the invisible threads that bound

them were already so interwoven that she had no power to tear her self free. She could only count on him

and on his honour. She hoped that he would not make use of his power; yet all the while she vaguely de

Her weakness was the greater, because she had nothing to support her in the struggle. She was weary of

society life and she had no affection for her mother. Her father, so she thought, had cast her away from him,

and she longed passion ately to live and to have done with play. Love, the perfect love of a woman for a

man, held the promise of life for her. Her strong, passionate nature, too, was dragging her thither. In the tall,

strong figure of this man, with his fair hair and light upturned moustache, under which shone a smile

attractive and compelling, she saw the prom ise of that life for which she longed. And then the smiles and

glances, the hope of something so incredibly beautiful, led, as they were bound to lead, to that which she

Suddenly all that was beautiful, joyous, spir itual, and full of promise for the future, became animal and

She looked into his eyes and tried to smile, pretending that she feared nothing, that every thing was as it

should be; but deep down in her soul she knew it was all over. She understood that she had not found in him

what she had sought; that which she had once known in herself and in Koko. She told him that he must write

to her father asking her hand in marriage. This he promised to do; but when she met him next he said it was

impossible for him to write just then. She saw something vague and furtive in his eyes, and her distrust of

him grew. The following day he wrote to her, telling her that he was already mar ried, though his wife had

left him long since; that he knew she would despise him for the wrong he had done her, and implored her

forgiveness. She made him come to see her. She said she loved him; that she felt herself bound to him for

ever whether he was married or not, and would never leave him. The next time they met he told her that he

and his parents were so poor that he could only offer her the meanest existence. She answered that she needed

nothing, and was ready to go with him at once wherever he wished. He endeavoured to dissuade her, advising

her to wait; and so she waited. But to live on with this se cret, with occasional meetings, and merely cor

responding with him, all hidden from her family, was agonising, and she insisted again that he must take her

away. At first, when she returned to St. Petersburg, be wrote promising to come, and then letters ceased and

She tried to lead her old life, but it was im possible. She fell ill, and the efforts of the doc tors were

unavailing; in her hopelessness she resolved to kill herself. But how was she to do this, so that her death

might seem natural? She really desired to take her life, and imagined that she had irrevocably decided on the

step. So, ob taining some poison, she poured it into a glass, and in another instant would have drunk it, had

not her sister's little son of five at that very mo ment run in to show her a toy his grandmother had given

The thought overpowered her that she, too, might have been a mother had he not been mar ried, and this

vision of motherhood made her look into her own soul for the first time. She began to think not of what

others would say of her, but of her own life. To kill oneself because of what the world might say was easy;

but the moment she saw her own life dissociated from the world, to take that life was out of the question. She

Then her life within began. It was real life, and despite the torture of it, had the possibility been given her, she

would not have turned back from it. She began to pray, but there was no comfort in prayer; and her suffering

was less for herself than for her father, whose grief she fore saw and understood.

Thus months dragged along, and then some thing happened which entirely transformed her life. One day,

when she was at work upon a quilt, she suddenly experienced a strange sensa tion. Noit seemed

impossible. Motionless she sat with her work in hand. Was it possi ble that this was IT. Forgetting

everything, his baseness and deceit, her mother's querulousness, and her father's sorrow, she smiled. She

shud dered at the recollection that she was on the point of killing it, together with herself.

She now directed all her thoughts to getting awaysomewhere where she could bear her childand become

a miserable, pitiful mother, but a mother withal. Somehow she planned and arranged it all, leaving her home

and settling in a distant provincial town, where no one could find her, and where she thought she would be far

from her people. But, unfortunately, her father's brother received an appointment there, a thing she could not

possibly foresee. For four months she had been living in the house of a midwifeone Maria Ivanovna; and,

on learning that her uncle had come to the town, she was preparing to fly to a still remoter hidingplace.

MICHAEL IVANOVICH awoke early next morning. He entered his brother's study, and handed him the

cheque, filled in for a sum which he asked him to pay in monthly instalments to his daughter. He inquired

when the express left for St. Peters burg. The train left at seven in the evening, giving him time for an early

dinner before leav ing. He breakfasted with his sisterinlaw, who refrained from mentioning the subject

which was so painful to him, but only looked at him timidly; and after breakfast he went out for his regular

"Go into the public gardens, Michaelit is very charming there, and quite near to Every thing," said she,

Michael Ivanovich followed her advice and went to the public gardens, which were so near to Everything,

and meditated with annoyance on the stupidity, the obstinacy, and heartlessness of women.

"She is not in the very least sorry for me," he thought of his sisterinlaw. "She cannot even understand my

sorrow. And what of her?" He was thinking of his daughter. "She knows what all this means to methe

torture. What a blow in one's old age! My days will be short ened by it! But I'd rather have it over than

endure this agony. And all that 'pour les beaux yeux d'un chenapan'oh!" he moaned; and a wave of hatred

and fury arose in him as he thought of what would be said in the town when every one knew. (And no doubt

every one knew already.) Such a feeling of rage possessed him that he would have liked to beat it into her

head, and make her understand what she had done. These women never understand. "It is quite near

Everything," suddenly came to his mind, and getting out his notebook, he found her address. Vera Ivanovna

Silvestrova, Kukonskaya Street, Abromov's house. She was living under this name. He left the gardens and

"Whom do you wish to see, sir?" asked the midwife, Maria Ivanovna, when he stepped on the narrow landing

"Vera Ivanovna? Yes; please come in. She has gone out; she's gone to the shop round the corner. But she'll be

Michael Ivanovich followed the stout figure of Maria Ivanovna into a tiny parlour, and from the next room

came the screams of a baby, sounding cross and peevish, which filled him with disgust. They cut him like a

Maria Ivanovna apologised, and went into the room, and he could hear her soothing the child. The child

"That is her baby; she'll be back in a minute. You are a friend of hers, I suppose?"

"Yesa friendbut I think I had better come back later on," said Michael Ivanovich, pre paring to go. It

was too unbearable, this prep aration to meet her, and any explanation seemed impossible.

He had just turned to leave, when he heard quick, light steps on the stairs, and he recognised Lisa's voice.

He remained motionless, staring at her. She had grown so thin. Her eyes were larger, her nose sharper, her

hands worn and bony. He neither knew what to do, nor what to say. He forgot all his grief about his

dishonour. He only felt sorrow, infinite sorrow for her; sorrow for her thinness, and for her miserable rough

"Forgiveforgive me," he murmured; and he began to sob like a child, kissing her face and hands, and

In his pity for her he understood himself. And when he saw himself as he was, he realised how he had

wronged her, how guilty he had been in his pride, in his coldness, even in his anger towards her. He was glad

that it was he who was guilty, and that he had nothing to forgive, but that he himself needed forgiveness. She

took him to her tiny room, and told him how she lived; but she did not show him the child, nor did she

"We will talk it over," he said. Suddenly the child began to wail and to scream. She opened her eyes very

wide; and, not taking them from her father's face, remained hesitating and motionless.

"WellI suppose you must feed him," said Michael Ivanovich, and frowned with the obvious effort.

She got up, and suddenly the wild idea seized her to show him whom she loved so deeply the thing she now

loved best of all in the world. But first she looked at her father's face. Would he be angry or not? His face

"Yes, go, go," said he; "God bless you. Yes. I'll come again tomorrow, and we will decide. Goodbye, my

When Michael Ivanovich returned to his brother's house, Alexandra Dmitrievna imme diately rushed to him.

"Have you seen?" she asked, guessing from his expression that something had happened.

"Yes," he answered shortly, and began to cry. "I'm getting old and stupid," said he, mastering his emotion.

MINE is a strange and wonderful lot! The chances are that there is not a single wretched beggar suffering

under the luxury and oppression of the rich who feels anything like as keenly as I do either the injustice, the

cruelty, and the horror of their oppression of and contempt for the poor; or the grinding humiliation and

misery which befall the great majority of the workers, the real producers of all that makes life possible. I have

felt this for a long time, and as the years have passed by the feeling has grown and grown, until recently it

reached its climax. Although I feel all this so vividly, I still live on amid the depravity and sins of rich

society; and I cannot leave it, because I have neither the knowledge nor the strength to do so. I cannot. I do

not know how to change my life so that my physical needs food, sleep, clothing, my going to and fro

may be satisfied without a sense of shame and wrongdoing in the position which I fill.

There was a time when I tried to change my position, which was not in harmony with my conscience; but the

conditions created by the past, by my family and its claims upon me, were so complicated that they would not

let me out of their grasp, or rather, I did not know how to free myself. I had not the strength. Now that I am

over eighty and have become feeble, I have given up trying to free myself; and, strange to say, as my

feebleness increases I realise more and more strongly the wrongfulness of my position, and it grows more and

It has occurred to me that I do not occupy this position for nothing: that Providence intended that I should lay

bare the truth of my feelings, so that I might atone for all that causes my suffering, and might perhaps open

the eyes of thoseor at least of some of thosewho are still blind to what I see so clearly, and thus might

lighten the burden of that vast majority who, under existing conditions, are subjected to bodily and spiritual

suffering by those who deceive them and also deceive themselves. Indeed, it may be that the position which I

occupy gives me special facilities for revealing the artificial and criminal relations which exist between

menfor telling the whole truth in regard to that position without confusing the issue by attempting to

vindicate myself, and without rousing the envy of the rich and feelings of oppression in the hearts of the poor

and down trodden. I am so placed that I not only have no desire to vindicate myself; but, on the contrary, I

find it necessary to make an effort lest I should exaggerate the wickedness of the great among whom I live, of

whose society I am ashamed, whose attitude towards their fellowmen I detest with my whole soul, though I

find it impossible to separate my lot from theirs. But I must also avoid the error of those democrats and others

who, in defending the oppressed and the enslaved, do not see their failings and mistakes, and who do not

make sufficient allowance for the difficulties created, the mistakes inherited from the past, which in a degree

Free from desire for selfvindication, free from fear of an emancipated people, free from that envy and hatred

which the oppressed feel for their oppressors, I am in the best possible position to see the truth and to tell it.

Perhaps that is why Providence placed me in such a position. I will do my best to turn it to account.

Alexander Ivanovich Volgin, a bachelor and a clerk in a Moscow bank at a salary of eight thousand roubles a

year, a man much respected in his own set, was staying in a countryhouse. His host was a wealthy

landowner, owning some twentyfive hundred acres, and had married his guest's cousin. Volgin, tired after

an evening spent in playing vint* for small stakes with [* A game of cards similar to auction bridge.]

members of the family, went to his room and placed his watch, silver cigarettecase, pocketbook, big

leather purse, and pocketbrush and comb on a small table covered with a white cloth, and then, taking off

his coat, waistcoat, shirt, trousers, and underclothes, his silk socks and English boots, put on his nightshirt

and dressinggown. His watch pointed to midnight. Volgin smoked a cigarette, lay on his face for about five

minutes reviewing the day's impressions; then, blowing out his candle, he turned over on his side and fell

asleep about one o'clock, in spite of a good deal of rest lessness. Awaking next morning at eight he put on

family and the grandfather of six grandchildren, who had served in that house for thirty years, entered the

room hurriedly, with bent legs, carry ing in the newly blackened boots which Volgin had taken off the night

before, a wellbrushed suit, and a clean shirt. The guest thanked him, and then asked what the weather was

like (the blinds were drawn so that the sun should not prevent any one from sleeping till eleven o'clock if he

were so inclined), and whether his hosts had slept well. He glanced at his watchit was still early and

began to wash and dress. His water was ready, and everything on the washingstand and dressingtable was

ready for use and properly laid outhis soap, his tooth and hair brushes, his nail scissors and files. He

washed his hands and face in a leisurely fashion, cleaned and manicured his nails, pushed back the skin with

the towel, and sponged his stout white body from head to foot. Then he began to brush his hair. Standing in

front of the mirror, he first brushed his curly beard, which was beginning to turn grey, with two English

brushes, parting it down the middle. Then he combed his hair, which was already show ing signs of getting

thin, with a large tortoise shell comb. Putting on his underlinen, his socks, his boots, his trouserswhich

were held up by elegant bracesand his waistcoat, he sat down coatless in an easy chair to rest after

dressing, lit a cigarette, and began to think where he should go for a walk that morningto the park or to

Lit tleports (what a funny name for a wood!). He thought he would go to Littleports. Then he must answer

Simon Nicholaevich's letter; but there was time enough for that. Getting up with an air of resolution, he took

out his watch. It was already five minutes to nine. He put his watch into his waistcoat pocket, and his purse

with all that was left of the hundred and eighty roubles he had taken for his journey, and for the incidental

expenses of his fortnight's stay with his cousinand then he placed into his trouser pocket his cigarettecase

and electric cigarette lighter, and two clean handkerchiefs into his coat pockets, and went out of the room,

leaving as usual the mess and confusion which he had made to be cleared up by Stephen, an old man of over

fifty. Stephen expected Volgin to "remunerate" him, as he said, being so accustomed to the work that he did

not feel the slightest repugnance for it. Glancing at a mirror, and feeling satisfied with his appearance, Volgin

There, thanks to the efforts of the housekeeper, the footman, and underbutlerthe latter had risen at dawn

in order to run home to sharpen his son's scythebreakfast was ready. On a spot less white cloth stood a

boiling, shiny, silver samovar (at least it looked like silver), a coffee pot, hot milk, cream, butter, and all

sorts of fancy white bread and biscuits. The only persons at table were the second son of the house, his tutor

(a student), and the secretary. The host, who was an active member of the Zemstvo and a great farmer, had

already left the house, having gone at eight o'clock to attend to his work. Volgin, while drinking his coffee,

talked to the student and the secretary about the weather, and yester day's vint, and discussed Theodorite's

peculiar be haviour the night before, as he had been very rude to his father without the slightest cause.

Theodorite was the grownup son of the house, and a ne'erdowell. His name was Theodore, but some one

had once called him Theodorite either as a joke or to tease him; and, as it seemed funny, the name stuck to

him, although his doings were no longer in the least amusing. So it was now. He had been to the university,

but left it in his second year, and joined a regiment of horse guards; but he gave that up also, and was now

living in the country, doing nothing, finding fault, and feeling discontented with everything. Theo dorite

was still in bed: so were the other members of the householdAnna Mikhailovna, its mis tress; her sister,

Volgin took his panama hat from the hall table (it had cost twenty roubles) and his cane with its carved ivory

handle, and went out. Crossing the veranda, gay with flowers, he walked through the flower garden, in the

centre of which was a raised round bed, with rings of red, white, and blue flowers, and the initials of the

mistress of the house done in carpet bedding in the centre. Leaving the flower garden Volgin entered the

avenue of lime trees, hundreds of years old, which peasant girls were tidying and sweeping with spades and

brooms. The gardener was busy measuring, and a boy was bringing something in a cart. Passing these Volgin

went into the park of at least a hundred and twentyfive acres, filled with fine old trees, and intersected by a

network of wellkept walks. Smoking as he strolled Volgin took his favourite path past the summerhouse

into the fields beyond. It was pleasant in the park, but it was still nicer in the fields. On the right some women

who were dig ging potatoes formed a mass of bright red and white colour; on the left were wheat fields,

mead ows, and grazing cattle; and in the foreground, slightly to the right, were the dark, dark oaks of

Littleports. Volgin took a deep breath, and felt glad that he was alive, especially here in his cousin's home,

"Lucky people to live in the country," he thought. "True, what with his farming and his Zemstvo, the owner

of the estate has very little peace even in the country, but that is his own lookout " Volgin shook his head, lit

another cigarette, and, stepping out firmly with his power ful feet clad in his thick English boots, began to

think of the heavy winter's work in the bank that was in front of him. "I shall be there every day from ten to

two, sometimes even till five. And the board meetings . . . And private inter views with clients. . . . Then the

Duma. Whereas here. . . . It is delightful. It may be a little dull, but it is not for long " He smiled. After a stroll

in Littleports he turned back, going straight across a fallow field which was being ploughed. A herd of cows,

calves, sheep, and pigs, which belonged to the village community, was grazing there. The shortest way to the

park was to pass through the herd. He frightened the sheep, which ran away one after another, and were

followed by the pigs, of which two little ones stared solemnly at him. The shepherd boy called to the sheep

and cracked his whip. "How far behind Europe we are," thought Volgin, recalling his frequent holidays

abroad. "You would not find a single cow like that anywhere in Europe " Then, wanting to find out where the

path which branched off from the one he was on led to and who was the owner of the herd, he called to the

The boy was so filled with wonder, verging on terror, when he gazed at the hat, the wellbrushed beard, and

above all the goldrimmed eyeglasses, that he could not reply at once. When Volgin repeated his question the

boy pulled himself to gether, and said, "Ours." "But whose is 'ours'?" said Volgin, shaking his head and

smiling. The boy was wearing shoes of plaited birch bark, bands of linen round his legs, a dirty, unbleached

The boy told him, and Volgin went on to wards the house, thinking how he would chaff Nicholas Petrovich

about the deplorable condi tion of the village schools in spite of all his ef forts.

On approaching the house Volgin looked at his watch, and saw that it was already past eleven. He

remembered that Nicholas Petrovich was going to drive to the nearest town, and that he had meant to give

him a letter to post to Moscow; but the letter was not written. The letter was a very important one to a friend,

asking him to bid for him for a picture of the Madonna which was to be offered for sale at an auction. As he

reached the house he saw at the door four big, wellfed, wellgroomed, thoroughbred horses har nessed to a

carriage, the black lacquer of which glistened in the sun. The coachman was seated on the box in a kaftan,

with a silver belt, and the horses were jingling their silver bells from time to time.

A bareheaded, barefooted peasant in a ragged kaftan stood at the front door. He bowed. Volgin asked what

Volgin began to question him. The peasant told him how he was situated. He had five chil dren, and this had

"To beg " And he knelt down, and remained kneeling in spite of Volgin's expostulations.

Volgin took three roubles from his purse and gave them to the peasant, who showed his grat itude by

touching the ground with his forehead, and then went into the house. His host was standing in the hall.

"I'm awfully sorry, I'll write it this minute, if you will let me. I forgot all about it. It's so pleasant here that one

"All right, but do be quick. The horses have already been standing a quarter of an hour, and the flies are

"Why not?" said the coachman, thinking to himself, "why do they order the horses when they aren't ready?

"Directly, directly," Volgin went towards his room, but turned back to ask Nicholas Petrovich about the

Volgin got out his case, with all the requisites for writing, wrote the letter, made out a cheque for a hundred

and eighty roubles, and, sealing down the envelope, took it to Nicholas Petrovich.

Volgin read the newspapers till luncheon. He only read the Liberal papers: The Russian Gazette, Speech,

sometimes The Russian Word but he would not touch The New Times, to which his host subscribed.

While he was scanning at his ease the political news, the Tsar's doings, the doings of President, and ministers

and decisions in the Duma, and was just about to pass on to the general news, thea tres, science, murders

Thanks to the efforts of upwards of ten human beingscounting laundresses, gardeners, cooks,

kitchenmaids, butlers and footmenthe table was sumptuously laid for eight, with silver water jugs,

decanters, kvass, wine, mineral waters, cut glass, and fine table linen, while two menservants were

continually hurrying to and fro, bringing in and serving, and then clearing away the hors d'oeuvre and the

The hostess talked incessantly about every thing that she had been doing, thinking, and say ing; and she

evidently considered that everything that she thought, said, or did was perfect, and that it would please every

one except those who were fools. Volgin felt and knew that every thing she said was stupid, but it would

never do to let it be seen, and so he kept up the conversa tion. Theodorite was glum and silent; the stu dent

occasionally exchanged a few words with the widow. Now and again there was a pause in the conversation,

and then Theodorite interposed, and every one became miserably depressed. At such moments the hostess

ordered some dish that had not been served, and the footman hurried off to the kitchen, or to the housekeeper,

and hur ried back again. Nobody felt inclined either to talk or to eat. But they all forced themselves to eat

The peasant who had been begging because his horse had died was named Mitri Sudarikov. He had spent the

whole day before he went to the squire over his dead horse. First of all he went to the knacker, Sanin, who

lived in a village near. The knacker was out, but he waited for him, and it was dinnertime when he had

finished bargain ing over the price of the skin. Then he bor rowed a neighbour's horse to take his own to a

field to be buried, as it is forbidden to bury dead animals near a village. Adrian would not lend his horse

because he was getting in his potatoes, but Stephen took pity on Mitri and gave way to his persuasion. He

even lent a hand in lifting the dead horse into the cart. Mitri tore off the shoes from the forelegs and gave

them to his wife. One was broken, but the other one was whole. While he was digging the grave with a spade

which was very blunt, the knacker appeared and took off the skin; and the carcass was then thrown into the

hole and covered up. Mitri felt tired, and went into Matrena's hut, where he drank half a bottle of vodka with

Sanin to con sole himself. Then he went home, quarrelled with his wife, and lay down to sleep on the hay.

He did not undress, but slept just as he was, with a ragged coat for a coverlet. His wife was in the hut with the

girlsthere were four of them, and the youngest was only five weeks old. Mitri woke up before dawn as

usual. He groaned as the memory of the day before broke in upon him how the horse had struggled and

struggled, and then fallen down. Now there was no horse, and all he had was the price of the skin, four

roubles and eighty kopeks. Getting up he ar ranged the linen bands on his legs, and went through the yard

into the hut. His wife was put ting straw into the stove with one hand, with the other she was holding a baby

Mitri crossed himself three times, turning towards the corner in which the ikons hung, and repeated some

utterly meaningless words, which he called prayers, to the Trinity and the Virgin, the Creed and our Father.

"Yes, I'd better " The smoke from the stove made him cough. He took a rag off the wooden bench and went

into the porch. The girl had just come back with the water. Mitri filled his mouth with water from the pail and

squirted it out on his hands, took some more in his mouth to wash his face, dried himself with the rag, then

parted and smoothed his curly hair with his fin gers and went out. A little girl of about ten, with nothing on

but a dirty shirt, came towards him. "Goodmorning, Uncle Mitri," she said; "you are to come and thrash."

"All right, I'll come," replied Mitri. He understood that he was expected to return the help given the week

before by Kumushkir, a man as poor as he was himself, when he was thrashing his own corn with a

"Tell them I'll comeI'll come at lunch time. I've got to go to Ugrumi " Mitri went back to the hut, and

changing his birchbark shoes and the linen bands on his legs, started off to see the squire. After he had got

three roubles from Volgin, and the same sum from Nicholas Petro vich, he returned to his house, gave the

money to his wife, and went to his neighbour's. The thrash ing machine was humming, and the driver was

shouting. The lean horses were going slowly round him, straining at their traces. The driver was shouting to

them in a monotone, "Now, there, my dears " Some women were unbinding sheaves, others were raking up

the scattered straw and ears, and others again were gathering great armfuls of corn and handing them to the

men to feed the machine. The work was in full swing. In the kitchen garden, which Mitri had to pass, a girl,

"Where's your grandfather?" asked Mitri. "He's in the barn " Mitri went to the barn and set to work at once.

The old man of eighty knew of Mitri's trouble. After greeting him, he gave him his place to feed the machine.

Mitri took off his ragged coat, laid it out of the way near the fence, and then began to work vig orously,

raking the corn together and throwing it into the machine. The work went on without interruption until the

dinnerhour. The cocks had crowed two or three times, but no one paid any attention to them; not because

the workers did not believe them, but because they were scarcely heard for the noise of the work and the talk

about it. At last the whistle of the squire's steam thrasher sounded three miles away, and then the owner came

into the barn. He was a straight old man of eighty. "It's time to stop," he said; "it's dinnertime " Those at

work seemed to redouble their efforts. In a moment the straw was cleared away; the grain that had been

thrashed was separated from the chaff and brought in, and then the workers went into the hut.

The hut was smokebegrimed, as its stove had no chimney, but it had been tidied up, and benches stood

round the table, making room for all those who had been working, of whom there were nine, not counting the

An old onearmed beggar, with a bag slung over his shoulder, came in with a crutch during the meal.

"Peace be to this house. A good appetite to you. For Christ's sake give me something."

"God will give it to you," said the mistress, already an old woman, and the daughterinlaw of the master.

"Don't be angry with us " An old man, who was still standing near the door, said, "Give him some bread,

"I am only wondering whether we shall have enough." "Oh, it is wrong, Martha. God tells us to help the poor.

Martha obeyed. The beggar went away. The man in charge of the thrashingmachine got up, said grace,

Mitri did not lie down, but ran to the shop to buy some tobacco. He was longing for a smoke. While he

smoked he chatted to a man from Demensk, asking the price of cattle, as he saw that he would not be able to

manage without sell ing a cow. When he returned to the others, they were already back at work again; and

Among these downtrodden, duped, and de frauded men, who are becoming demoralised by overwork, and

being gradually done to death by underfeeding, there are men living who consider themselves Christians; and

others so enlightened that they feel no further need for Christianity or for any religion, so superior do they

appear in their own esteem. And yet their hideous, lazy lives are supported by the degrading, excessive labour

of these slaves, not to mention the labour of millions of other slaves, toiling in factories to produce samovars,

silver, carriages, machines, and the like for their use. They live among these horrors, seeing them and yet not

seeing them, although often kind at heartold men and women, young men and maidens, mothers and

Here is a bachelor grown old, the owner of thousands of acres, who has lived a life of idle ness, greed, and

overindulgence, who reads The New Times, and is astonished that the govern ment can be so unwise as to

permit Jews to enter the university. There is his guest, formerly the governor of a province, now a senator

with a big salary, who reads with satisfaction that a congress of lawyers has passed a resolution in favor of

capital punishment. Their political enemy, N. P., reads a liberal paper, and cannot understand the blindness of

Here is a kind, gentle mother of a little girl reading a story to her about Fox, a dog that lamed some rabbits.

And here is this little girl. During her walks she sees other children, bare footed, hungry, hunting for green

apples that have fallen from the trees; and, so accustomed is she to the sight, that these children do not seem

to her to be children such as she is, but only part of the usual surroundingsthe familiar landscape.

THE young Tsar had just ascended the throne. For five weeks he had worked without ceasing, in the way that

Tsars are accustomed to work. He had been attending to reports, signing papers, re ceiving ambassadors and

high officials who came to be presented to him, and reviewing troops. He was tired, and as a traveller

exhausted by heat and thirst longs for a draught of water and for rest, so he longed for a respite of just one

day at least from receptions, from speeches, from paradesa few free hours to spend like an ordi nary

human being with his young, clever, and beautiful wife, to whom he had been married only a month before.

It was Christmas Eve. The young Tsar had arranged to have a complete rest that evening. The night before he

had worked till very late at documents which his ministers of state had left for him to examine. In the

morning he was present at the Te Deum, and then at a military service. In the afternoon he received official

visitors; and later he had been obliged to listen to the reports of three ministers of state, and had given his

assent to many important matters. In his conference with the Minister of Finance he had agreed to an increase

of duties on imported goods, which should in the future add many mil lions to the State revenues. Then he

sanctioned the sale of brandy by the Crown in various parts of the country, and signed a decree permitting the

sale of alcohol in villages having markets. This was also calculated to increase the principal revenue to the

State, which was derived from the sale of spirits. He had also approved of the issuing of a new gold loan

required for a financial negotiation. The Minister of justice having re ported on the complicated case of the

succession of the Baron Snyders, the young Tsar confirmed the decision by his signature; and also approved

the new rules relating to the application of Arti cle 1830 of the penal code, providing for the pun ishment

of tramps. In his conference with the Minister of the Interior he ratified the order con cerning the collection

of taxes in arrears, signed the order settling what measures should be taken in regard to the persecution of

religious dissenters, and also one providing for the continuance of martial law in those provinces where it had

al ready been established. With the Minister of War he arranged for the nomination of a new Corps

Commander for the raising of recruits, and for punishment of breach of discipline. These things kept him

occupied till dinnertime, and even then his freedom was not complete. A number of high officials had been

invited to dinner, and he was obliged to talk to them: not in the way he felt disposed to do, but according to

what he was expected to say. At last the tiresome dinner was over, and the guests departed.

The young Tsar heaved a sigh of relief, stretched himself and retired to his apartments to take off his uniform

with the decorations on it, and to don the jacket he used to wear before his accession to the throne. His young

wife had also retired to take off her dinnerdress, remarking that she would join him presently.

When he had passed the row of footmen who were standing erect before him, and reached his room; when he

had thrown off his heavy uniform and put on his jacket, the young Tsar felt glad to be free from work; and his

heart was filled with a tender emotion which sprang from the conscious ness of his freedom, of his joyous,

robust young life, and of his love. He threw himself on the sofa, stretched out his legs upon it, leaned his head

on his hand, fixed his gaze on the dull glass shade of the lamp, and then a sensation which he had not

experienced since his childhood,the pleasure of going to sleep, and a drowsiness that was irresist

"My wife will be here presently and will find me asleep. No, I must not go to sleep," he thought. He let his

elbow drop down, laid his cheek in the palm of his hand, made himself com fortable, and was so utterly

And then what happens to all of us every day happened to himhe fell asleep without know ing himself

when or how. He passed from one state into another without his will having any share in it, without even

desiring it, and without regretting the state out of which he had passed. He fell into a heavy sleep which was

like death. How long he had slept he did not know, but he was suddenly aroused by the soft touch of a hand

But it was not she. Before his eyes, which were wide open and blinking at the light, she, that charming and

beautiful creature whom he was expecting, did not stand, but HE stood. Who HE was the young Tsar did not

know, but somehow it did not strike him that he was a stranger whom he had never seen before. It seemed as

if he had known him for a long time and was fond of him, and as if he trusted him as he would trust himself.

He had expected his beloved wife, but in her stead that man whom he had never seen before had come. Yet to

the young Tsar, who was far from feeling regret or astonishment, it seemed not only a most natural, but also a

"Yes, let us go," said the young Tsar, not knowing where he was to go, but quite aware that he could not help

The stranger laid his hand on the Tsar's head, and the Tsar for a moment lost consciousness. He could not tell

whether he had been uncon scious a long or a short time, but when he re covered his senses he found

himself in a strange place. The first thing he was aware of was a strong and stifling smell of sewage. The

place in which he stood was a broad passage lit by the red glow of two dim lamps. Running along one side of

the passage was a thick wall with windows protected by iron gratings. On the other side were doors secured

with locks. In the passage stood a soldier, leaning up against the wall, asleep. Through the doors the young

Tsar heard the muffled sound of living human beings: not of one alone, but of many. HE was standing at the

side of the young Tsar, and pressing his shoulder slightly with his soft hand, pushed him to the first door,

unmindful of the sentry. The young Tsar felt he could not do otherwise than yield, and approached the door.

To his amazement the sentry looked straight at him, evidently with out seeing him, as he neither

straightened himself up nor saluted, but yawned loudly and, lifting his hand, scratched the back of his neck.

The door had a small hole, and in obedience to the pressure of the hand that pushed him, the young Tsar

approached a step nearer and put his eye to the small opening. Close to the door, the foul smell that stifled

him was stronger, and the young Tsar hesitated to go nearer, but the hand pushed him on. He leaned forward,

put his eye close to the opening, and suddenly ceased to perceive the odour. The sight he saw deadened his

sense of smell. In a large room, about ten yards long and six yards wide, there walked unceasingly from one

end to the other, six men in long grey coats, some in felt boots, some barefoot. There were over twenty men

in all in the room, but in that first moment the young Tsar only saw those who were walking with quick,

even, silent steps. It was a horrid sight to watch the con tinual, quick, aimless movements of the men who

passed and overtook each other, turning sharply when they reached the wall, never looking at one another,

and evidently concentrated each on his own thoughts. The young Tsar had observed a similar sight one day

when he was watching a tiger in a menagerie pacing rapidly with noiseless tread from one end of his cage to

the other, waving its tail, silently turning when it reached the bars, and looking at nobody. Of these men one,

appar ently a young peasant, with curly hair, would have been handsome were it not for the unnatural pallor

of his face, and the concentrated, wicked, scarcely human, look in his eyes. Another was a Jew, hairy and

gloomy. The third was a lean old man, bald, with a beard that had been shaven and had since grown like

bristles. The fourth was extraordinarily heavily built, with welldeveloped muscles, a low receding forehead

and a flat nose. The fifth was hardly more than a boy, long, thin, obviously consumptive. The sixth was small

and dark, with nervous, convulsive move ments. He walked as if he were skipping, and muttered

continuously to himself. They were all walking rapidly backwards and forwards past the hole through which

the young Tsar was look ing. He watched their faces and their gait with keen interest. Having examined

them closely, he presently became aware of a number of other men at the back of the room, standing round,

or lying on the shelf that served as a bed. Standing close to the door he also saw the pail which caused such

an unbearable stench. On the shelf about ten men, entirely covered with their cloaks, were sleeping. A

redhaired man with a huge beard was sitting sideways on the shelf, with his shirt off. He was examining it,

lifting it up to the light, and evidently catching the vermin on it. Another man, aged and white as snow, stood

with his profile turned towards the door. He was praying, crossing himself, and bowing low, ap parently so

"I seethis is a prison," thought the young Tsar. "They certainly deserve pity. It is a dreadful life. But it

But this thought had hardly come into his head before HE, who was his guide, replied to it.

"They are all here under lock and key by your order. They have all been sentenced in your name. But far

from meriting their present con dition which is due to your human judgment, the greater part of them are far

better than you or those who were their judges and who keep them here. This one"he pointed to the

handsome, curlyheaded fellow"is a murderer. I do not consider him more guilty than those who kill in

war or in duelling, and are rewarded for their deeds. He had neither education nor moral guidance, and his

life had been cast among thieves and drunkards. This lessens his guilt, but he has done wrong, nevertheless,

in being a murderer. He killed a merchant, to rob him. The other man, the Jew, is a thief, one of a gang of

thieves. That uncommonly strong fellow is a horsestealer, and guilty also, but compared with others not as

culpable. Look!"and suddenly the young Tsar found himself in an open field on a vast frontier. On the

right were potato fields; the plants had been rooted out, and were lying in heaps, blackened by the frost; in

alternate streaks were rows of winter corn. In the distance a little village with its tiled roofs was visible; on

the left were fields of winter corn, and fields of stubble. No one was to be seen on any side, save a black

human figure in front at the borderline, a gun slung on his back, and at his feet a dog. On the spot where the

young Tsar stood, sitting beside him, almost at his feet, was a young Russian soldier with a green band on his

cap, and with his rifle slung over his shoulders, who was rolling up a paper to make a cigarette. The soldier

was obviously unaware of the presence of the young Tsar and his companion, and had not heard them. He did

now turn round when the Tsar, who was standing directly over the soldier, asked, "Where are we?" "On the

Prussian frontier," his guide answered. Suddenly, far away in front of them, a shot was fired. The soldier

jumped to his feet, and seeing two men running, bent low to the ground, hastily put his tobacco into his

pocket, and ran after one of them. "Stop, or I'll shoot!" cried the soldier. The fugitive, without stopping,

"Damn you!" shouted the soldier, who put one foot a little forward and stopped, after which, bending his head

over his rifle, and raising his right hand, he rapidly adjusted something, took aim, and, pointing the gun in the

direction of the fugitive, probably fired, although no sound was heard. "Smokeless powder, no doubt,"

thought the young Tsar, and looking after the fleeing man saw him take a few hurried steps, and bending

lower and lower, fall to the ground and crawl on his hands and knees. At last he remained lying and did not

move. The other fugitive, who was ahead of him, turned round and ran back to the man who was lying on the

"These are the guards on the frontier, enforc ing the revenue laws. That man was killed to protect the

The guide again laid his hand upon the head of the young Tsar, and again the Tsar lost conscious ness.

When he had recovered his senses he found himself in a small roomthe customs office. The dead body of a

man, with a thin grizzled beard, an aquiline nose, and big eyes with the eyelids closed, was lying on the floor.

His arms were thrown asunder, his feet bare, and his thick, dirty toes were turned up at right angles and stuck

out straight. He had a wound in his side, and on his ragged cloth jacket, as well as on his blue shirt, were

stains of clotted blood, which had turned black save for a few red spots here and there. A woman stood close

to the wall, so wrapped up in shawls that her face could scarcely be seen. Motionless she gazed at the aquiline

nose, the upturned feet, and the protruding eye balls; sobbing and sighing, and drying her tears at long,

regular intervals. A pretty girl of thirteen was standing at her mother's side, with her eyes and mouth wide

open. A boy of eight clung to his mother's skirt, and looked intensely at his dead father without blinking.

From a door near them an official, an officer, a doctor, and a clerk with documents, entered. After them came

a soldier, the one who had shot the man. He stepped briskly along behind his superiors, but the instant he saw

the corpse he went suddenly pale, and quivered; and dropping his head stood still. When the official asked

him whether that was the man who was escaping across the frontier, and at whom he had fired, he was unable

to answer. His lips trembled, and his face twitched. "The sss" he began, but could not get out the

words which he wanted to say. "The same, your excellency." The of ficials looked at each other and wrote

In a room of sumptuous vulgarity two men sat drinking wine. One of them was old and grey, the other a

young Jew. The young Jew was holding a roll of banknotes in his hand, and was bargaining with the old

"This is indeed terrible," said the young Tsar; but it cannot be avoided. Such proceedings are necessary."

His companion made no response, saying merely, "Let us move on," and laid his hand again on the head of

the Tsar. When the Tsar recovered consciousness, he was standing in a small room lit by a shaded lamp. A

woman was sitting at the table sewing. A boy of eight was bending over the table, drawing, with his feet

doubled up under him in the armchair. A stu dent was reading aloud. The father and daugh ter of the

"You signed the order concerning the sale of spirits," said the guide to the Tsar.

"I tried everything that could be done. I gave him an emetic and put a mustardplaster on him. He has every

"It's no wonderthe whole family are drunk ards. Annisia is only a little better than the rest, and even she

"What can we do when they are given every opportunity of drinking? Father tried to have the publichouse

shut up, but the law is against him. And, besides, when I was trying to convince Vasily Ermiline that it was

disgraceful to keep a publichouse and ruin the people with drink, he answered very haughtily, and indeed

got the better of me before the crowd: 'But I have a license with the Imperial eagle on it. If there was anything

wrong in my business, the Tsar wouldn't have issued a decree authorising it.' Isn't it terrible? The whole

village has been drunk for the last three days. And as for feast days, it is simply horrible to think of! It has

been proved conclusively that alcohol does no good in any case, but invariably does harm, and it has been

demonstrated to be an absolute poison. Then, ninetynine per cent. of the crimes in the world are committed

through its influence. We all know how the standard of morality and the general welfare improved at once in

all the coun tries where drinking has been suppressedlike Sweden and Finland, and we know that it can

be suppressed by exercising a moral influence over the masses. But in our country the class which could exert

that influencethe Government, the Tsar and his officialssimply encourage drink. Their main revenues

are drawn from the continual drunkenness of the people. They drink them selvesthey are always drinking

the health of somebody: 'Gentlemen, the Regiment!' The preachers drink, the bishops drink"

Again the guide touched the head of the young Tsar, who again lost consciousness. This time he found

himself in a peasant's cottage. The peas anta man of forty, with red face and blood shot eyeswas

furiously striking the face of an old man, who tried in vain to protect himself from the blows. The younger

The women were screaming. Drunken officials rushed into the cottage and separated father and son. The

father had an arm broken and the son's beard was torn out. In the doorway a drunken girl was making violent

Another touch of his guide's hand and the young Tsar awoke in a new place. It was the office of the justice of

the peace. A fat, bald headed man, with a double chin and a chain round his neck, had just risen from his

seat, and was reading the sentence in a loud voice, while a crowd of peasants stood behind the grating. There

"According to the decree of his Imperial Majesty" the judge began reading the sen tence. The case

concerned that very woman. She had taken away half a bundle of oats as she was passing the thrashingfloor

of a landowner. The justice of the peace sentenced her to two months' imprisonment. The landowner whose

oats had been stolen was among the audi ence. When the judge adjourned the court the landowner

approached, and shook hands, and the judge entered into conversation with him. The next case was about a

stolen samovar. Then there was a trial about some timber which had been cut, to the detriment of the

landowner. Some peasants were being tried for having as saulted the constable of the district.

When the young Tsar again lost consciousness, he awoke to find himself in the middle of a vil lage, where

he saw hungry, halffrozen children and the wife of the man who had assaulted the constable broken down

Then came a new scene. In Siberia, a tramp is being flogged with the lash, the direct result of an order issued

by the Minister of justice. Again oblivion, and another scene. The family of a Jewish watchmaker is evicted

for being too poor. The children are crying, and the Jew, Isaaks, is greatly distressed. At last they come to an

The chief of police takes a bribe. The gov ernor of the province also secretly accepts a bribe. Taxes are

being collected. In the village, while a cow is sold for payment, the police inspector is bribed by a factory

owner, who thus escapes taxes altogether. And again a village court scene, and a sentence carried into

The peasant burst into tears. "Well, of course, Christ suffered, and He bids us suffer too."

Then other scenes. The Stundistsa sect being broken up and dispersed; the clergy re fusing first to

marry, then to bury a Protestant. Orders given concerning the passage of the Im perial railway train. Soldiers

kept sitting in the mudcold, hungry, and cursing. Decrees is sued relating to the educational institutions

of the Empress Mary Department. Corruption ram pant in the foundling homes. An undeserved monument.

Thieving among the clergy. The reinforcement of the political police. A woman being searched. A prison for

convicts who are sentenced to be deported. A man being hanged for murdering a shop assistant.

Then the result of military discipline: soldiers wearing uniform and scoffing at it. A gipsy en campment.

The son of a millionaire exempted from military duty, while the only support of a large family is forced to

serve. The university: a teacher relieved of military service, while the most gifted musicians are compelled to

Then a soldier who has made an attempt to desert. He is being tried. Another is on trial for striking an officer

who has insulted his mother. He is put to death. Others, again, are tried for having refused to shoot. The

runaway soldier sent to a disciplinary battalion and flogged to death. Another, who is guiltless, flogged, and

his wounds sprinkled with salt till he dies. One of the superior officers stealing money belonging to the

soldiers. Nothing but drunkenness, de bauchery, gambling, and arrogance on the part of the authorities.

What is the general condition of the people: the children are halfstarving and degenerate; the houses are full

of vermin; an everlasting dull round of labour, of submission, and of sadness. On the other hand: ministers,

governors of prov inces, covetous, ambitious, full of vanity, and anxious to inspire fear.

Here is the cell of a woman in solitary confine ment at Schlusselburg. She is going mad. Here is another

womana girlindisposed, violated by soldiers. A man in exile, alone, embittered, halfdead. A prison for

Tens of thousands of the best people. Some shut up in prisons, others ruined by false educa tion, by the vain

desire to bring them up as we wish. But not succeeding in this, whatever might have been is ruined as well,

for it is made impos sible. It is as if we were trying to make buck wheat out of corn sprouts by splitting the

ears. One may spoil the corn, but one could never change it to buckwheat. Thus all the youth of the world, the

But woe to those who destroy one of these little ones, woe to you if you destroy even one of them. On your

soul, however, are hosts of them, who have been ruined in your name, all of those over whom your power

"But what can I do?" exclaimed the Tsar in despair. "I do not wish to torture, to flog, to corrupt, to kill any

one! I only want the welfare of all. Just as I yearn for happiness myself, so I want the world to be happy as

well. Am I actu ally responsible for everything that is done in my name? What can I do? What am I to do to

rid myself of such a responsibility? What can I do? I do not admit that the responsibility for all this is mine. If

I felt myself responsible for one hundredth part of it, I would shoot myself on the spot. It would not be

possible to live if that were true. But how can I put an end, to all this evil? It is bound up with the very

existence of the State. I am the head of the State! What am I to do? Kill myself? Or abdicate? But that would

mean renouncing my duty. O God, O God, God, help me!" He burst into tears and awoke.

"How glad I am that it was only a dream," was his first thought. But when he began to recollect what he had

seen in his dream, and to compare it with actuality, he realised that the problem propounded to him in dream

remained just as important and as insoluble now that he was awake. For the first time the young Tsar became

aware of the heavy responsibility weighing on him, and was aghast. His thoughts no longer turned to the

young Queen and to the happiness he had anticipated for that evening, but became centred on the

In a state of great agitation he arose and went into the next room. An old courtier, a coworker and friend of

his father's, was standing there in the middle of the room in conversation with the young Queen, who was on

her way to join her husband. The young Tsar approached them, and addressing his conversation principally to

the old courtier, told him what he had seen in his dream and what doubts the dream had left in his mind.

"That is a noble idea. It proves the rare nobility of your spirit," said the old man. "But forgive me for

speaking franklyyou are too kind to be an emperor, and you exaggerate your responsibility. In the first

place, the state of things is not as you imagine it to be. The people are not poor. They are welltodo. Those

who are poor are poor through their own fault. Only the guilty are punished, and if an unavoidable mistake

does sometimes occur, it is like a thunder boltan accident, or the will of God. You have but one

responsibility: to fulfil your task coura geously and to retain the power that is given to you. You wish the

best for your people and God sees that. As for the errors which you have com mitted unwittingly, you can

pray for forgiveness, and God will guide you and pardon you. All the more because you have done nothing

that demands forgiveness, and there never have been and never will be men possessed of such extraordinary

qual ities as you and your father. Therefore all we implore you to do is to live, and to reward our endless

devotion and love with your favour, and every one, save scoundrels who deserve no happi ness, will be

"I have a different opinion," said the clever young woman, who had been brought up in a free country. "I am

glad you had that dream, and I agree with you that there are grave responsibili ties resting upon you. I have

often thought about it with great anxiety, and I think there is a simple means of casting off a part of the

responsibility you are unable to bear, if not all of it. A large proportion of the power which is too heavy for

you, you should delegate to the people, to its representatives, reserving for yourself only the supreme control,

The Queen had hardly ceased to expound her views, when the old courtier began eagerly to refute her

For a time the young Tsar followed their argu ments, but presently he ceased to be aware of what they said,

listening only to the voice of him who had been his guide in the dream, and who was now speaking audibly in

"You are not only the Tsar," said the voice, "but more. You are a human being, who only yesterday came into

this world, and will perchance tomorrow depart out of it. Apart from your duties as a Tsar, of which that old

man is now speaking, you have more immediate duties not by any means to be disregarded; human duties,

not the duties of a Tsar towards his subjects, which are only accidental, but an eternal duty, the duty of a man

in his relation to God, the duty toward your own soul, which is to save it, and also, to serve God in

establishing his kingdom on earth. You are not to be guarded in your actions either by what has been or what

He opened his eyeshis wife was awakening him. Which of the three courses the young Tsar chose, will be