The complete works of Count Tolstoy. Vol 22.

Translated from the Original Russian and edited by Leo Wiener

Assittant Professor of Slavic Languages at Harvard University

BOSTON £ DANA ESTES & COMPANY £ PUBLISHERS

CONTENTS

Resurrection;

What Is Art?;

The Christian Teaching;

Help!;

Letter to the Chief of the IrkIjtsk Disciplinary Battalion;

How to Read the Gospel, and What Is Its Essence;

The Approach of the End;

Famine or No Famine?;

On the Relation to the State;

RESURRECTION

1899

Part III.

PART THE THIRD

The party to which Maslova belonged travelled about five thousand versts. As far as Perm, Màslova travelled by rail and water with the criminals ; but here Nekhlyudov succeeded in getting her transferred among the politicals, as Vyéra Bogodukhovski, who was of the party, had advised him to do.

The journey to Perm was very hard for Mdslova, both physically and morally. Physically, on account of the close quarters, the uncleanliness, and the disgusting vermin, which did not give her any rest ; and morally, on account of the not less disgusting men who, just like the vermin, though they changed at every stopping-place, were always equally persistent and annoying, and gave her no rest. Between the prisoners, the warders, and the guards the habit of a cynical debauch was so firmly established that every woman, especially if she was young, had to be eternally on the lookout, if she did not wish to make use of her position as a woman. This continuous condition of fear and struggle was very hard to bear. Mdslova was more especially subject to these attacks on account of the attractiveness of her looks and her well-known past. The positive opposition to the men who annoyed her with their attentions presented itself to them as a personal affront, and provoked, in addition, their malice toward her. Her position in this respect was alleviated by her nearness to Feddsya and Taras, who, having heard of the attacks to which his wife was subjected, had himself arrested, in order to protect her, and travelled from Nizhni-Novgorod as a prisoner with the convicts.

The transfer to the division of the politicals improved Maslova’s condition in every respect. Not only were the politicals better housed and fed, and subject to less brutality, but also by Maslova’s transfer to the politicals her condition was further improved because all the persecutions of the men at once stopped, and she was able to live without being reminded every moment of her past, which she was trying to forget. The chief advantage of this transfer, however, lay in the fact that she became acquainted with certain people who had a most decided and beneficent influence upon her.

At the halting-places, Maslova was permitted to be housed with the politicals, but, being a strong woman, she had to travel with the criminals. Thus she journeyed all the way from Tomsk. With her went, also on foot, two politicals: Mârya Pavlovna Shchetinin, that pretty girl with the sheep eyes, who had so impressed Nekhlyudov during his interview with Vyéra Bogodukhovsld, and a certain Simonson, who was being deported to the Yakutsk Territory, — that swarthy, shaggy man with far retreating eyes, whom Nekhlyudov had noticed during the same interview. Marya Pavlovna went on foot, because she had given up her place on the cart to a pregnant criminal; Simonson did so because he regarded it unjust to make use of his class privilege. All the other politicals left later in the day on carts, but these three started early in the morning with the criminals. Thus it was also at the last halting-place, before a large city, where a new officer of the guard took charge of the prisoners.

It was an early stormy September morning. There was now snow and now rain, with gusts of a chill wind. All the prisoners of the party — four hundred men and about fifty women — were already in the yard of the halting-place; some of them were crowding around the commissary of the guard, who was distributing provision money among the foremen for two days; others were purchasing victuals from the hawking women, who had been admitted in the courtyard of the halting-place. There was heard the din of the prisoners’ voices, of counting money and buying provisions, and the squeaky voices of the hucksters.

Katyusha and Mdrya Pavlovna — both in long boots and short fur coats, and wrapped in kerchiefs — came out from the building of the stopping-place and walked toward the hucksters, who, sitting at the north wall of the palisade, to protect themselves against the wind, were vying with each other in offering their wares : fresh white cakes, fish, noodle, grits, liver, beef, eggs, milk ; one of them had even a roast pig.

Simonsdn, in a rubber jacket and overshoes, tied over his woollen stockings by means of twine (he was a vegetarian and did not use the skin of dead animals), was also in the yard, waiting for the party to start. He was standing near the porch and noting down in his diary a thought which had occurred to him. His thought was like this : “ If a bacteria were to observe and investigate a man’s nail, it would come to the conclusion that it was inorganic matter. Similarly we, who have observed the rind of the earth, have declared the terrestrial globe to be inorganic matter. This is not correct.”

Having purchased some eggs, pretzels, fish, and fresh wheat bread, Maslova put all these things into her bag, and Mârya Pâvlovna was settling her bill with the buck-sters, when the prisoners suddenly came into motion. Everything grew silent, and the prisoners began to range themselves. The officer came out and made his last arrangements before the start.

Everything went as usual : the prisoners were counted ; the fetters were examined ; and the pairs that walked together were being handcuffed. But suddenly were heard the imperious and angry voice of the officer, blows on a body, and the cries of a child. Everything grew silent for a moment, and then a dull murmur ran through the throng. Maslova and Marya Pavlovna moved up to the place whence the noise proceeded.

II.

Upon reaching the spot, Marya Pavlovna and Katyusha saw this: the officer, a stout man with a long, blond moustache, was frowning and with his left hand rubbing the palm of his right, which he had hurt in boxing a prisoner’s ears. He did not stop uttering coarse, indecent curses. In front of him stood a lean, haggard prisoner, in a short cloak and still shorter trousers, one-half of whose head was shaven. With one hand he was rubbing his mauled and bleeding face, while with the other he held a little girl who was wrapped in a kerchief and whined piercingly.

” I will teach you ” (an indecent curse) ” to talk ! ” (Again a curse.) ” Give her to the women ! ” cried the officer. ” Put them on ! “

The officer demanded that the communal prisoner be handcuffed. He was being deported, and had all the way been carrying a little girl left him by his wife, who had died at Tomsk of the typhus, as the prisoners said. The prisoner’s remark that he could not carry his girl while handcuffed had excited the officer, who was out of sorts, whereupon he dealt blows to a prisoner, who did not submit at once.1

In front of the beaten prisoner stood a soldier of the guard and a thick-set, black-bearded prisoner with a handcuff on one hand, gloomily looking up, now at the officer, and now at the beaten prisoner and the girl. The officer repeated his command to the soldier to take

*Thi8 fact is described in D. A. Lfnev’s work, By Etape.— Author’s Note.

away the girl. Among the prisoners the murmuring became ever more audible.

“ He had no handcuffs on him all the way from Tomsk,” was heard a hoarse voice in the back ranks. ” It is not a pup, but a child.”

” What is he to do with the child ? This is against the law,” said somebody else.

“ Who has said that ? ” the officer shouted, as though stung, rushing at the prisoners. ” I will show you the law. “Who said it ? You ? You ? ”

“ All say it, because — ” said a broad-shouldered, stocky man.

He did not finish his sentence. The officer began to strike his face with both his hands.

” You mean to riot ? I will teach you how to riot ! I will shoot you down like dogs, and the authorities will only thank me for it. Take the girl ! “

The throng grew silent. A soldier tore away the desperately crying girl ; another began to manacle the prisoner who submissively offered his hand.

” Take her to the women,” the officer cried to the soldier, adjusting the sword-hanger.

The little girl tried to free her hands from the kerchief and, with flushed face, whined without intermission. Màrya Pdvlovna stepped out from the crowd and walked over to the soldier.

” Mr. Officer, permit me to carry the girl ! “

” Who are you ? ” asked the officer.

“lama political.”

Apparently, Marya Pavlovna’s pretty face, with her beautiful bulging eyes (he had noticed her before, when receiving the prisoners), had an effect upon the officer. He looked in silence at her, as though considering something.

« It makes no difference to me. Carry her, if you want to. It is easy enough for you to pity him ; but who will be responsible, if he runs away ? “

” How can he run away with the girl ? ” said Màrya Pdvlovna.

” I have no time to discuss with you. Take her, if you want to.”

“ May I give the child to her ? ” asked the soldier.

“ Yes.”

” Come to me,” said Marya Pavlovna, trying to win the girl over.

But the girl, who, in the soldier’s arms, stretched her hands toward her father, continued to whine and did not want to go to Marya Pdvlovna.

” Wait, Marya Pdvlovna ! She will come to me,” said Mdslova, taking a pretzel out of her bag.

The girl knew Maslova, and, seeing her face and the pretzel, readily went to her.

Everything grew quiet. The gate was opened and the party walked out and drew up in rows; the soldiers counted them once more ; the bags were tied up and put away, and the feeble were put on the carts. Mdslova, with the girl in her arms, stood with the women, at Feddsya’s side. Simonson, who had all the time watched the proceeding, with large determined steps went up to the officer, who had made all the arrangements and was seating himself in his tarantds.

” You have acted badly, Mr. Officer,” said Simonsdn.

” Go back to your place ! It is none of your business ! ”

” It is my business to tell you that you have done wrong,” said Simonsdn, fixedly looking upwards at the officer, through his thick eyebrows.

” Ready ? The party — march ! ” cried the officer, paying no attention to Simonsdn, and helping himself into the tarantds by taking hold of the shoulder of the soldier coachman. The party started, and, spreading out, walked into the muddy, rutted road, which was ditched on both sides and ran through a dense forest.

III.

After the debauched, luxurious, and effeminate life of the last six years in the city, and after the two months in the prison with the criminals, the life with the politicals, notwithstanding all the difficult conditions under which they were living, seemed very pleasant to Katyusha. Marches of from twenty to thirty versts a day, with good food, and a day’s rest after every two days on the road, physically braced her; while her daily intercourse with her new companions opened up new interests of life to her, such as she had never known before Such charming people, as she expressed herself, as those were with whom she was now marching, she had never known, and could not even have imagined.

” How I wept at being sentenced ! ” she said. “ But I ought to thank God : I have learned things I should not have known in a lifetime.” She very easily and without effort understood the motives which guided these people, and, belonging herself to the lower masses, she fully sympathized with them. She comprehended that these people were with the masses against the masters ; and what particularly made her esteem them and admire them was the fact that they themselves belonged to the better classes and yet sacrificed their privileges, their liberty, and their lives for the people.

She was delighted with all her new companions ; but more than all she admired Marya Pavlovna. She not only admired her, but loved her with a special, respectful, and rapturous love. She was surprised to see this beautiful girl, the daughter of a rich general, who could speak three languages, conducting herself like the simplest working woman, giving away everything which her rich brother sent her, and dressing herself not only simply, but even poorly, paying not the least attention to her looks. This trait — the complete absence of coquetry — particularly impressed and enchanted Màslova. Maslova saw that Marya Pavlovna knew, and that it even was pleasant for her to know, that she was beautiful, and yet that she did not in the least enjoy the impression which her looks produced on men, but that she was afraid of it and experienced loathing and terror of falling in love. Her male companions, knowing this, did not permit themselves to show any preference for her, if they felt themselves attracted to her, and treated her as an equal ; but strangers frequently annoyed her, and from these, she said, she was saved by her great physical strength, of which she was especially proud.

” Once,” she laughingly told Katyusha, ” a certain gentleman annoyed me in the street, and would not go away. I then gave him such a shaking that he was frightened and ran away.”

She became a revolutionist, she said, because ever since her childhood she had taken a dislike to the life the masters led and liked that of the simple people, being always scolded for preferring the maids’ rooms, the kitchen, the stable, to the drawing-room.

” I always felt happy with the cooks and coachmen, but dull with our gentlemen and ladies,” she said. ” Later, when I began to comprehend things, I saw that our life was very bad. I had no mother, my father I did not love, and when I was nineteen years old I went away from home with a friend of mine and became a factory girl”

After working in the factory she lived in the country ; then she came to the city and lived in lodgings where there was a secret printing office, and there she was arrested and sentenced to hard labour. Màrya Pàvlovna never told this herself, but Katyusha found out from others that she was sentenced to hard labour for claiming to have fired a shot, which had, in reality, been fired by a revolutionist in the dark.

Ever since Katyusha knew her, she saw that wherever she was, and under whatsoever circumstances, she never thought of herself, but was concerned about serving and aiding others, in large and in small things. One of her companions of the party, Novodvorov by name, jestingly remarked of her that she was addicted to the sport of beneficence. And that was the truth. Just as the hunter is bent on finding game, so all the interests of her life consisted in finding an occasion to do some one a good turn. This sport became a habit with her and the business of her life. She did all this so naturally that those who knew her no longer valued it, but demanded it as a matter of course.

When Màslova joined them, Màrya Pàvlovna experienced a disgust and loathing for her. Katyusha noticed it ; but she also saw later that Marya Pavlovna made an effort over herself and began to treat her with exceeding kindness. The kindness from so unusual a being so touched Màslova that she surrendered herself to her with all her soul, unconsciously adopting Màrya Pàvlovna’s views, and involuntarily imitating her in everything.

This devotion of Katyusha touched Màrya Pàvlovna, and she, in her turn, began to love Katyusha. These two women were also drawn to each other by that loathing which both experienced for sexual love. One of them despised this love because she had experienced all its horrors ; the other, who had not experienced it, — because she looked upon it as something incomprehensible and at the same time disgusting and insulting to human dignity.

IV.

Katyusha submitted to the influence which Màrya Pàvlovna exerted over her. It was due to the fact that Màslova loved Màrya Pàvlovna. There was also Simonson’s influence over her. This originated in the fact that Simonsdn loved Katyusha.

All people five and act partly under the influence of their own thoughts, and partly under the influence of the thoughts of others. One of the chief distinctions between people is determined by how much they five according to their own ideas or according to those of others: some people, in the majority of cases, make use of their own thoughts as a mental toy, and treat their reason as a flywheel from which the driving-belt has been taken off, while in their acts they submit to thoughts of others, — to custom, tradition, law; others again, regarding their own ideas as the prime movers of all their activities, nearly always listen to the promptings of their own reason and submit to it, following only in exceptional cases — and that, too, after due critical consideration — the decisions of others.

Simonsdn was such a man. He weighed and tested everything by reason, and what he decided upon he did.

Having, while a student at the gymnasium, decided that the property acquired by his father, an ex-officer of the commissariat, had been wrongfully obtained, he informed his father that he ought to give up his wealth to the people. When his father not only paid no attention to him but even scolded him, he left his home and stopped availing himself of his father’s means. Having decided that all existing evil was due to the ignorance of the people, he, upon leaving the university, fell in with the Populists, accepted a teacher’s place in a village, and boldly preached to his pupils and to the peasants everything which he thought right, and denied everything which he considered false.

He was arrested and tried.

During his trial, he decided that the judges had no right to judge him, and he so told the judges. When they did not agree with him and continued the trial, he decided not to answer any questions, and remained silent all the time. He was deported to the Government of Arkhangelsk. There he formulated a religious doctrine for himself, and this formed the basis of his whole activity. According to this doctrine everything in the world is alive; there is no inert body, but all the objects which we regard as dead and inorganic are only parts of an enormous organic body, which we cannot comprehend, and therefore the problem of man, as a particle of this huge organism, consists in sustaining the life of this organism and all its living parts. Therefore he considered it a crime to destroy animal life: he was opposed to war, capital punishment, and all kinds of murder, not only of men, but of animals as well. He had also a theory of his own in regard to marriage, which was to the effect that the increase of the human race was only a lower function, and that a higher function consisted in serving all existing life. He found a confirmation of this idea in the presence of the phagocytes in the blood. Unmarried people, according to his theory, were just such phagocytes, whose purpose was to aid the weak and ailing parts of the organism. From the moment he had decided this, he began to live accordingly, though in his early youth he had been dissipated. He regarded himself, as also Mârya Pâvlovna, as world phagocytes.

His love for Katyusha did not impair this theory, since he loved her platonically, assuming that such a love not only did not interfere with his phagocyte activity of social help, but even spurred him on to it.

He not only decided moral questions in his own way, but also a great number of practical questions. He had his own theories for all practical affairs. He had his rules about the number of hours he had to work, to rest, to eat, to dress, how to make a fire in the stove, and how to light a lamp.

At the same time, Simonsdn was exceedingly timid with people and modest. But when he made up his mind for something, nothing could keep him back.

It was this man who had a decisive influence on Màslova by dint of his love for her. Maslova, with her feminine sense, soon became aware of it, and the consciousness of being able to provoke love in so unusual a man raised her in her own estimation. Nekhlyudov proposed to marry her as an act of magnanimity and on account of what had happened ; but Simonsdn loved her for what she was, and loved her just because he did. Besides, she felt that Simonson considered her an unusual woman, differing from all the rest and having certain special, highly moral qualities. She did not exactly know what qualities he ascribed to her, but, in order not to deceive him, she tried to rouse in herself all the best qualities of which she could think. This caused her to endeavour to become as good as she was capable of being.

This had begun even in the prison, when, at the general interview of the politicals, she had noticed the peculiarly stubborn look of his innocent, kindly, dark blue eyes underneath his overhanging forehead and eyebrows. She had noticed even that he was a peculiar man and that he looked in a peculiar way at her ; she had remarked the strange and striking combination in one face of severity, produced by his towering hair and frowning eyebrows, of childlike kindness, and of the innocence of his

glance. In Tomsk she was transferred to the politicals, and she saw him again. Although not a word had been said between them, there was in the look, which they exchanged, an acknowledgment of their remembering each other and of their mutual importance. There never was any long conversation between them even after that, but Maslova felt that whenever he spoke in her presence, his speech was meant for her, and that he was speaking in such a way as to be as intelligible as possible to her. Their closer friendship began at the time when he marched with the criminals.

V.

From Nfzhni-Ndvgorod to Perm, Nekhlyudov succeeded only twice in seeing Katyusha : once in Nizhni-Novgorod, before the prisoners were placed on a screened barge, and the next time in Perm, in the prison office. At either meeting he found her secretive and ill-disposed. To his question whether she was comfortable and whether she did not need anything, she replied evasively, in an embarrassed and what to him seemed hostile, reproachful way which he had noticed in her before. This gloomy mood, which in reality proceeded from the persecutions of the men, to which she was subjected at that time, vexed Nekhlyudov. He was afraid that under the influence of the heavy and demoralizing conditions under which she lived during her transportation, she might again fall into her old discontentment and despair, when she was provoked against him and smoked more heavily and drank liquor in order to forget herself. He was quite unable to assist her because he had no chance, during this first part of her journey, of seeing her. Only after she was transferred to the politicals, he not only convinced himself of the groundlessness of his fears, but, on the contrary, at every meeting with her noticed the ever more clearly defined internal change, which he had been so anxious to see in her. At their first meeting in Tomsk, she was again such as she had been before her departure. She did not pout nor become embarrassed upon seeing him, but, on the contrary, met him joyfully and simply, and thanked him for what he had done for her, especially for

having brought her in contact with the people with whom she now was.

After two months with the marching party, the change which had taken place in her was also manifested in her looks. She grew thinner and sunburnt, and looked aged ; on her temples and around her mouth wrinkles appeared ; she did not let her hair hang over her brow, but covered it with her kerchief, and neither in her dress, nor in the manner of arranging her hair, nor in her address were there left the previous signs of coquetry. This change which had taken place and was still in progress constantly roused an exceedingly pleasurable sensation in Nekhlyudov.

He now experienced a feeling toward her that he had never experienced before. It had nothing in common with his first poetical rapture, and still less with that sensual love which he had experienced later, nor even with that consciousness of a duty performed, united with egotism, which had led him after the trial to decide to marry her. This feeling was the simplest sensation of pity and contrition, which had come over him for the first time during his interview with her in the prison, and later, with renewed strength, after the hospital, when he, curbing his disgust, forgave her for the supposed incident with the assistant, which was later cleared up ; it was the same feeling, but with the difference that then it had been temporary, while now it became constant. Whatever he now thought or did, his general mood now was a feeling of pity and humility, not only in respect to her, but to all people.

This feeling seemed to have revealed in Nekhlyudov’s soul a stream of love, which formerly had had no issue, but now was directed toward all men with whom he came in contact.

Nekhlyudov was during his whole journey conscious of that agitated condition when he involuntarily became affable and attentive to all people, from the driver and soldier of the guard up to the chief of the prison and the governor, with whom he had any business.

During this time, Nekhlyudov, by Maslova’s transfer to the politicals, had occasion to become acquainted with many politicals, at first in Ekaterinburg, where they enjoyed great liberty, being all kept together in a large hall, and later on the road, with the five men and four women, to whom Màslova was added. This acquaintance of Nekhlyudov with the deported politicals entirely changed his view of them.

From the very beginning of the revolutionary movement in Russia, but especially after March 1st, Nekhlyudov was animated by a hostile and contemptuous feeling for the revolutionists. He had been repelled above everything else by the cruelty and secrecy of the means used by them in their struggle with the government, more especially by the cruelty of the murders committed by them ; then again, their common feature of self-conceit was disgusting to him. But, upon seeing them at close range and discovering that they frequently suffered innocently from the government, he perceived that they could not be anything else than what they were.

No matter how dreadfully senseless the torments were to which the so-called criminals were subjected, a certain semblance of lawful procedure was observed toward them, even after their judicial sentence ; but in respect to the politicals there was not even that semblance, as Nekhlyudov had noticed it in the case of Miss Shustov, and, later, in the case of very many of his new acquaintances. These people were treated as fish are when caught with a seine : the whole catch is thrown out on the shore ; then all the large fish that can be used are picked out, and the small fry are left to die and dry up on the land. Just so, hundreds of men who, apparently, were not only innocent, but who could in no way be dangerous to the government, were arrested and frequently held for years in prisons, where they became infected with consumption, or grew insane, or committed suicide. They were kept in these prisons only because there was no special reason for releasing them, whereas, by keeping them in jail, they might be of use in order to clear up certain questions at the inquest. The fate of all these people, who frequently were innocent even from the government’s standpoint, depended on the arbitrariness, leisure, and mood of the officer of gendarmery or police, of the spy, prosecutor, examining magistrate, governor, minister. If such an official got tired and wanted to distinguish himself, he made arrests and held the people in prison or released them, according to the mood he or the authorities happened to be in. The higher officer again, according to whether he must distinguish himself, or in what relations he was with the minister, sent them to the end of the world, or kept them in solitary confinement, or sentenced them to deportation, hard labour, or capital punishment, or released them, if a lady asked him to do so.

They were treated as men are in war, and they, naturally, employed the same means which were used against them. And just as the military always live in an atmosphere of public opinion which not only conceals the criminality of the deeds committed by them, but even represents them as heroic, — so there existed for the politicals a favourable atmosphere of public opinion in their own circle, by dint of which the cruel acts committed by them, at the risk of losing liberty, life, and all that is dear to man, presented themselves to them not as bad deeds but as acts of bravery. Only thus could Nekhlyudov explain the remarkable phenomenon that the meekest people, who were not able to cause a living being any pain, or even to look at it, calmly prepared themselves to kill people, and that nearly all considered in certain cases murder, as a means of self-defence and of obtaining the highest degree of public good, both lawful and just. The high esteem in which they held their work and, consequently, themselves naturally flowed from the importance which the government ascribed to them, and from the cruelty of the punishments to which they were subjected. They had to have a high opinion of themselves in order to be able to bear all they had to bear.

Upon knowing them better, Nekhlyudov convinced himself that they were neither the unconditional villains, as which they presented themselves to some, nor the unconditional heroes, such as others held them to be, but ordinary people, among whom there were, as everywhere else, good and bad and mediocre individuals. There were among them some who held themselves in duty bound to struggle against the existing evil ; there were also others who had selected this activity from selfish, vainglorious motives ; but the majority were attracted to revolution by a desire for danger, risk, and enjoyment of playing with their own lives, — feelings which are common to all energetic youth, and which were familiar to Nekhlyudov from his military fife. They differed from other people, and that, too, was in their favour, in that their requirements of morality were higher than those current in the circle of common people. They regarded as obligatory not only moderation and severity of life, truthfulness, and unselfishness, but also readiness to sacrifice everything, even their lives, for the common good. Therefore those of them who were above their average stood very high above it and represented rare examples of moral excellence ; while those who were below the average stood much lower, representing a class of people that were untruthful, hypocritical, and, at the same time, self-confident and haughty. Consequently Nekhlyudov not only respected, but even loved, some of his new acquaintances, while to others he remained more than indifferent.

VL

Nekhlyûdov took a special liking to a consumptive young man, Kryltsdv, who was being deported to hard labour and was travelling with the party that Katyusha had joined. Nekhlyudov had met him for the first time at Ekaterinburg, and later he had seen him several times on the road, and had conversed with him. Once, in summer, when they halted for a day, Nekhlyudov passed nearly all that day with him, and Kryltsov, becoming communicative, told him his whole history, how he had turned revolutionist. His story previous to the prison was very simple. His father, a rich landowner of the southern Governments, had died while he was still a child. He was an only son, and his mother brought him up. He learned well both in the gymnasium and in the university, and graduated at the head of the list in the mathematical department. He was offered a place at the university and was to receive a travelling fellowship. He hesitated. There was a girl whom he loved, and he was considering marriage and retirement to the country. He wanted everything and could not make up his mind for anything in particular. Just then his schoolmates asked him for a contribution to the common good. He knew that this common good meant the revolutionary party, in which he was not at all interested at the time, but he gave them money from a feeling of comradeship and vanity, lest they should think he was afraid. Those who had collected the money were caught ; a note was found, by which it was discovered that the money had been contributed by Kryltsdv. He was arrested and confined, at first in the police jail, and then in prison.

” In the prison, where I was locked up,” Kryltsov told Nekhlyudov (he was sitting with his sunken chest on a high sleeping-bench, leaning on his knees, and now and then looked at Nekhlyudov with his sparkling, feverish, beautiful eyes), ” there was no especial severity. We not only conversed with each other by means of knocks, but met in the corridors, talked to each other, shared our provisions and tobacco, and at evening even sang in choirs. I had a good voice. Yes. If it had not been for my mother, — she pined away for me, — I should have been satisfied in prison, — everything was pleasant and very interesting. Here I became acquainted, among others, with the famous Petrdv (he later cut his throat with a piece of glass in the fortress) and with others. I was not a revolutionist. I also became acquainted with two neighbours to my cell. They were caught in the same affair, with some Polish proclamations, and were under trial for having tried to escape from the guard as they were being led to the railroad station. One of them was a Pole, Lozinski, and the other a Jew, Rozdvski by name. Yes. Rozôvski was nothing but a boy. He said he was seventeen, but he did not look more than fifteen. He was small and lean, with sparkling eyes, lively, and, like all Jews, very musical. His voice was still unformed, but he sang beautifully. Yes. They were led off to court while I was in prison. They left in the morning. In the evening they returned and said that they had been condemned to capital punishment. Nobody had expected it. Their case was so unimportant: they had merely tried to get away from the guard, and had not hurt anybody. And then it seemed so unnatural to execute such a boy as Rozdvski was. All of us in the prison decided that this was only to frighten them, but that the decree would never be confirmed. At first all were stirred, but later they quieted down, and life went on as of old. Yes.

” One evening an attendant came to my door and mysteriously informed me that the carpenters had come to put up the gallows. At first I did not understand what he meant, what gallows he was talking about. But the old attendant was so agitated that when I looked at him I understood that it was for our two men. I wanted to converse by taps with my companions, but was afraid that they might hear it. My companions were silent, too. Apparently everybody knew of it. There was a dead silence in the corridor and in the cells all the evening. We did not tap nor sing. At about nine o’clock the attendant again came up to my door, and informed me that the hangman had been brought down from Moscow. He said this and went away. I began to call to him to come back. Suddenly I heard Bozovski call to me across the corridor from his cell: ‘What is the matter? Why do you call him ? ‘ I told him that he had brought me some tobacco, but he seemed to guess what it was, and continued asking me why we did not sing, and why we did not tap. I do not remember what I told him ; I went away as soon as I could, so as not to talk to him. Yes. It was a terrible night. I listened all night long to every sound. Suddenly, toward morning, I heard them open the door of the corridor, and a number of people walking in. I stood at the window of my door.

“A lamp was burning in the corridor. First came the superintendent. He was a stout man, and seemed to be self-confident and determined. He was out of countenance : he looked pale and gloomy, as though frightened. After him came his assistant, scowling, with a determined look ; then followed the guards. They passed by my door and stopped at the one next to me. I heard the assistant calling out in a strange voice : ‘ Lozmski, get up and put on clean linen ! ‘ Yes. Then I heard the door creak, and they passed in. Then I heard Lozlnski’s steps, and he went over on the other side of the corridor. I could see only the superintendent. He stood pale, and was buttoning and unbuttoning his coat, and shrugging his shoulders. Yes. Suddenly he acted as though something had frightened him. It was Lozlnski, who went past him and stopped at my door. He was a fine-looking youth, of that exquisite Polish type: broad-chested, a straight forehead with a head of blond, wavy, fine hair, and beautiful blue eyes. He was such a blooming, healthy, vigorous young man. He stood in front of my door so that I could see his whole face. It was a terribly drawn, gray face.

” ‘ Kryltsdv, have you any cigarettes ? ‘ I wanted to give him some, but the assistant, as though fearing to be late, took out his cigarette-holder and offered it to him. He took a cigarette, and the assistant lighted a match for him. He began to smoke, and seemed to be musing. Then he looked as though he had recalled something, and he began to speak : ‘ It is cruel and unjust. I have committed no crime. I — ‘ Something quivered in his youthful, white throat, from which I could not tear my eyes away, and he stopped. Yes. Just then I heard Bozovski calling out something in the corridor in his thin, Jewish voice. Lozinski threw away the stump of his cigarette and went away from the door. Then Bozdvski could be seen through the window. His childish face, with its moist, black eyes, was red and sweaty. He, too, was clad in white linen, and his trousers were too wide for him, and he kept pulling them up with both his hands, and was trembling all the while. He put his pitiful face to my window :

“ ‘ Anatdli Petrdvich, is it not so ? the doctor has ordered me to drink pectoral tea. I am not well, and I will drink some.’ Nobody answered him, and he looked questioningly now at me, and now at the inspector. I did not understand what he meant by his words. Yes. Suddenly the assistant looked stern, and again he called out, in a wheezy voice : * Don’t be jesting ! Come ! ‘ Rozovski was apparently unable to understand what was awaiting him, and went hurriedly along the corridor, ahead of them all, almost on a run. But later he stood back, and I heard his piercing voice and weeping. They were busy about him and a thud of steps was heard. He was crying and whining in a penetrating manner. Then farther and farther away, — the door of the corridor rang out, and all was quiet. Yes. They hanged them. They choked their lives out of them with ropes.

” Another attendant saw the hanging, and he told me that Lozfnski offered no resistance, but that Rozévski struggled for a long while, so that he had to be dragged to the gallows and his head had to be stuck through the noose. Yes. That attendant was a stupid fellow. ‘ I was told, sir, that it was terrible. But it is not. When they were hanged, they moved their shoulders only twice/ — he showed me how the shoulders were raised convulsively and fell. * Then the hangman jerked the rope so that the noose should lie more tightly on their necks, and that was all : they did not stir again. It is not at all terrible,’ ” Kryltsov repeated the attendant’s words, and wanted to smile, but instead burst out into sobs.

He was for a long time silent after this recital, breathing heavily and swallowing the sobs that rose to his throat.

“Sinoe then I have been a revolutionist. Yes,” he said, calming down, and then he finished his story in a few words.

He belonged to the party of the Popular Will, and was the head of a disorganizing group, whose purpose it was to terrorize the government, so that it might itself abdicate its power and call the people to assume it. For this purpose he travelled, now to St. Petersburg, now abroad, or to Kiev, to Odéssa, and he was everywhere successful. A man on whom he fully relied betrayed him. He was arrested, tried, kept two years in prison, and sentenced to capital punishment, which was commuted to hard labour for life.

In prison he developed consumption, and now, under the conditions of his life, he had evidently but a few months left to live. He knew this, and did not regret what he had done, but said that if he had a life to live over he would use it for the same purpose, — for the destruction of the order of things which made possible what he had seen.

This man’s history and the companionship with him made many things intelligible to Nekhlyudov which heretofore he had not understood.

VIL

On the day when, at the start from the halting-place, the conflict over the child had taken place between the officer of the guard and the prisoners, Nekhlyudov, who had passed the night at an inn, awoke late, and for a long time wrote letters, which he was getting ready to mail from the capital of the Government ; he consequently left the inn later than usual, and did not catch up with the marching party on the road, as he had done on previous days, but arrived at evening twilight at the village, near which a half-stop was made. Having changed his wet clothing in the inn, which was kept by an elderly widow with a white neck of extraordinary size, Nekhlyudov drank tea in the clean guest-room, which was adorned by a large number of images and pictures, and hastened to the halting-place to ask the officer’s permission for an interview.

At the six preceding halting-places the officers of the guard, although several changes had been made, all without exception had refused Nekhlyudov’s admission to the prison enclosure, so that he had not seen Katyusha for more than a week. This severity was caused by an expected visit from an important prison chief. Now the chief had passed, without as much as looking at the halting-place, and Nekhlyudov hoped that the officer who had in the morning taken charge of the party would, like the previous officers, permit him to see the prisoners.

The hostess offered Nekhlyudov a tarantes to take him to the halting-place, which was at the other end of the village, but Nekhlyudov preferred to walk. A young, broad-chested, powerful-looking lad, in immense boots freshly smeared with tar, offered himself to take him there. It was misting, and it was so dark that whenever the lad separated himself from him for three steps, in places where the light did not fall through the windows, Nekhlyudov could not see him, but only heard the smacking of the boots in the deep, sticky mud. After passing the square with the church and a long street with brightly illumined windows, Nekhlyudov followed his guide into complete darkness, at the edge of the village. Soon, however, they saw, melting in the fog, the beams of light from the lamps which were burning near the halting-place. The reddish spots of light became larger and brighter; they could see the posts of the enclosure, the black figure of the sentry moving about, the striped pole, and the sentry booth. The sentinel met the approaching men with his usual ” Who goes there ? ” and, finding that they were not familiar persons, became so stern that he would not allow them to wait near the enclosure. But Nekhlyudov’s guide was not disconcerted by the severity of the sentry.

” What an angry fellow you are ‘ ” he said to him. « You call the underofficer, and we will wait.”

The sentry did not answer, but called out something through the small gate, and stopped to watch intently the broad-shouldered lad as in the lamplight he cleaned off with a chip the mud that was sticking to Nekhlyudov’s boots. Beyond the posts of the enclosure was heard the din of men’s and women’s voices. About three minutes later there was a clanking of iron, the door of the gate was opened, and out of the darkness emerged into the lamplight the underofficer, wearing his overcoat over his shoulders. He asked them what they wanted. Nekhlyudov handed him his previously written card, asking the officer to admit him on some private matter, and begged him to take it in. The underofficer was less severe than the sentry, but more inquisitive. He insisted upon knowing what business Nekhlyudov had with the officer, and who he was, apparently scenting a prey, and not wishing to miss it. Nekhlyudov said that it was a special business, and asked him to take the note to the officer. The underofficer took it, and, shaking his head, went away.

A little while after his disappearance the door clanked again, and there came out women with baskets, with birchbark boxes, clay vessels, and bags. They stepped across the threshold of the door, sonorously babbling in their peculiar Siberian dialect. They were all dressed not in village but in city fashion, wearing overcoats and fur coats ; their skirts were tucked high, and their heads were wrapped in kerchiefs. They eyed with curiosity Neklyudov and his guide, who were standing in the lamplight. One of these women, obviously happy to meet the broad-shouldered lad, immediately began to banter him with Siberian curses.

” You wood-spirit, the plague take you, what are you doing here ? ” she turned to him.

” I brought a stranger here,” replied the lad. ” What have you been carrying here ? “

” Meats, — and they want me to come back in the morning.”

” Did they not let you stay there overnight ? ” asked the lad.

” May they squash you, you fibber,” she cried, laughing. ” Won’t you take us all back to the village ? “

The guide said something else to her, which made laugh not only the women, but also the sentry, and turned to Nekhlyudov :

” Well, can you find your way back by yourself ? Won’t you lose your way?”

« I shall find it, I shall.”

” Beyond the church, the second house after the one of two stories. Here you have a staff,” he said, giving Nekhlyudov a long stick, which was taller than his stature, and which he had been carrying, and, splashing with his immense boots, disappeared in the darkness with the women.

His voice, interrupted by that of the women, could be heard through the mist, when the door clanked again, and the underofficer came out, inviting Nekhlyudov to follow him to the officer.

VIII.

The half-stop was situated like all the other half-stops and full stops along the Siberian road : in the yard, which was surrounded by pointed pales, there were three one-story buildings. In one of these, the largest, with latticed windows, the prisoners were placed ; in another, the guards of the guard ; and in the third, the officer and the chancery. In all three houses fires were burning, which, as always, especially here, illusively promised something good and cosy within the lighted walls. In front of the entrance steps of the houses lamps were burning, and there were five other lamps along the wall, illuminating the yard. The underofficer took Nekhlyudov over a board walk to the steps of the smallest building. Having mounted three steps, he let him pass in front of him into an antechamber which was lighted by a small lamp emitting stifling fumes. At the stove stood a soldier, in a coarse shirt and tie and black trousers ; he had on only one boot, with a yellow bootleg, and, bending over, was fanning the samovar with the other boot. Upon seeing Nekhlyudov, the soldier went away from the samovar, took off Nekhlyudov’s leather coat, and went into the inner room.

” He has arrived, your Honour ! “

” Well, call him in,” was heard an angry voice.

” Go through the door,” said the soldier, and immediately began to busy himself about the samovér.

In the next room, which was lighted by a hanging lamp, an officer, with long blond moustache and a very red face, dressed in an Austrian jacket, which closely fitted over his broad chest and shoulders, was sitting at a table covered with remnants of a dinner and two bottles. The warm room smelled not only of tobacco smoke but also of some strong, vile perfume. Upon noticing Nekhlyudov, the officer half-raised himself and almost scornfully and suspiciously fixed his eyes upon the stranger.

« What do you wish ? ” he said, and, without awaiting a reply, called through the door: “Bérnov, will you ever get the samovar ready ? “

” Right away ! “

“I will give you such a right of way that you will remember me,” cried the officer, his eyes sparkling.

” I am bringing it ! ” cried the soldier, and entered with the samovdr.

Nekhlyudov waited until the soldier had put down the samovar (the officer followed him with his small, mean eyes, as though choosing a spot on which to hit him). When the samovar was down, the officer began to steep the tea, then he took out of a lunch-basket a four-cornered decanter and Albert cracknels. After he had placed everything on the table, he again addressed Nekhlyudov.

“ So what can I do for you ? “

“ I should like to have an interview with a lady prisoner,” said Nekhlyudov, still standing.

” A political ? That is prohibited by law,” said the officer.

” She is not a political,” said Nekhlyudov.

” But please be seated,” said the officer.

Nekhlyudov sat down.

” She is not a political,” he repeated, ” but at my request she has been permitted by the higher authorities to go with the politicals — “

” Ah, I know,” the officer interrupted him. ” A small brunette ? £es, you may. Won’t you have a cigarette ? “

He handed Nekhlyudov a box with cigarettes, and, properly filling two glasses of tea, put one down before Nekhlyudov.

“If you please,” he said.

“ 1 thank you. I should like to see — “

” The night is long. You will have plenty of time.

I will have her called out.”

” Could I not be admitted to their room, without calling her out ? ” said Nekhlyudov.

” To the politicals ? That is against the law.”

“ I have been admitted several times. If there is any fear that I might transmit something to them, — then you must not forget that I could do so even through her.”

“ No, not at all. She will be examined,” said the officer, with an unpleasant laugh.

“ Well, you may examine me.”

” Oh, we will get along without doing so,” said the officer, taking the uncorked decanter to Nekhlyudov’s glass. “ May I pour in some ? Well, as you please. One feels so happy to meet an educated man here in Siberia. Our fate, you know yourself, is a very sad one. It is hard when a man is used to something else. There is an opinion abroad that an officer of the guard must be a coarse man, without any education. They never consider that a man may have been born for something quite different.”

The red face of this officer, his perfume, his ring, but more especially his disagreeable laugh, were quite repulsive to Nekhlyudov; but on that day, as during his whole journey, he was in that attentive and serious mood when he did not allow himself to treat any person frivolously or contemptuously, and when he considered it necessary to ” let himself loose,” as he defined this relation of his to other people. Having listened to the officer’s words and considering his mood, he remarked, seriously :

” I think that in your occupation you can find consolation by alleviating the suffering of the people,” he said.

” What suffering ? They are a terrible lot.”

” Not at all terrible,” said Nekhlyudov. ” They are just like the rest. There are even some innocent people among them.”

” Of course, there are all kinds. Of course, I pity them. Others would not be less rigorous for anything, but I try to make it easier for them whenever I can. I prefer to suffer in their places. Others will invoke the law on every occasion, and are even ready to shoot them, but 1 pity them. Will you have another glass ? Please,” he said, filling his glass again. “ What kind of a woman is the one you want to see ? ” he asked.

” It is an unfortunate woman who found her way into a house of prostitution, and there she was accused of poisoning, — but she is a good woman,” said Nekhlyudov.

The officer shook his head.

“ Yes, these things happen. In Kazàn, let me tell you, there was one, — they called her Emma. She was a Hungarian by birth, but her eyes looked like those of a Persian woman,” he continued, unable to repress a smile at the recollection. ” She was as elegant as any countess — ”

Nekhlyudov interrupted the officer and returned to his former conversation :

” I think you can alleviate the condition of these people while they are in your power. I am sure that if you did so, you would experience great joy,” said Nekhlyudov, trying to speak as distinctly as possible, just as one speaks to a stranger or a child.

The officer looked at Nekhlyudov with sparkling eyes, and apparently was impatiently waiting for him to get through, so as to give him a chance to continue his story about the Hungarian woman with the Persian eyes, who, evidently, stood out vividly before his imagination and absorbed his whole attention.

” Yes, that is so, I will admit,” he said. ” I am sorry for them ; but let me finish my story about this Emma. So this is what she did — ”

“ This does not interest me,” said Nekhlyudov, ” and let me tell you outright that, although I formerly was different, I now despise such relations with women.”

The officer looked in a terrified way at Nekhlyudov.

” Won’t you take another glass ?” he said.

” No, thank you.”

” Bérnov ! ” cried the officer, ” take the gentleman to Bakulov and tell him to admit him to the special room of the politicals ; the gentleman may stay there until rollcall.”

IX.

Accompanied by the orderly, Nekhlyudov again went out into the dark yard which was dimly lighted by the red-burning lamps.

” Where are you going ?” a guard, whom they met, asked the one who was guiding Nekhlyudov.

” To the special room,— Number 5.”

“You can’t go through here: it is locked. You will have to go through that porch.”

” Why is it locked ? ”

“ The underofficer has locked it, and himself has gone down to the village.”

” Well, then, let us go this way ! ”

The soldier took Nekhlyudov to the other steps, and went over a board walk to another entrance. Even from the yard could be heard the din of voices and the motion within, such as one hears in a good beehive which is getting ready to swarm, but when Nekhlyudov came nearer and the door was opened, this din was increased and passed into a noise of scolding, cursing, laughing voices. There was heard the metallic sound of the chains, and the familiar oppressive odour was wafted against him.

These two impressions — the din of the voices combined with the clanking of the chains, and that terrible odour — always united in Nekhlyudov in one agonizing feeling of moral nausea passing into physical nausea. Both impressions mingled and intensified each other.

Upon entering the vestibule of the half-stop, where stood an immense stink-vat, Nekhlyudov noticed a woman sitting on the edge of this vat, while opposite her stood a

man, with his pancake-shaped cap poised sidewise on his shaven head. They were talking about something. When the prisoner noticed Nekhlyudov, he winked and said :

” Even the Tsar could not retain his water.”

The woman pulled down the skirt of her cloak and looked abashed.

From the vestibule ran a corridor, into which opened the doors of cells. The first was the family cell ; then followed a large cell for unmarried persons, and at the end of the corridor, two small rooms were reserved for the politicals. The interior of the halting-place, which, although intended for 150 prisoners, held 450, was so crowded that, not being able to find places in the cells, they filled the corridor. Some sat or lay on the floor, while others moved up and down, carrying full or empty teapots. Among the latter was Taras. He ran up to Nekhlyudov and exchanged a pleasant greeting with him. Taras’s kindly face was disfigured by purple discolorations on his nose and under his eyes.

” What is the matter with you ? ” asked Nekhlyudov.

“We had a fight,” said Taras, smiling.

” They are fighting all the time,” the guard said, contemptuously.

” On account of the woman,” added a prisoner, who was walking behind them. ” He had a set-to with Fédka the blind.”

” How is Fedosya ?” asked Nekhlyudov.

“All right. She is well. I am taking this boiling water to her for tea,” said Tards, entering the family cell.

Nekhlyudov looked into the door. The whole cell was full of women and men, both on the sleeping-benches and underneath them. The room was filled with the evaporations of wet clothes getting dry, and there was heard the incessant squeak of feminine voices. The next door led into the cell of the single persons. This room was even fuller, and even in the door and out in the doorway stood a noisy crowd of prisoners in wet clothes, dividing or deciding something. The guard explained to Nekhlyudov that the foreman was paying out to a gambler the provision money which had been lost or won before by means of small tickets made out of playing-cards. Upon noticing the underofficer and the gentleman, those who stood nearest grew silent, hostilely eyeing them. Among those who were dividing up, Nekhlyudov noticed Fedorov, the hard labour convict of his acquaintance, who always kept at his side a miserable-looking, pale, bloated lad with arching eyebrows, and a repulsive, pockmarked, noseless vagabond, of whom it was said that during an escape into the Tayga he had killed his companion and eaten his flesh. The vagabond stood in the corridor, with his wet cloak thrown over one shoulder, and scornfully and boldly looked at Nekhlyudov, without getting out of his way. Nekhlyudov went around him.

Although this spectacle was not new to Nekhlyudov, although he had, in the last three months, frequently seen these four hundred criminals in all kinds of situations,— in heat, in a cloud of dust which they raised with their feet dragging the chains, and on the stops along the road, and in the yards of the halting-places during warm weather, where appalling scenes of open immorality took place, — he experienced an agonizing feeling of shame and a consciousness of guilt before them every time he went in among them and felt their attention directed to himself. Most oppressive for him was the fact that an irrepressible feeling of loathing and terror mingled with this sensation of shame and guilt. He knew that, under the conditions in which they were placed, they could not be anything else than what they were, and yet he could not suppress his feeling of loathing for them.

” They have an easy time, these hangers-on,” Nekhlyudov, as he approached the door of the politicals, heard a hoarse voice say, adding an indecent curse.

There was heard a hostile, scornful laughter.

X.

As they passed the cell of the unmarried prisoners, the underofficer, who accompanied Nekhlyudov, said to him that he would come for him before the rollcall, and went back. The underofficer had barely left when a prisoner, holding up his chains over his bare feet, rapidly walked up close to Nekhlyudov, wafting an oppressive and acid smell of sweat upon him, and said to him, in a mysterious whisper:

“ Sir, please intercede ? They have roped in the lad by giving him to drink. He called himself Karmdnov to-day at the rollcall. Please intercede, for I cannot, — I shall be killed,” said the prisoner, looking restlessly about, and immediately walking away from Nekhlyudov.

What this man informed Nekhlyudov of was that prisoner Karmanov had persuaded a lad who resembled him, and who was being deported for settlement in Siberia, to exchange places with him, so that the one who was to go to hard labour was to be deported, while the lad would go to hard labour.

Nekhlyudov knew of this affair, since this very prisoner had informed him of the exchange a week before. Nekhlyudov nodded in token of having understood him and of his willingness to do what he could, and, without looking around, passed on.

Nekhlyudov had known this prisoner all the way from Ekaterinburg, where he had asked him to get the permission for his wife to follow him, and his act surprised him. He was of medium size, about thirty years of age, and in no way differed from an ordinary peasant. He

was being deported to hard labour for attempted robbery and murder. His name was Makàr Dyévkin. His crime was a singular one. He told Nekhlyudov that the crime was not his, Makar’s, but his, the evil one’s. He said that a traveller stopped at his father’s, from whom he hired a sleigh for two roubles to take him to a village forty versts distant. His father told him to take the traveller there. Makar harnessed the horse, dressed himself, and drank tea with the traveller. The traveller told him at tea that he was on his way to get married and that he had with him five hundred roubles, which he had earned in Moscow. When Makar heard this, he went into the yard and put his axe in the straw of the sleigh.

” I do not know myself why I took the axe along,” he told Nekhlyudov. ” Something told me to take the axe with me, and so I did. We seated ourselves, and off we went. I entirely forgot about the axe. There were about six versts left to the village. From the cross-road to the highway the road went up-hill. I climbed down and walked back of the sleigh, but he kept whispering to me : * What is the matter with you ? When you get into the highway, there will be people, and then comes the village. He will get away with the money. If anything is to be done, it must be done now.* I bent down to the sleigh, as though to fix the straw, and the axe handle seemed to jump into my hand. He looked around. « What do you mean ? ‘ says he. I swung my axe and wanted to bang at him, but he was quick, and so he jumped down from the sleigh and caught me by the hand. ‘ What are you doing, you villain ? ’ He threw me down on the snow, and I did not even struggle, but gave myself up. He tied my arms with the belt and threw me into the sleigh. He took me straight to the rural office. I was locked in jail and tried. The Commune testified to my good record, and that nothing bad had been noticed in me. The people with whom I was living said the same. I had no money to hire a lawyer,” said Makâr, “ and so I was sentenced to four years.”

It was this man who was trying to save his countryman, although he knew full well that he was risking his life in the attempt. If the prisoners had found out that he had given away the secret to Nekhlyudov, they would certainly have strangled him.

XL

The accommodation of the politicals consisted of two small cells, the doors from which opened into a barred-off part of the corridor. Upon entering this part of the corridor, the first person noticed by Nekhlyudov was Simonson, dressed in his jacket, and squatting with a billet of pine wood, in front of the quivering stove door, which was drawn in by the current in the brightly burning stove.

Upon seeing Nekhlyudov, he looked up through his overhanging eyebrows, without rising from his squatting position, and gave him his hand.

” I am glad that you have come. I have something to say to you,” he said, with a significant look, gazing straight at Neklilyudov.

” What is it ? ” asked Nekhlyudov.

” Later. Now I am busy.”

Simonson again began to attend to the stove, which he fired according to his own theory of the minimum waste of heat energy.

Nekhlyudov was on the point of going into the first door, when Maslova came out of the other, bending down and holding a bath-broom in her hand, moving up with it a large mass of dirt and dust toward the stove. She had on a white bodice, a tucked-up skirt, and stockings. Her head was wrapped against the dust with a kerchief, which reached down to her brows. Upon noticing Nekhlyudov, she unbent herself, and, all red and agitated, put down the broom and, wiping off her hands with her skirt, stopped straight in front of him.

« Are you fixing up your apartment ? ” Nekhlyudov asked, giving her his hand.

“Yes, my old occupation,” she said, smiling. “There is incredible dirt in there. We have been doing nothing but cleaning.”

* Well, is your plaid dry ?” she turned to Simonson.

” Almost,” said Simonsdn, looking at her with a peculiar glance, which surprised Nekhlyudov.

“ Then I will come for it, and will bring out the furs to get dry. Our people are all there,” she said to Nekhlyudov, going into the farther door, and pointing to the nearer.

Nekhlyudov opened the door and went into a small cell which was dimly lighted up by a metallic lamp standing low on a sleeping-bench. The room was cold and smelled of unsettled dust, dampness, and tobacco. The tin lamp brightly illuminated those who were around it, but the benches were in the dark, and quivering shadows were also on the walls.

In the small room were all, with the exception of two men who were in charge of the provisions, and who had gone off to fetch boiling water and victuals. Here was Nekhlyudov’s old acquaintance, Vyéra Efrémovna, grown more thin and yellow, with her immense frightened eyes and the swollen vein on her forehead, dressed in a gray bodice, and wearing short hair. She was sitting over a piece of newspaper with tobacco upon it, and, with a jerky motion, was filling cigarette wads.

Here was also Emiliya Ràntsev, who, so Nekhlyudov thought, was one of the most charming politicals. She had charge of the external housekeeping, to which she managed to give a feminine cosiness and charm, even under the most trying circumstances. She was seated near the lamp and, while her sleeves were rolled up over her sunburnt beautiful arms, with agile hands was cleaning cups and saucers and placing them on a towel which was spread on a bench. Emiliya Ràntsev was a plainlooking woman, with an intelligent and gentle expression of her face, which possessed the property of suddenly, during a smile, transforming itself and becoming merry, lively, and enchanting; she even now met Nekhlyudov with such a smile.

” We thought you had gone back to Russia,” she said.

Here also, in a distant corner and in the shade, was Marya Pavlovna, who was doing something to the flaxenhaired little girl who kept lisping in her sweet childish voice.

” How good of you to have come ! Have you seen Katyusha ? ” she asked Nekhlyudov. ” See what a guest we have ! ” She showed him the girL

Here also was Anatoli Kryltsov. Haggard and pale, with his legs, wrapped in felt boots, bent under him, he sat, stooping and trembling, in a farther corner of the sleeping-benches, and, putting his hands in the sleeves of his short fur coat, he looked at Nekhlyudov with feverish eyes. Nekhlyudov wanted to go up to him, but on the right of the door sat a curly-headed, red-haired man in spectacles and a rubber jacket, conversing with pretty, smiling Miss Grabéts. This was the famous revolutionist Novodvorov, and Nekhlyudov hastened to exchange greetings with him. He was particularly in a hurry to do this because of all the politicals of this party this one man was disagreeable to him. Novodvdrov flashed his blue eyes through his glasses upon Nekhlyudov and, frowning, gave him his narrow hand.

“ Well, are you having a pleasant journey?” he said, apparently with irony.

” Yes, there are many interesting things,” replied Nekhlyudov, looking as though he did not see the irony, but received it as a pleasantry, and went up to Kryltsév.

Nekhlyudov’s appearance expressed indifference, but in his heart he was far from being indifferent to Novodvdrov. These words of Novodvdrov, his obvious desire to say and do something unpleasant, disturbed the soulful mood in which Nekhlyudov was. He felt gloomy and sad. “Well, how is your health ?” he said, pressing Kryltsdv’s cold and trembling hand.

“ So so. Only I can’t get warm, — I got so wet,” said Kryltsdv, hastening to conceal his hand in the sleeve of the short fur coat. “ It is as cold here as in a kennel. The windows are broken.” He pointed to broken windows in two places behind the iron bars.

“ What was the matter with you ? Why did you not come ? ”

” They would not admit me, — the authorities were so strict. Only the officer of to-day proved to be obliging.”

“ Well, he is obliging ! ” said Kryltsov. ” Ask Mârya what he did this morning.”

Marya Pavlovna, without rising from her place, told what had happened with the little girl in the morning at the departure from the halting-place.

” In my opinion, it is necessary to make a collective protest,” Vyéra Efrémovna said, in a determined voice, looking now at this person, now at that, with an undecided and frightened look. “Vladimir has made a protest, but that is not enough.”

“ What protest ? ” Kryltsdv muttered, with an angry scowl. Apparently the lack of simplicity, the artificiality of the tone, and the nervousness of Vyéra Efrémovna had long been irritating him. ” Are you looking for Katyusha?” he turned to Nekhlyudov. “She has been working, — cleaning up. They have been cleaning out this room, — ours, the men’s; now they are working in the women’s room. But they won’t get rid of the fleas : they will eat us up alive. — What is Màrya doing there ? ” he asked, with his head indicating the comer in which Mérya Pavlovna was.

” She is combing her adopted daughter,” said Emiliya Ràntsev.

” And won’t she let loose her vermin on us ? ” asked Kryltsdv.

” No, no, I am regular with her. She is clean now,” said Marya Pavlovna. ” Take her,” she turned to Emiliya Ràntsev. “ I will go and help Katyusha. And I will bring him the plaid.”

Emiliya Ràntsev took the girl, and, with maternal tenderness pressing to herself the bare, plump little hands of the child, placed her on her knees and gave her a piece of sugar.

Marya Pavlovna went out, and, immediately after, two men stepped into the room with boiling water and victuals.

XII.

One of those who entered was an undersized, lean young man in a covered short fur coat and tall boots. He walked with a light, rapid gait, carrying two large steaming teapots with boiling water and holding under his arm bread wrapped in a cloth.

” Here our prince has made his appearance,” he said, placing a teapot amidst the cups and giving the bread to Maslova. ” We have bought some fine things,” he said, throwing off his fur coat and flinging it over the heads to the comer of the benches. ” Markél has bought milk and eggs ; we will simply have a party this evening. Kirillovna, I see, is again busy with her æsthetic cleanliness,” he said, looking with a smile at Emiliya Ràntsev. ” Now, please, get the tea ready,” he turned to her.

The whole exterior of this man, his movements, the sound of his voice, his look, breathed vivacity and merriment. The other of the new arrivals, — also a short, bony man, with an ashen-gray face that had very protruding cheekbones and puffed-up cheeks, with beautiful, greenish, widely placed eyes and thin lips, was, on the contrary, gloomy and melancholy. He wore an old wadded coat and boots with overshoes. He was carrying two pots and two birchbark boxes. Having placed his burden in front of Emiliya Ràntsev, he bowed with his neck to Nekhlyudov in such a way that he kept his eyes on him all the time. Then, unwillingly giving him his clammy hand, he immediately began to unload the provisions from the basket.

These two political prisoners were men of the people : the first was Peasant Nabâtov, the other was the factory workman, Markél Kondrâtev. Markél had found his way among the revolutionists at the advanced age of thirty-five, while Nabâtov had joined them at eighteen. Having, through his conspicuous ability, found his way from the village school to the gymnasium, Nabâtov maintained himself all the while by giving lessons. He graduated with a gold medal, but did not proceed to the university, because he had decided, while in the seventh form, to go among the people from whom he had come, in order to enlighten his forgotten brothers. And thus he did : at first he accepted a position as scribe in a large village, but he was soon arrested for reading books to the peasants and forming among them a Consumers’ Cooperative League. The first time he was kept eight months in prison, after which he was released and placed under secret surveillance. After his liberation, he immediately went to another village, in another Government, and there established himself as a teacher, continuing his old activity. He was again arrested, and this time he was kept a year and two months in prison, and there he was only strengthened in his convictions.

After Ins second imprisonment, he was sent to the Government of Pénza. He ran away from there. He was again arrested, and, having been incarcerated for seven months, was sent to the Government of Arkhân-gelsk. From there he ran away again, and was again caught ; he was sentenced to deportation to the Yakutsk Territory ; thus he had passed half of his youth in prison and in exile. All these adventures did not in the least sour him; nor did they weaken his energy, — on the contrary, they only fanned it. He was a mobile man, with an excellent digestion, always equally active, cheerful, and vivacious. He never regretted anything, and never looked far into the future, but with all the powers of his mind, of his agility, and of his practical good sense worked only in the present. When he was at liberty, he worked for the goal which he had set for himself, namely, the enlightenment and organization of the working classes, especially of the peasants ; but when he was imprisoned, he just as energetically and practically worked for intercourse with the external world, and for the arrangement of the best possible life, under the given conditions, not only for himself, but for his circle. Above everything else he was a social man. It seemed to him that he did not need anything for himself personally, and he was satisfied with anything, but for the society of his friends he was exacting ; he could do all kinds of physical and mental work, without laying down his hands, without sleeping or eating. As a peasant, he was industrious, quick to see, agile in his work, naturally temperate, polite without effort, and respectful not only to the feelings, but also to the opinions of others.

His old mother, an illiterate widow, full of superstitions, was alive, and Nabâtov helped her, and, whenever he was at large, came to see her. During his stays at home he entered into the details of fife, aided her in her work, and did not break his relations with his companions, the peasant lads : he smoked with them paper cigarettes bent in the shape of a dog’s leg, wrestled with them, and pointed out to them how they were all deceived, and how they must free themselves from the deceptions in which they were held. Whenever he thought and spoke of what the revolution would give to the masses, he always represented to himself the same people from which he had issued, only with land and without masters and officers. The revolution was, according to him, not to change the fundamental forms of the people’s life, — in this he differed from Novodvdrov and Novodvdrov’s follower, Markél Kondrâtev, — the revolution, in his opinion, was not to tear down the whole structure, but was only to arrange differently the apartments of this beautiful, solid, immense, old building which he loved so fervently.

In respect to religion, he was also a typical peasant : he never thought of metaphysical subjects, of the beginning of all things, of the life after the grave. God was for him, as He had been for Arago, a hypothesis, the need of which he did not feel as yet. He was not in the least concerned about the origin of the world, whether it had its beginning according to Moses or to Darwin, and Darwinism, which seemed to be of such importance to his comrades, was for him just such a play of imagination as the creation of the world in six days.

He was not interested in the question of how the world was formed, because the question how to live best in this world was paramount to him. Nor did he ever think of the future life, bearing in the depth of his soul that firm and quiet conviction, common to all toilers of the soil, which he had also inherited from his ancestors, that, as in the world of animals and plants nothing ever comes to an end, but is eternally transformed from one shape into another, — the manure into a grain, the grain into a chicken, the tadpole into a frog, the caterpillar into a butterfly, the acorn into an oak, — so man is not destroyed, but only changed into something else. This he believed, and therefore he boldly and even cheerfully looked into the eyes of death and courageously bore all suffering which led to it, but did not like and did not know how to speak of it. He liked to work, and was always occupied with practical labours, and urged his comrades on to practical labours.

The other political prisoner in this party, who originated from the people, Markél Kondràtev, was a man of a different type. He started to work at fifteen, and began smoking and drinking in order to drown his dim consciousness of offence. This offence he became conscious of for the first time when he, with other boys, was called in to look at a Christmas tree, which had been fixed up by the manufacturer’s wife, and received as a present a penny whistle, an apple, a gilt walnut, and a fig, while the manufacturer’s children received toys winch to him appeared as fairy gifts, and which, as he later found out, cost more than fifty roubles.

He was thirty years old when a famous revolutionary woman began to work in the factory. She noticed Kondrâtev’s marked ability, began to give him books and pamphlets, and to speak with him, explaining to him his position and its causes, and the means for improving it. When the possibility of freeing himself and others from the position of oppression in which he was was clearly presented to him, the injustice of this position seemed even more cruel and terrible than before, and he not only passionately wished for his liberation, but also for the punishment of those who had arranged and sustained this cruel injustice. This possibility, so he was told, could be got through knowledge, and so Kondràtev devoted himself ardently to the acquisition of knowledge. It was not clear to him how the realization of the socialistic ideal was to come about through science, but he believed that, as knowledge had manifested to him the injustice of his position, so it would also remedy this injustice. Besides, knowledge raised him in his opinion above other people. Therefore he quit smoking and drinking, and employed all his spare time, of which he had now more, having been made a material-man, in study.

The revolutionary lady taught him ; she marvelled at the wonderful ability with which he eagerly devoured all kind of knowledge. In two years he had learned algebra, geometry, and history, of which he was especially fond, and had read all the artistic critical literature, and especially all socialistic works.

The revolutionist was arrested, and Kondrdtev with her, for having interdicted books in his room. He was put in prison, and later deported to the Government of Vologda. There he became acquainted with Novodvdrov, read more revolutionary books, memorized everything, and was even more confirmed in his socialistic views. After his exile he became the leader of a large strike, which ended in the storming of the factory and the death of its director. He was arrested and sentenced to loss of his civil rights and exile.

He assumed the same negative attitude toward religion as toward the existing economic order of things. Having become convinced of the insipidity of the faith in which he had been brought up, and having with difficulty freed himself from it, at first experiencing terror and later transport in this liberation, he, in retribution for the deception which had been practised upon him and his ancestors, never ceased venomously and maliciously to ridicule the popes and the religious dogmas.

He was by habit an ascetic ; he was satisfied with the smallest allowance, and, like all people who are early used to work and who have well-developed muscles, could easily and well perform all kinds of physical labour; but he esteemed leisure more than anything, because it gave him in prisons and at the halting-places a chance to continue his studies. He now pored over the first volume of Marx, which book he kept with great care in his bag, like a very precious thing. He treated all his companions with reserve and indifference, except Novodvdrov, to whom he was particularly devoted, and whose opinions in regard to all subjects he accepted as incontrovertible truths.

For women, on whom he looked as a hindrance in all important matters, he had an unconquerable contempt. However, he pitied Maslova, and was kind to her, seeing in her an example of the exploitation of the lower classes by the higher. For the same reason he did not like Nekhlyudov, was incommunicative with him, and did not press his hand, but only offered his to be pressed, whenever Nekhlyudov, exchanged greetings with him.

XIII.

The stove burnt up brightly and warmed up the room ; the tea was steeped and poured out in the glasses and cups, and whitened with milk ; there were spread out cracknels, fresh rye and wheat bread, hard-boiled eggs, butter, and a head and legs of veaL All moved up to the place on the benches, which was used as a table, and ate, and drank, and conversed. Emiliya Ràntsev sat on a box, pouring out the tea. Around her stood in a crowd all the others, except Kryltsdv, who had taken off his short fur coat and, wrapping himself in the dry plaid, was lying in his place on the benches and talking with Nekhlyudov.

After the cold and dampness during the march, after the dirt and disorder which they had found here, after all the labours they had to expend to get things into shape, after taking food and hot tea, — all were in a most happy and cheerful frame of mind.

The feeling of comfort was increased by the ver)’ fact that beyond the wall were heard the thumping, the cries, and the curses of the criminals, as though to remind them of their surroundings. Just as at a halt in the sea, these people for a time did not feel themselves overwhelmed by all the humiliations and all the suffering which surrounded them, and so they found themselves in an elated and animated mood. They spoke of everything, except of their situation and of what awaited them. Besides, as is always the case with young men and women, especially when they are forcibly brought together, as were those collected there, there had arisen among them all kinds of concordant, and discordant, and variously interfering attractions to each other. They were nearly all of them in love.

Novodvorov was in love with pretty, smiling Miss Grabéts. Miss Grabéts was a young student of the Courses for Women, who was exceedingly little given to thinking and who was quite indifferent to the questions of the revolution ; but she submitted to the influence of the time, in some way was compromised, and thus deported. As when at large the chief interests of her life consisted in having success with men, she continued the same methods at the inquest, in prison, in exile. Now, during the journey, she found consolation in Novodvdrov’s infatuation for her, and herself fell in love with him. Vyéra Efrémovna, who was prone to fall in love but did not incite love to herself, though she always hoped for reciprocation, was in love now with Nabâtov, and now with Novodvorov. There was something in the nature of love which Kryltsov felt for Marya Pavlovna. He loved her as men love women, but, knowing her attitude toward love, he artfully concealed his feeling under the cloak of friendship and gratitude for the tender care which she bestowed upon him. Nabâtov and Emiliya Rântsev were united by very complex love relations. As Marya Pavlovna was an absolutely chaste girl, so Emiliya Rântsev was an absolutely chaste wife.

At sixteen years of age, while still in the gymnasium, she fell in love with Rântsev, a student of the St. Petersburg University, and, when nineteen years old, she married him, while he was still attending the university. In his senior year he was mixed up in some university affair, for which he was expelled from St. Petersburg, and became a revolutionist. She left her medical courses, which she was attending, followed him, and herself turned revolutionist. If her husband had not been the man he was — she considered him the best and cleverest of all men — she would not have fallen in love with him, and, not loving him, she would not have married him. But having once fallen in love with and married the best and cleverest man in the world, as she thought, she naturally understood life and its aims precisely as they were understood by the best and cleverest man in the world. At first he conceived life to be for study, and so she understood life in the same sense. He became a revolutionist, and so she became one. She could prove very well that the existing order was impossible, and that it was the duty of every man to struggle with this order and to endeavour to establish that political and economic structure in which personality could develop freely, and so forth. She thought that those were actually her ideas and feelings, but in reality she only thought that everything which her husband thought was the real truth, and she sought only for a complete concord, a merging with the soul of her husband, which alone gave her moral satisfaction.

Her parting from her husband and from her child, whom her mother took, was hard for her. But she bore this separation bravely and calmly, knowing that she bore it all for her husband and for the cause which was unquestionably the true one, because he served it. She was always in thought with her husband, and, as she had before been unable to love anybody, so she now was unable to love any one but her husband. But Nabâtov’s pure and devoted love touched and disturbed her. He, a moral and firm man, the friend of her husband, tried to treat her as a sister, but in his relations with her there appeared something greater, and this something greater frightened them both and, at the same time, beautified their hard life.

Thus, the only ones who were completely free from any infatuation were Mârya Pâvlovna and Kondrâtev.

XIV.

Counting on a separate conversation with Katyusha after the common tea and supper, such as he had had on previous occasions, Nekhlyudov sat near Kryltsov and talked with him. Among other things, he told him of Makar’s request and of the story of his crime. Kryltsdv listened attentively, fixing his beaming eyes on Nekhlyudov’s face.

” Yes,” he suddenly said, ” I have frequently been thinking that we are going with them, side by side with them, — with what ‘ them ‘ ? with the same people for whom we are going into exile. And yet, we not only do not know them, but even do not wish to know them. And they are even worse : they hate us and regard us as their enemies. This is terrible.”

“ There is nothing terrible in this,” said Novodvorov, who was listening to the conversation. ” The masses always worship power,” he said, in his clattering voice. ” The government is in power, — and they worship it and hate us ; to-morrow we shall be in power, — and they will worship us — “

Just then an outburst of curses was heard beyond the wall, and the thud of people hurled against the wall, the clanking of chains, whining, and shouts. Somebody was being beaten, and somebody cried ” Help ! ”

” There they are, the beasts ! What communion can there be between them and us?” quietly remarked Novodvorov.

” You say beasts ? And here Nekhlyudov has just told me of an act,” Kryltsov said, irritated, and told the story of how Makdr had risked his life in order to save a countryman of his. ” This is not bestiality, but a heroic deed.”

” Sentimentality ! ” ironically said Novodvdrov. ” It is hard for us to understand the emotions of these people and the motives of their acts. You see magnanimity in it, whereas it may only be envy for that convict.”

“ You never want to see anything good in others,” Marya Pàvlovna suddenly remarked, in excitement.

“It is impossible to see that which is not.”

” How can you say there is not, when a man risks a terrible death ? “

” I think,” said Novodvdrov, ” that if we want to do our work, the first condition for it is” (Kondràtev left the book which he was reading at the lamp, and attentively listened to his teacher) ” not to be given to fancies, but to look at things as they are. Everything is to be done for the masses, and nothing to be expected from them. The masses are the object of our activity, but they cannot be our colabourers, as long as they are as inert as they are,” he began, as though giving a lecture. ” Therefore it is quite illusory to expect aid from them before the process of development has taken place, — that process of development for which we are preparing them.”

” What process of development ? ” Kryltsdv exclaimed, growing red in his face. ” We say that we are against arbitrariness and despotism, and is not this the most appalling despotism ? “

” There is no despotism about it,” Novodvdrov calmly replied. ” All I say is that I know the path over which the people must travel, and I can indicate this road.”

” But why are you convinced that the path which you indicate is the true one ? Is this not despotism, from which have resulted the Inquisition and the executions of the great Revolution ? They, too, knew from science the only true path.”

« The fact that they were mistaken does not prove that I am, too. Besides, there is a great difference between the raving of ideologists and the data of positive economic science.”

Novodvorov’s voice filled the cell. He alone was speaking, and everybody else was silent.

” They always dispute,” said Marya Pàvlovna, when he grew silent for a moment.

“ What do you yourself think about it ? ” Nekhlyudov asked Marya Pavlovna.

“ I think that Anatoli is right, that it is impossible to obtrude our views on the people.”

” Well, and you, Katyusha ? ” Nekhlyudov asked, smiling, timidly waiting for her answer, with misgivings lest she say something wrong.

“ I think that the common people are maltreated,” she said, flaming up ; ” they are dreadfully maltreated.”

“ Correct, Mikhaylovna, correct,” cried Nabàtov. ” The people are dreadfully maltreated. They must not be, and it is our business to see that they are not.”

” A strange conception about the problems of the revolution,” said Novodvorov, growing silent and angrily smoking a cigarette.

“ I cannot speak with him,” Kryltsov said, in a whisper, and grew silent.

« It is much better not to speak,” said Nekhlyudov.

XV.

Although Novodvorov was very much respected by all the revolutionists and passed for a very clever man, Nekhlyudov counted him among those revolutionists who, standing by their moral qualities below the average, were very much below it. The mental powers of this man — his numerator — were very great ; but his own opinion about himself — his denominator — was unbounded and had long ago outgrown his mental powers.

He was a man of a diametrically different composition of spiritual life from Simonsdn. Simonson was one of those men, of a preeminently masculine turn, whose acts flow from the activity of their minds, and are determined by them. But Novodvorov belonged to the category of men, of a preeminently feminine turn, whose activity of mind is directed partly to the realization of the aims posited by their feelings, and partly to the justification of their deeds evoked by their feelings.

Novodvdrov’s whole revolutionary activity, in spite of his ability eloquently to explain it by conclusive proofs, presented itself to Nekhlyudov as based only on vanity, on a desire to be a leader among men. Thanks to his ability to appropriate the ideas of others and correctly to transmit them, he was at first a leader, during the period of his studies, among his teachers and fellow students, where this ability is highly valued, — in the gymnasium, in the university, and while working for his master’s degree, — and he was satisfied. But when he received his diploma and stopped studying, and this leadership came to an end, he suddenly, so Kryltsdv, who did not like Novodvdrov, told Nekhlyudov, completely changed his views, and from a progressive liberal became a rabid adherent of the Popular Will. Thanks to the absence in his character of moral and æsthetic qualities, which call forth doubts and wavering, he soon occupied in the revolutionary world the position of a leader of the party, which satisfied his egotism.

Having once and for all chosen his direction, he never doubted nor wavered, and therefore he was convinced that he was never in error. Everything seemed unusually simple, clear, incontrovertible. And, in reality, with the narrowness and one-sidedness of his views, everything was simple and clear, and all that was necessary, as he said, was to be logical. His self-confidence was so great that it could only repel people or subdue them. And as his activity was displayed among very young people, who accepted his boundless self-confidence for depth of thought and wisdom, he had a great success in revolutionary circles. His activity consisted in preparing for an uprising, when he would take the government in his hand, and would call a popular parliament. To this parliament was to be submitted a programme which he had composed. He was absolutely convinced that this programme exhausted all the questions, and that it had to be carried out without fail.

His companions respected him for his boldness and determination, but did not love him. He himself did not love anybody, and looked upon all prominent people as his rivals ; he would gladly have treated them as male monkeys treat the young ones, if he could. He would have torn out all the mind, all the ability from other people, so that they might not interfere with the manifestation of his own ability. He was in good relations with only such people as bowed down before him. In such a manner he bore himself, on the road, toward the workman Kondràtev, who had been gained for the propaganda by him, and toward Vyéra Efrémovna and pretty Miss Grabéts, both of whom were in love with him. Though by principle he was for the woman question, yet, in the depth of his soul, he regarded all women as stupid and insignificant, with the exception of those with whom he frequently was sentimentally in love, as now with Miss Grabéts, and in that case he considered them to be unusual women, whose worth he alone was capable of appreciating.

The question about the relation of the sexes, like all other questions, seemed very simple and clear to him, and was fully solved by free love.

He had one fictitious and one real wife ; he had separated from the latter, having become convinced that there was no real love between them, and now he intended to enter into a new free marriage with Miss Grabéts.

He despised Nekhlyudov for being “ finical ” with Maslova, as he called it, and especially for allowing himself to think about the faults of the existing order and about the means for its improvement, not only not word for word as he himself did, but even in a special, princely, that is, stupid, manner. Nekhlyudov knew that Novodvorov had this feeling toward him, and, to his own sorrow, he felt that, in spite of the benevolent mood in which he was during his journey, he paid him with the same coin, and he was quite unable to suppress his strong antipathy for that man.

XVI.

In the neighbouring cell were heard voices of the authorities. Everything grew quiet, and immediately afterward the underofficer entered with two guards. This was the rollcall. The underofficer counted all, pointing his finger at each person. When it came to Nekhlyudov’s turn, he said, with good-hearted familiarity :

” Now, prince, after the rollcall you can’t remain here any longer. You must leave.”

Nekhlyudov knew what this meant, and so he went up to him and put three roubles, which he had held ready, into his hand.

” Well, what can I do with you ? Stay awhile longer ! ” The underofficer wanted to leave, when another underofficer entered, and after him a tall, lean prisoner with a black eye and scant beard.

” I come to see about the girl,” said the prisoner.

” Here is father,” was suddenly heard a melodious child’s voice, and a blond-haired little head rose back of Mrs. Rântsev, who, with Marya Pavlovna and Katyusha was sewing a new dress for the child from a skirt which she herself had offered for the purpose.

” I, daughter, I,” tenderly said Buzovkin.

” She is comfortable here,” said Marya Pavlovna, compassionately looking into Buzdvkin’s mauled face. “ Leave her here with us ! “

” The ladies are sewing a new garment for me,” said the girl, showing her father Mrs. Rantsev’s work. ” It is nice, — a red one,” she lisped.

” Do you want to stay overnight with us ? ” asked Mrs. Réntsev, stroking the girl.

” Yes. And father, too.”

Mrs. Rântsev beamed with a smile.

” Father can’t,” she said. “ So leave her here,” she turned to her father.

” Please leave her,” said the rollcall underofficer, stopping in the door and going away with the other underofficer.

The moment the guards left, Nabàtov went up to Buzdvkin and, touching his shoulder, said:

” Say, friend, is it true that Karmanov wants to change places ? “

Buzdvkin’s good-natured, kindly face suddenly became sad, and his eyes were covered by films.

” We have not heard. Hardly,” he said, and, without losing the films over his eyes, he added : ” Well, Aksyutka, have a good time with the ladies,” and hastened to go out.

” He knows everything, and it is true that they have exchanged,” said Nabâtov. “ What are you going to do about it ? ”

” I will tell the authorities in town. I know them both by sight,” said Nekhlyudov.

Everybody was silent, apparently fearing the renewal of the dispute.

Simonsfin, who had all the time been lying in silence in a corner of the benches, with his arms thrown back of his head, rose with determination and, carefully walking around those who were sitting up, went up to Nekhlyudov.

” Can you listen to me now ? “

” Of course,” said Nekhlyudov, getting up in order to follow him.

Looking at Nekhlyudov, as he was getting up, and her eyes meeting his, Katyusha grew red in her face and shook her head, as though in doubt.

” This is what I have to say,” began Simonsdn, when he had reached the corridor with Nekhlyudov. In the corridor the din and the explosions of the prisoners’ voices were quite audible. Nekhlyudov frowned at them, but Simonsdn was evidently not disturbed by them.

” Knowing of your relations with Katerina Mikhaylovna,” he began, looking with his kindly eyes straight at Nekhlyudov’s countenance, ” I consider it my duty,” he continued, but was compelled to stop, because near the door two voices were quarrelling about something, shouting both together.

” I am telling you, dummy, it is not mine,” cried one voice.

” Choke yourself, devil,” the other exclaimed, hoarsely.

Just then Màrya Pàvlovna came out into the corridor.

“How can you talk here,” she said. “Go in here. There is none but Vyéra there.” And she walked ahead into the adjoining door of a tiny single cell, which was now turned over to the use of the political women. On the benches, covering up her head, lay Vyéra Efrémovna.

” She has megrim. She is asleep and does not hear ; and I will go out,” said Marya Pavlovna.

“ On the contrary, you may stay,” said Simonsdn. ” I have no secrets from anybody, least of all from you.”

“All right,” said Màrya Pavlovna, and in childish fashion moving her whole body from side to side, and with this motion receding farther and farther on the benches, she got ready to listen, looking with her beautiful sheep eyes somewhere into the distance.

“So this is what I have to say,” repeated Simonsdn. “ Knowing your relations with Katerina Mikhàylovna, I consider it my duty to inform you of my relations with her.”

“ Well, what is it ? ” asked Nekhlyudov, involuntarily admiring the simplicity and truthfulness with which Simonsdn spoke to him.

“ I should like to marry Katerina Mikhaylovna — ”

“Wonderful,” said Màrya Pàvlovna, resting her eyes upon Simonsdn.

“ — and 1 have decided to ask her about it, — to become my wife,” continued Simonsdn.

“ What can 1 do here ? This depends upon her,” said Nekhlyudov.

“ Yes, but she will not decide this question without you.” ” Why ? ”

” Because, as long as the question of your relations with her is not definitely solved, she cannot choose anything.”

“ From my side the question is definitely solved. I wished to do that which I regarded as my duty, and, besides, I wanted to alleviate her condition, but under no consideration do I wish to exert any pressure.”

“ Yes, but she does not wish your sacrifice.”

“ There is no sacrifice whatsoever.”

“ But I know that this decision of hers is unshakable.”

“ Why, then, should you speak with me ? ” said Nekhlyudov.

“ She must be sure that you accept the same view.”

“ How can I say that I must not do that which I consider my duty to do ? All I can say is that I am not free to do as I please, but she is.”

Simonsdn was silent for awhile, lost in thought.

” Very well, I will tell her so. Don’t imagine that I am in love with her,” he continued. “ I love her as a beautiful, rare person who has suffered much. I want nothing from her, but I am very anxious to help her, to alleviate her con— ”

Nekhlyudov was surprised to hear Simonsdn’s voice quiver.

“ — to alleviate her condition,” continued Simonsdn. “If she does not want to accept your aid, let her accept mine. If she consented to it, I should petition to be sent into exile with her. Four years are not an eternity. I

should be living near her, and might be able to ease her fate — ” He again stopped from agitation.

“ What shall I say ? ” said Nekhlyudov. “ I am glad she has found such a protector in you — “

« It is this which I wanted to find out,” continued Simonson. ” I wanted to know whether, in loving her and wishing her good, you would regard as good her marrying me ? ”

” Why, yes,” Nekhlyudov said, with determination.

“ I am concerned only about her. I want to see this suffering soul at rest,” said Simonson, looking at Nekhlyudov with childish tenderness, such as could hardly have been expected from a man of such gloomy aspect.

Simonson arose and, taking Nekhlyudov by the hand, drew his face toward him, smiled shamefacedly, and kissed him.

” I will tell her so,” he said, going out.

XVII.

“Well, I declare,” said Marya Pavlovna. “He is in love, just in love. I should never have expected Vladimir Simonstfn to fall in love in such a stupid and boyish way. Wonderful ! To tell you the truth, it pains me,” she concluded, with a sigh.

” How about Katyusha ? How do you think she looks upon it ? ” asked Nekhlyudov.

“ She ? ” Mârya Pàvlovna stopped, apparently wishing to reply to the question as precisely as possible. ” She ? You see, notwithstanding her past, she is by nature one of the most moral persons — and her feelings are refined — She loves you, loves you well, and is happy to be able to do you at least the negative good of not getting you entangled through herself. For her, marrying you would be a terrible fall, worse than her former fall, and so she will never consent to it. At the same time your presence agitates her.”

” Well, then I had better disappear?” said Nekhlyudov.

Mârya Pâvlovna smiled her sweet, childlike smile.

“ Yes, partly.”

“ How can I disappear partly ? ”

“ I have told you nonsense. But I wanted to tell you about her that, no doubt, she sees the absurdity of his so-called ecstatic love (he does not tell her anything), and she is flattered and afraid of it. You know, I am not competent in these matters, but it seems to me that on his side it is nothing but the common male sentiment, even though it be masked. He says that this love increases his

energy, and that it is a platonic love. But I know this much, that if it is an exceptional love, at the base of it lies the same nastiness, — as with Novodvorov and Lyubochka.”

Marya Pavlovna was departing from the question, having struck her favourite theme.

” But what am I to do ? ” asked Nekhlyudov.

” I think you ought to tell her. It is always better to have everything clear. Talk with her! I will call her. Do you want me to ? ” said Mdrya Pavlovna.

“If you please,” said Nekhlyudov, and Marya Pavlovna went out.

A strange feeling came over Nekhlyudov, when he was left alone in the small cell, listening to the quiet breathing, now and then interrupted by the groans of Vyéra Efrémovna, and the din of the criminals, which was heard without interruption beyond two doors.

What Simonson had told him freed him from the obligation which he had assumed and which, in moments of weakness, had appeared hard and strange to him, and yet he not only had an unpleasant, but even a painful, sensation. This feeling was united with another, which reminded him that Simonson’s proposition destroyed the singularity of his deed, and diminished in his own eyes and in those of others the value of the sacrifice which he was bringing : if a man, such a good man, who was not bound to her by any ties, wished to unite his fate with hers, his sacrifice was not so important, after all. There was also, no doubt, the simple feeling of jealousy : he was so used to her love for him that he could not admit the possibility of her loving anybody else. There was also the destruction of the plan which he had formed, — to live by her side as long as she had to suffer punishment. If she was to marry Simonsdn, his presence would become superfluous, and he would have to form a new plan for his life.

lie had not yet succeeded in disentangling all his feelings, when through the opened door broke the intensified din of the criminals (there was something special going on there), and Katyusha entered the cell.

She walked over to him with rapid steps.

” Marya Pavlovna has sent me to you,” she said, stopping close to him.

” Yes, I must speak with you. Sit down ! Vladimir Ivdnovich has been speaking with me.”

She sat down, folding her hands on her knees, and seemed to be calm, but the moment Nekhlyudov pronounced Simonsdn’s name, she flushed red.

” What did he tell you ? ” she asked.

“He told me that he wanted to marry you.”

Her face suddenly became wrinkled, expressing suffering. She said nothing, and only lowered her eyes.

“ He asks for my consent or advice. I told him that everything depended upon you, — that you must decide.”

“ Ah, what is this ? What for ? ” she muttered, looking into Nekhlyudov’s eyes with that strange, squinting glance, which had a peculiar, strong effect upon him. They looked into each other’s eyes in silence for a few seconds. This glance spoke much to both of them.

“You must decide,” repeated Nekhlyudov.

” What am I to decide ? ” she said. “ Everything has been decided long ago.”

” No, you must decide whether you accept Vladimir Ivanovich’s proposition,” said Nekhlyudov.

” What kind of a wife can I, a convict, make ? Why should I ruin Vladimir Ivanovich’s life, also ? ” she said, frowning.

” But, suppose you should be pardoned ? ” said Nekhlyudov.

“ Oh, leave me in peace ! There is nothing else to say,” she said, and, rising, went out of the room.

XVIII.

When Nekhlyudov followed Katyusha to the male cell, all were in great agitation. Nabàtov, who walked about everywhere, who entered into relations with everybody, who observed everything, had brought a piece of news which stirred them all. This news was that he had found a note on the wall, written by revolutionist Pétliu, who had been sentenced to hard labour. Everybody had supposed that Pétlin had long been at Kara, and now it appeared that he had but lately passed over this road, along with the criminals.

“ On August 17th,” so ran the note, ” I was sent out all alone with the criminals. Nevyérov was with me, but he hanged himself at Kazan, in the insane asylum. I am well and in good spirits, and hope for the best.”

Everybody discussed Pétlin’s condition and the causes of Nevyérov’s suicide. Kryltsov, however, kept silent, with a concentrated look, glancing ahead of him with his arrested, sparkling eyes.

” My husband told me that Nevyérov had had a vision while locked up at Petropavlovsk,” said Mrs. Ràntsev.

” Yes, a poet, a visionary, — such people cannot stand solitary confinement,” said Novodvorov. “Whenever I was kept in solitary confinement, I did not allow my imagination to work, but arranged my time in the most systematic manner. For this reason I bore it well.”

“ Why not bear it ? I used to be so happy when I was locked up,” said Nabàtov, with vivacity, apparently wishing to dispel gloomy thoughts. ” I used to be afraid that I should be caught, that I should get others mixed up, and that I should spoil the cause ; but the moment I was locked up, all responsibility stopped : I could take a rest. All 1 had to do was to sit and smoke.”

” Did you know him well ? ” asked Màrya Pàvlovna, looking restlessly at the suddenly changed, drawn face of Kryltsdv.

“ Nevyérov a visionary ? ” suddenly said Kryltsov, choking, as though he had been crying or singing long. ” Nevyérov was a man such as the earth does not bear often, as our porter used to say. Yes. He was a man of crystal, — you could see through him. Yes. He not only could not tell a lie, he did not even know how to feign. He was more than thin-skinned : he was all lacerated, so to speak, and his nerves were exposed to view. Yes. A complex, a rich nature, not such— Well, what is the use of talking ? ” He was silent for a moment. ” We would be discussing what was better,” he said, with a scowl, ” first to educate the people, and then change the forms of life, or first to change the forms of life, and then how to struggle, whether by peaceful propaganda, or by terrorism. We would be discussing. Yes. But they did not discuss matters. They knew their business. For them it was all the same whether dozens and hundreds of men, and what men, would perish. Yes, Herzen has said that when the Decembrists were removed from the circulation, the level was lowered. How could they help lowering it ! Then they took Herzen and his contemporaries out of circulation. And now the Nevyérovs— “

“ They will not destroy all of them,” said Nabàtov, in his vivacious voice. ” There will be enough left to breed anew.”

” No, there will not be, if we pity them” said Kryltsév, raising his voice and not allowing himself to be interrupted. ” Give me a cigarette ! “

“ It is not good for you, Anatôli,” said Màrya Pàvlovna.

“ Please, don’t smoke ! “

” Oh, leave me in peace,” he said, angrily, lighting a cigarette. He soon began to cough, and he looked as though he were going to vomit. He spit out and continued :

” We did not do the right thing. We ought not to have been discussing, but banding together to destroy them.”

« But they are men, too,” said Nekhlyudov.

” No, they are not men, — those who can do what they are doing. They say they have invented bombs and balloons. We ought to rise in the air in these balloons and pour down bombs on them as on bedbugs, until not one of them is left. Yes. Because — ” he began, but he grew red in his face and coughed even more than before, and the blood rushed out of his mouth.

Nabàtov ran out for some snow. Marya Pavlovna took out some valerian drops and offered them to him, but he, with closed eyes, pushed her away with his white, lean hand, and breathed heavily and rapidly. When the snow and cold water had given him some relief, and he was put to bed for the night, Nekhlyudov bade everybody goodbye and went toward the door with the underofficer, who had come for him and had been waiting for him quite awhile.

The criminals were now quieted down, and most of them were asleep. Although the people in the cells were lying on the benches and beneath the benches and in the aisles, they could not all find a place, and some of them lay on the floor of the corridor, having placed their bags under their heads and their damp cloaks over them. Through the doors of the cells and in the corridor could be heard snoring, groans, and sleepy conversation. Everywhere could be seen masses of human figures, covered with their cloaks. A few men in the bachelor criminal cell were not asleep: they were seated around a dip, which they extinguished when they saw the soldier. In the corridor, under the lamp, an old man was sitting up, naked, and picking off the vermin from his shirt. The foul air of the quarters of the politicals seemed fresh in comparison with the close stench which was spread here. The smoking lamp appeared as though through a fog, and it was hard to breathe. In order to make one’s way through the corridor, without stepping on any of the sleepers or tripping up, it was necessary first to find a clear spot ahead and, having placed the foot there, to find a similar spot for the next step. Three people, who apparently had been unable to find a place even in the corridor, had located themselves in the vestibule near the stink-vat, where the foul water moistened their very clothing. One of these was a foolish old man, whom Nekhlyudov had frequently seen on the marches ; another was a ten-year-old boy : he lay between the two prisoners, and, putting his hand under his chin, was sleeping over the leg of one of them.

Upon coming out of the gate, Nekhlyudov stopped and, expanding his chest to the full capacity of his lungs, for a long time intensely inhaled the frosty air.

XIX.

The stars had come out. Over the crusted mud, which only in spots broke through, Nekhlyudov returned to his inn. He knocked at the dark window, and the broad-shouldered servant in his bare feet opened the door for him and let him into the vestibule. On the right hand of the vestibule could be heard the snoring of the drivers in the servant-room ; in front, beyond the door, was heard the chewing of oats by a large number of horses in the yard. On the left, a door led to the clean guest-room. The clean guest-room smelled of wormwood and sweat, and beyond a partition was heard the even sucking snore of some mighty lungs, and in a red glass burnt a lamp in front of the images. Nekhlyudov undressed himself, spread his plaid on the wax-cloth sofa, adjusted his leather pillow, and lay down, mentally running over all he had heard and seen on that day. Of everything he had seen, the most terrible appeared to him the sight of the boy sleeping in the foul puddle formed by the stink-vat, by placing his head on the leg of the prisoner.

In spite of the unexpectedness and importance of his evening conversation with Simonson and Katyusha, he did not dwell on that event: his relation to it was too complex and, besides, too indefinite, and therefore he kept all thought of it away from himself. But so much the more vividly he thought of the spectacle of those unfortunate beings, who were strangling in the foul atmosphere and who were wallowing in the liquid which oozed out from the stink-vat, and, especially, of the boy with the innocent face, who was sleeping on the prisoner’s leg, which did not leave his mind.

To know that somewhere far away one set of people torture another, subjecting them to all kinds of debauches, inhuman humiliations, and suffering, or for the period of three months continually to see that debauch and the torture practised by one class of people on another, is quite a different thing. Nekhlyudov was experiencing this. During these three months he had asked himself more than once : ” Am I insane because I see that which others do not see, or are those insane who produce that which I see ? ” But the people (and there were so many of them) produced that which so bewildered and terrified him with such quiet conviction that it must be so, and that that which they were doing was an important and useful work, that it was hard to pronounce all these people insane ; nor could he pronounce himself insane, because he was conscious of the clearness of his thoughts. Consequently he was in continuous doubt.

What Nekhlyudov had seen during these three months presented itself to him in this form: from all people who are living at large, by means of the courts and the administration, are selected the most nervous, ardent, excitable, gifted, and strong individuals, who are less cunning and cautious than the rest, and these people, not more guilty or more dangerous to society than those who are at liberty, are locked up in prisons, halting-places, and mines, where they are kept for months and years in complete idleness and material security, and removed from Nature, family, and labour, that is, they are forced outside all the conditions of a natural and moral human existence. So much in the first place. In the second place, these people are in these establishments subjected to all kinds of unnecessary humiliation, — to chains, shaven heads, and disgracing attire, that is, they are deprived of what is, for weak people, the chief motor of a good life, — of the care of human opinion, of shame, of the consciousness of human dignity. In the third place, being continually subject to the perils of life, — not to mention the exceptional cases of sunstroke, drowning, fires, of the everpresent contagious diseases in the places of confinement, of exhaustion, and of beatings, — these people are all the time in that condition, when the best and most moral man, from a feeling of self-preservation, commits and condones the most terrible and cruel acts. In the fourth place, these people aro forced to have exclusive intercourse with dissolute people who have been corrupted by life, and especially by these very institutions, — with murderers and villains, who, as a leaven on the dough, act on all the others who have not yet been completely corrupted by the means employed against them. And, at last, in the fifth place, all the people who are subjected to these influences are, in the most persuasive manner, encouraged, by means of all kinds of inhuman acts committed in regard to themselves, — by means of the torture of children, women, and old men, of beating and flogging with rods and straps, of offering rewards to those who will give up alive or dead a fugitive, of separating men from their wives and connecting for cohabitation strange men with strange women, of shooting and hanging, — they are encouraged in the most persuasive manner to believe that all kinds of violence, cruelty, bestiality, are not only not forbidden but even permitted by the government, when it derives any advantage from them, and that therefore they are especially permissible to those who are under duress, in misery and want.

All these institutions seemed to him to have been specially invented in order to produce the compactest possible debauch and vice, such as could not be attained under any other conditions, with the further purpose in view later to disseminate the compact debauch and vices in their broadest extent among the people. ” It looks as though a problem had been put how to corrupt the largest possible number in the best and surest manner,” thought Nekhlyudov, as he tried to get at the essence of jails and prisons. Hundreds of thousands of people were every year brought to the highest degree of corruption, and when they were thus completely debauched, they were let loose to carry the corruption, which they had acquired in confinement, among the masses.

Nekhlyudov saw how this aim, which society had in view, was successfully reached in the prisons of Tyumen, Ekaterinburg, and Tomsk, and at the halting-places. People, simple, common people, brought up in the tenets of Russian social, Christian, peasant morality, abandoned these conceptions and acquired new prison ideas, which consisted mainly in the conviction that every outrage and violation of the? human personality, every destruction of the same, was permissible whenever it was advantageous. People, who had lived in the prisons, with all their being came to see that, to judge from what was being done to them, all the moral laws of respect and compassion for man, which had been preached by religious and moral teachers, were, in reality, removed, and that, therefore, there was no need for holding on to them. Nekhlyudov saw this process in all the prisoners whom he knew : in Fédorov, in Makdr, and even in Tarés, who, having passed two months with the convicts, impressed Nekhlyudov by the immorality of his judgments. On his way, Nekhlyudov learned that vagabonds, who run away to the Tayga, persuade their comrades to run with them, and then kill them and feed on their flesh. He saw a living man who was accused of it, and who acknowledged this to be true. Most terrible was the fact that these were not isolated cases, but of common occurrence.

Only by a special cultivation of vice, such as is carried on in these institutions, could a Russian be brought to that condition to which the vagabonds are brought, who have anticipated Nietzsche’s doctrine and consider nothing forbidden, and who spread this doctrine, at first among the prisoners, and later among the people at large.

The only explanation of all that which was going on was that it was intended as an abatement of evil, as a threat, correction, and legal retribution. But, in reality, there was not any semblance of any of these things. Instead of abatement, there was only dissemination of crimes. Instead of threat, there was only encouragement of criminals, many of whom, as, for example, the vagabonds, voluntarily entered the prisons. Instead of correction, there was a systematic spreading of all the vices, while the need of retribution was not only not lessened by governmental punishment, but was even nurtured among the masses, where it did not exist before.

” Why, then, do they do all these things ? ” Nekhlyudov asked himself, and found no answer.

What surprised him most was that all this was not done at haphazard, by mistake, incidentally, but continuously, in the course of centuries, with this distinction only, that in former days they had their noses slit and their ears cut off, then, later, they were branded and beaten with rods, and now they were manacled and transported by steam, instead of carts.

The reflection that that which provoked him originated, as those serving in these institutions told him, in the imperfection of the arrangements at the places of confinement and deportation, and that all this could be remedied, did not satisfy Nekhlyudov, because he felt that that which provoked him had nothing to do with the more or less perfect arrangements of the places of confinement. He had read about perfected prisons with electric bells, of electrocutions, recommended by Tarde, and this perfected violence offended him only more.

What provoked Nekhlyudov was, mainly, because there were people in the courts and ministries, who received large salaries, collected from the masses, for consulting

OJ.

books written by just such officials, with just such aims, for classifying the acts of men who had violated the laws which were written by them, according to certain articles, and for sending these people, in accordance with these articles, to places where they would never see them again, and where these people, under full control of cruel, hardened superintendents, wardens, and guards, perished mentally and bodily by the million.

Having become closely acquainted with the prisons and halting-places, Nekhlyudov noticed that all the vices which are developed among the prisoners, drunkenness, gambling, cruelty, and all those terrible crimes which are committed by the inmates of the prisons, and even cannibalism itself, are not accidents or phenomena of degeneration, criminalism, and cretinism, as dull savants explain it, playing into the hands of the governments, but the inevitable result of the incredible error that people may punish others. Nekhlyudov saw that the cannibalism did not begin in the Tayga, but in the ministries, committees, and departments, and was only accomplished in the Tàyga ; that his brother - in - law, for example, and all the court members and officials, beginning with the captain of police and ending with the minister, were not in the least concerned about justice or the people’s weal, of which they spoke ; and that they all wanted only those roubles which they were paid for doing that from which originated this corruption and suffering. That was quite evident.

” Is it possible all this has been done by mistake ? Could there not be invented a means for securing a salary for these officials, and even offering them a premium, provided that they should abstain from doing all that they are doing ? ” thought Nekhlyudov. With this thought, after the second cock-crow, he fell into a heavy sleep, in spite of the fleas which spirted around him as from a fountain, every time he stirred.

XX.

When Nekhlyudov awoke, the drivers had left long ago, the hostess had had her tea, and, wiping her stout, sweaty neck with her kerchief, she came to inform him that a soldier from the halting-place had brought him a note. The note was from Mârya Pâvlovna. She wrote that Kryltsdv’s attack was more serious than they had thought. “At one time we wanted to leave him and stay with him, but that we were not allowed to do, and so we will take him along, but we fear the worst. Try to arrange it so in the city that, if he is to be left behind, one of us may stay with him. If, in order to accomplish this, it is necessary for me to marry him, I am, of course, ready to do so.”

Nekhlyudov sent the lad to the station for the horses and at once began to pack. He had not finished his second glass of tea, when the stage trdyka, tinkling with its little bells and rattling with its wheels on the frozen mud as on a pavement, drove up to the steps. Nekhlyudov paid his bill to the stout-necked hostess. He hastened to go out, and, seating himself in the wicker body of the cart, ordered the driver to go as fast as possible, in order to catch up with the party. Not far from the gate of the herding enclosure he fell in with the carts which were loaded with bags and sick people, and which rattled over the tufty, frozen mud. The officer was not there, — he had driven ahead. The soldiers, who had evidently had some liquor, were chatting merrily, walking behind and on the sides of the road.

There were many carts. In each of the front carts sat, closely huddled together, about six feeble criminals ; in the hind vehicles rode the politicals, three in each. In the very last sat Novodvdrov, Miss Grabéts, and Kondrâtev; in the one before it, Mrs. Rântsev, Nabâtov, and that weak, rheumatic woman to whom Marya Pâvlovna had given up her place ; in front of this was the vehicle in which Kryltsdv lay on hay and pillows. Mârya Pâvlovna sat on a box, near him. Nekhlyudov stopped his driver near Kryltsdv’s vehicle, and went up to him. An intoxicated guard waved his hand to him, but Nekhlyudov paid no attention to him. He walked over to the cart, and, holding on to a round, walked alongside. Kryltsov, in sheepskin coat and a lamb-fur cap, his mouth wrapped up in a kerchief, looked even more haggard and pale than the day before. His beautiful eyes seemed to be particularly large and sparkling. Swaying feebly from the jolts of the cart, he did not take his eyes off Nekhlyudov, and, in response to his question about his health, he only closed his eyes and angrily shook his head. His whole energy was apparently employed in bearing the jolts. Marya Pâvlovna was sitting at the farther end of the cart. She cast a significant glance at Nekhlyudov, which expressed all her anxiety about Kryltsdv’s condition, and then she spoke in a merry voice.

” Evidently the officer was ashamed,” she shouted, so that Nekhlyudov might hear her through the rumble of the wheels. ” They have taken off Buzdvkin’s manacles. He is carrying the girl himself, and with them walk Katyusha and Simonsdn, and Vyéra, in my place.”

Kryltsdv said something which could not be heard, pointing to Mârya Pâvlovna, and, frowning, in an effort to repress a cough, shook his head. Then Kryltsdv raised the handkerchief from his mouth and whispered :

“ Now I am much better. If onlv I won’t catch any cold ! “

Nekhlyudov nodded his head affirmatively and exchanged glances with Mârya Pâvlovna.

” Well, how is the problem of the three bodies ? ” Krylt-s6v whispered and smiled a heavy, painful smile. ” Is the solution hard ? “

Nekhlyudov did not understand him, but Marya Pavlovna explained to him that it was a famous mathematical problem about the determination of the relation of three bodies, of the sun, moon, and earth, and that Krylt-s6v had jestingly applied this comparison in relation to Nekhlyudov, Katyusha, and Simonson. Kryltsov shook his head, in token of Marya Pavlovna’s correct explanation of his jest.

” It is not for me to solve it,” said Nekhlyudov.

” Did you get my note ? Will you do it ? ” Marya Pavlovna asked.

” By all means,” said Nekhlyudov, and, noticing dissatisfaction in Kryltsdv’s face, he went back to his vehicle, climbed into its sunken wicker body, and, holding on to the sides of the cart, which jolted him over the clumps of the uneven road, he drove fast ahead along the party of prisoners in gray cloaks and of chained and manacled men in short fur coats, which stretched out for a whole verst. On the opposite side of the road he recognized Katyusha’s blue kerchief, Vyéra Efrdmovna’s black wrap, and Simonson’s jacket and knit cap, his white woollen stockings, winch were tied up by straps in the shape of sandals. He was walking by the women’s side, and discussing something excitedly.

Upon noticing Nekhlyudov, the women bowed to him, and Simonson solemnly raised his cap. Nekhlyudov did not have anything to say to them, so he did not stop his driver, but drove past them. When the driver rode out on the smooth road, he went even faster, but he was all the time compelled to get off the road in order to avoid the loaded wagons which were going on both sides of the highway.

The road, which was all cut up by deep ruts, ran through a dark pine forest, which on both sides was interspersed with the bright sand-yellow autumn leafage of birches and other trees. About half-way between the stations the forest came to an end, and there appeared fields and the crosses and cupolas of a monastery. Day was now out in all its glory ; the clouds were dispersed ; the sun had risen above the forest ; and the damp leaves, and the puddles, and the cupolas, and the crosses of the church shone brightly in the sun. In front and toward the right, the grayish-blue mountains could be seen in the far distance. The troyka drove into a large suburban village. The street was full of people, both Russians and natives in their strange caps and cloaks. Drunken and sober men and women swarmed and chattered near the shops, inns, taverns, and wagons. One could feel the nearness of the city.

Giving the right horse the whip and pulling in the rein, the driver sat down sidewise on his box, so that the reins were on his right, and, apparently trying to appear dashing, flew down the wide street, and, without checking in his horses, drove down to the river’s bank, which was to be crossed by means of a ferry. The ferry was in the middle of the swift river and was coming toward them. On this side about ten wagons were waiting for it. Nekhlyudov did not have to wait long. The ferry, which, to stem the current, was going a long distance above them, carried down by the water, soon landed near the boards of the landing-place.

The tall, broad-chested, muscular, and silent ferrymen, in short fur coats and Siberian boots, threw up the cables and fastened them to posts and, opening the bars, let out the wagons which were standing on the ferry, and again began to load the ferry with the wagons on the shore, putting them close together, and beside them the horses, which shied from the water. The swift and broad river washed the sides of the boats of the ferry, straining the

cables. When the ferry was full and Nekhlyudov’s vehicle, with its horses detached, pressed in on all sides, stood at one end, the ferrymen put up the bars, paying no attention to those who had failed to find a place on the ferry, took off the cables, and started across. On the ferry everything was quiet, except for the thud of the ferrymen’s steps and the tramp of the hoofs of the horses on the boards, as they changed their position.

XXL

NekhlyÛdov stood at the edge of the ferry, looking at the broad, rapid river. In his imagination, one after another, rose two pictures : the angry head of dying Kryltsdv, shaking from the jolting, and Katyusha’s form, briskly walking with Simonson at the edge of the road. The one impression, that of the dying Kryltsdv, who was unprepared for death, was oppressive and sad. The other impression, that of vivacious Katyusha, who had found the love of such a man as Simonsdn, and who now was standing on the firm and secure path of goodness, ought to have been cheerful, but to Nekhlyudov it, too, was oppressive, and he was not able to overcome this oppressive feeling.

From the city was borne over the water the din and the metallic tremor of a large church bell. The driver, who was standing near Nekhlyudov, and all the other drivers one after another took off their caps and made the sign of the cross. But a shaggy-haired old man, who was standing nearest to the balustrade, and whom Nekhlyudov had not noticed before, did not cross himself, but, raising his head, stared at Nekhlyudov. This old man was clad in a long patched coat, cloth trousers, and worn out, patched boots. On his back was a small wallet, and on his head a tall, hairless fur cap.

” Old man, why do you not pray ? ” said Nekhlyudov’s driver, putting on and adjusting his cap. ” Are you not a Christian ? “

« To whom shall I pray ? ” said the shaggy-haired old

man, in a firm, provoking tone, and rapidly pronouncing one syllable after another.

” Of course, to God ! ” the driver retorted, ironically.

“ You show me where He is ! I mean God ! “

There was something serious and firm in the expression of the old man, so that the driver, who felt that he had to do with a strong man, was a little confused ; however, he did not show it, and, trying not to be silenced and shamed before the public present, he rapidly answered :

” Where ? Of course, in heaven ! “

” Have you been there ? “

“No, I have not, but everybody knows that we must pray to God.”

“ Nobody has ever seen God. The only begotten Son, who is in His Father’s lap, He has appeared,” said the old man, with a stern frown and speaking just as fast.

“You are evidently an infidel, and you pray to a hole in the ground,” said the driver, sticking the whip-handle in his belt and fixing the off-horse’s crupper.

Somebody laughed out.

“ Grandfather, what is your faith ? ” asked a middle-aged man, who was standing with a wagon at the edge of the ferry.

” I have no faith whatever. I do not believe in anybody but myself,” the old man answered just as fast and with the same determination.

“ How can you believe in yourself ? ” said Nekhlyudov, taking part in the conversation. “You might make a mistake.”

“ Not on my life,” the old man replied, with determination, shaking his head.

“ Why, then, are there different religions ? ” asked Nekhlyudov.

“ There are different religions, because people will believe others, but not themselves. I used to believe others, and I wandered about, as in the Tayga ; I got so entangled that I thought I would never get out from it. There are Old-believers and New-believers, Sabbatarians, Flagellants, the Popish, the Popeless, Austrians, Milkers, and Eunuchs. Every faith praises itself up. And so they have all crawled apart like blind pups. There are many faiths, but the spirit is one, — in you, in me, and in him. Consequently, let everybody believe in his spirit, and all will be connected ! Let each be for himself, and all will be united ! ”

The old man spoke loud and looked around all the time, apparently wishing to be heard by as many people as possible.

“ Well, have you believed so for a long time?” Nekhlyudov asked him.

“I ? For a long time. They have been persecuting me these twenty-three years.”

“ How, persecuting ? ”

“ As they persecuted Christ, so they persecute me. They grab me, and take me to courts and to priests,— they take me to the scribes and to the Pharisees. They have had me in the insane asylum. But they can’t do anything with me, and so I am free. — ‘ What is your name ? ‘ they say. They think that I will accept some calling, but I do not. I have renounced everything: I have neither name, nor place, nor country,— I have nothing. I am myself. How do they call me? Man.

— ‘ How old are you ? ‘ — I do not count my years, I say, because it is impossible to count them : I have always been, and I shall always be. — ‘ Who is your father and mother?’ — No, I say, I have no father, nor mother, except God and earth. God is my father, and the earth my mother. — ‘ And do you acknowledge the Tsar? — Why not acknowledge him ? He is a tsar, and so am I.

— ‘What good does it do to talk with you?’ they say. And I answer: I do not even ask you to talk with me. And so they torment me.”

“ Where are you going now ? ” asked Nekhlyudov.

” Whither God will take me. I work, and when I have no work, I beg,” ended the old man, noticing that the ferry was approaching the other side. He cast a victorious glance upon all those who had been listening to him.

The ferry landed at the other shore. Nekhlyudov drew out his purse and offered the old man some money. The old man refused it.

” I do not take this. I take bread,” he said.

” Well, forgive me.”

“ There is nothing to forgive. You have not offended me. It is impossible to offend me,” said the old man, shouldering the wallet, which he had taken off. In the meantime the stage vehicle was taken ashore and hitched up again.

“ What good, sir, does it do you to talk with him ? ” said the driver, when Nekhlyudov, having feed the powerful ferrymen, climbed into the cart. ” He is a senseless vagabond.”

XXII.

Upon arriving at the summit of a hill, the driver turned back.

” To what hotel shall I take you ? ”

“ Which is the best ? ”

” Nothing better than * Siberia.’ It is nice at Due’s, too.”

The driver again sat down sidewise and gave the horses the reins. The town was like all towns : the same houses with the mezzanines and green roofs ; the same cathedral, the same small and large shops, and even the same policemen. The only difference was that nearly all the houses were frame buildings, and the streets not paved. In one of the most animated streets the driver stopped the vehicle in front of a hotel. There were no rooms to be had in that hotel, and so he had to drive to another. In this one an unoccupied room was found, and Nekhlyudov, for the first time in two months, found himself under the customary conditions of comparative cleanliness and comfort. The room which was given to Nekhlyudov was not very luxurious, but he experienced a great relief after the stage, the inns, and the halting-places. Above everything else, he had to clean himself from the lice, of which he never could completely rid himself after his visits at the halting-places.

He unpacked his things, and at once drove to the bathhouse ; then, having donned his city clothes, a starched shirt, creased trousers, a black coat, and an overcoat, he made for the chief of the district. The large, well-fed Kirghiz horse of a quivering light vehicle, which the porter of the hotel had called up for him, took him to a large, handsome building, before which stood sentries and a policeman. In front of the house and back of it was a garden, in which, amidst bared aspens and birches, with their towering branches, could be seen the thick, dark green foliage of pines, firs, and spruces.

The general was not well and did not receive. Nekhlyudov, nevertheless, asked the lackey to take in his card, and the lackey returned with a favourable answer.

” Please come in ! “

The antechamber, the lackey, the orderly, the staircase, the parlour with the shining, waxed parquetry, — all that was like St. Petersburg, only more dirty and majestic. Nekhlyudov was taken to the cabinet.

The general, a puffed-up man, with a potato-shaped nose, protruding bumps on his forehead and closely cropped skull, and skin-bags under his eyes, a man of a sanguine temperament, was sitting in a silk Tartar morning-gown, and, with a cigarette in his hand, was drinking tea from a glass in a silver saucer.

” Good morning, sir ! Excuse me for receiving you in my morning-gown. It is certainly better than not to receive you at all,” he said, covering with his gown the stout, wrinkled nape of his neck. ” I am not very well, and do not go out. What has brought you here, to our out-of-the-way realm ? “

“ I have been accompanying a party of prisoners, in which there is a person near to me,” said Nekhlyudov, ” and I have come to ask your Excellency something, partly in respect to this person, and partly in another matter.”

The general puffed at his cigarette, sipped some tea, put out the cigarette against a malachite ash-tray, and, without taking his narrow, swimming, sparkling eyes off Nekhlyudov, listened to what he had to say. He interrupted him only to ask him whether he did not want to smoke.

The general belonged to the type of learned military men who regarded liberalism and humanitarianism as compatible with their calling. But, being by nature an intelligent and good man, he soon convinced himself of the impossibility of such a union, and, in order not to see the internal contradiction, in which he was continually moving, he more and more became addicted to the habit of drinking wine, so widespread among military men, and grew to be such a victim of this habit that, after thirty-five years of service, he was what physicians denominate an alcoholic. He was all saturated with wine. It was enough for him to drink any liquid in order to feel intoxicated. Drinking wine had become such a necessity with him that he could not live without it ; in the evening he was almost always quite drunk, but he had become so used to this condition that he did not stagger or speak foolishly. Or, if he did, he occupied such an important and leading position that, whatever insipidity he might utter, it was taken for wisdom. Only in the morning, just as when Nekhlyudov met him, he resembled a sensible man and was able to comprehend what was said to him, and more or less successfully to verify the problem, which he was fond of repeating : Drunk and clever, — two advantages ever. The higher authorities knew that he was a drunkard, but he was more educated than the rest, — although he had stopped in his education there where drunkenness overtook him, — that he was bold, agile, representative, that he could carry himself tactfully even though drunk, and so he was appointed to and kept in that prominent and responsible position which he was occupying.

Nekhlyudov told him that the person who interested him was a woman, that she was unjustly condemned, and that the emperor had been appealed to.

” Yes, sir. Well, sir ? ” said the general

” I was promised in St. Petersburg that the information about this woman’s fate would reach me in a month, at latest, and in this place — “

Without taking his eyes off Nekhlyudov, the general extended his short-fingered hand, rang the bell, and continued to listen in silence, puffing at the cigarette, and coughing quite loudly.

” So I should like to ask you whether it would not be possible to keep this woman here until an answer is received to my petition.”

A lackey, dressed in military attire and serving as orderly, entered.

” Go and ask whether Anna Vasflevna is up,” the general said to the orderly, ” and bring me some more tea. — And the other thing ? ” the general again turned to Nekhlyudov.

“ My other request,” continued Nekhlyudov, ” is in regard to a political prisoner, who is travelling with this party.”

” Indeed ! ” said the general, significantly shaking his head.

” He is very sick, — he is a dying man. No doubt, he will be left here in the hospital. One of the political women would like to remain with him.”

“Is she a stranger to him ?”

“ Yes, but she is willing to marry him, if this would give her a chance of staying with him.”

The general looked fixedly at him with his beaming eyes and kept silent, while listening and smoking. Apparently he wished to embarrass his interlocutor by his glance.

When Nekhlyudov had finished, he took a book from the table, and, rapidly thumbing it, as he turned the leaves, found the article on marriage and read it.

“ What is she sentenced to ? ” he asked, raising his head from his book.

“To hard labour.”

” Well, then the situation of the sick man cannot be improved by such a marriage.”

“ But — ”

” Excuse me ! Even if a free man were to marry her, she would have to serve out her punishment. The question is who pays the greater penalty, he or she.”

“ They are both condemned to hard labour.”

” Well, they are quits, then,” said the general, with a smile. ” She gets what he does. He can be left here, if he is sick,” he continued, “ and, of course, everything will be done to alleviate his condition ; but she, even if she married him, could not be left here — ”

” Her Excellency is drinking coffee,” the lackey announced.

The general nodded his head and continued :

” However, I will think it over. What are their names ? Write them down, here ! “

Nekhlyudov wrote them down.

“ Nor can I do this,” the general said to Nekhlyudov, in reply to his request to be admitted to the sick man. ” Of course, I do not suspect you,” he said, ” but you are interested in him and in others, and you have money. Here, with us, everything is venal. I am told to uproot bribery. But how am I to abolish it, when all are bribetakers ? The lower in rank, the worse. How can I watch them five thousand versts away ? He is there just such a little king as I am here,” and he smiled. “ You have, no doubt, seen the politicals, — you have given money, and you have been admitted ? ” he said, smiling. “ Am I right ? ”

” Yes, it is so.”

” I know that you must act like that. You want to see a political, and you are sorry for him. The superintendent or a guard will accept a bribe, because he gets about two dimes of salary, and he has a family, and cannot help accepting the bribe. I, in your place or in his, would act

just like you or him. But in my own place, I do not permit myself to deviate from the strictest letter of the law, for the very reason that I am a man and might be moved by compassion. I am an executor. I have been trusted under certain conditions, and I must justify this trust. Well, this question is settled. Now, tell me what is going on there, in the metropolis.”

The general began to ask questions and to tell things, obviously wishing at the same time to hear the news, and to show his importance and humanity.

XXIII.

“Well, so where do you stay? At Due’s? Well, it is not particularly good there, either. You come to dinner,” said the general, seeing Nekhlyudov off, ” at five o’clock. Do you speak English ? ”

” Yes, I do.”

« That is nice. There is an English traveller here. He is making a study of deportation and prisons in Siberia. He will be at dinner to-day, and you come, too. We dine at five, and my wife demands promptness. I will give you an answer then, as to what can be done with that woman, and about the sick man. Maybe it will be possible to leave somebody with him.”

Bowing to the general, Nekhlyudov went out, and, feeling himself agitatedly active, drove to the postoffice.

The postoffice was a low, vaulted building. Back of the counter sat some officials, who were handing out letters to a crowd of people. One official, bending his head toward one side, kept stamping envelopes, which he handled with great facility. Nekhlyudov was not made to wait long. Upon hearing his name, they handed out a sufficiently large correspondence. Here was money, a few letters and books, and the last number of the Messenger of Europe.

Having received his letters, Nekhlyudov went up to a wooden bench, on which a soldier, holding a small book, was sitting and waiting for something, and sat down near him, to look over his letters. Among them

wag a registered letter, a beautiful envelope with a clean impression on the bright red sealing-wax. He opened the envelope, and, upon seeing a letter from Selénin, together with an official document, he felt that the blood had rushed to his face, and his heart was compressed. It was the decree in Katyusha’s case. What was this decree ? Could it possibly be a refusal ? Nekhlyudov hurriedly ran over the letter, which was written in a small, illegible, firm, abrupt hand, and he gave a sigh of relief. The decree was favourable.

“ Dear friend ! ” wrote Selénin. ” Our last conversation has left a deep impression on me. You were right in regard to Maslova. I carefully looked through the case, and I saw that a shocking injustice had been done her. The only place where this could be remedied was the Petition Commission, where you have handed your appeal. I was fortunate enough to influence the decision in the case, and I send a copy of the pardon to you at the address given me by Countess Ekaterina Ivanovna. The original was sent to the place of her confinement during her trial, and, no doubt, will soon be transmitted to the Siberian Central Office. I hasten to inform you of this pleasant news. I give you a friendly hand-shake. Yours, Selénin.”

The contents of the document ran as follows: “The Chancery of his Imperial Majesty for the reception of petitions directed to the Sovereign. Such and such a case. Such and such a division. Such and such a date and year. By order of the Chief of the Chancery of his Imperial Majesty for the reception of petitions directed to the Sovereign, Burgess Ekaterina Maslova is herewith informed that his Imperial Majesty, in conformity with the most humble report made to him, condescending to Maslova’s prayer, has deigned to command to commute her hard labour penalty to deportation to less remote regions of Siberia.”

The information was cheerful and important: everything Nekhlyudov could have expected for Katyusha and for himself had happened. It is true, this change in her condition presented new complications in respect to her. As long as she remained a convict, the marriage which he had proposed to her could be only fictitious and might serve merely to alleviate her position. Now, nothing interfered with their living together. For this Nekhlyudov was not ready. Besides, there were her relations with Simonsdn. What did her words of the day before mean ? And if she should agree to be united to Simonsdn, would it be well or ill ? He was completely unable to straighten out his thoughts, and so stopped thinking of the matter entirely. ” All this will properly arrange itself in the future,” he thought, ” and now I must see her as soon as possible, and inform her of the joyful news and free her.” He thought that the copy which he had in his hands was sufficient for that. Upon leaving the postoffice, he ordered the driver to take him to the prison.

Although the general had not given him in the morning permission to visit the prison, Nekhlyudov knew from experience that frequently it was possible to obtain from the lower authorities that which it was impossible to get from the higher, and so he decided to endeavour to penetrate into the prison in order to announce the joyful news to Katyusha, and, if possible, to liberate her, and, at the same time, to find out about Kryltsdv’s health, and to transmit to him and to Mérya Pâvlovna that which the general had said.

The superintendent of the prison was a very tall and stout, majestic-looking man, with a moustache and sidewhiskers bending toward the edge of his mouth. He received Nekhlyudov with great severity, and at once informed him that he could not admit strangers for interviews without a permit from the chief. To Nekhlyudov’s remark that he had been admitted even in the capitals, the superintendent answered :

“ Very likely so, only I shall not admit you.” His tone seemed to say : ” You gentlemen from the capital think that you will puzzle us the moment you see us ; but we, in Eastern Siberia, are firmly grounded in the regulations, and we can teach you a thing.”

The copy from the Private Chancery of his Imperial Majesty had no effect on the superintendent. He absolutely refused to admit Nekhlyudov within the walls of the prison. To Nekhlyudov’s naïve supposition that Maslova might be liberated upon the presentation of this copy, he only smiled contemptuously, remarking that in order to set any one free he had to have the order from his direct authorities. All he promised to do was to announce to Maslova that she was pardoned, and that he would not keep her a single hour after the moment he received the papers from his authorities.

He also refused to give him any information about Kryltsdv’s health, saying that he could not even tell him whether there was any such prisoner. Thus, without having obtained anything, Nekhlyudov seated himself in the vehicle and had himself taken back to his hotel.

The severity of the superintendent was mainly due to the fact that in the prison, which was crowded to double its capacity, typhus was raging at the time. The cabman who was driving Nekhlyudov told him on the way that ” in the prison the people are dying awfully. A certain disease has fallen upon them. They bury about twenty people a day.”

XXIV.

Notwithstanding his failure at the prison, Nekhlyudov, still in the same cheerful, agitatedly active frame of mind, drove to the governor’s office to find out whether the document in regard to Maslova’s pardon had been received. There was no such document, and so Nekhlyudov, immediately upon his return to the hotel, hastened to write about it to Selénin and to the lawyer. Having finished his letters, he looked at his watch and saw that it was time to drive to the governor’s for dinner.

On his way, he was again troubled by the thought how Katyusha would receive her pardon. Where would they deport her ? How would he five with her ? What would Simonsdn do ? What was her relation to him ? He recalled the change which had taken place in her. And, with this, he recalled her past.

” That must be forgotten and wiped out,” he said, hastening to drive away all thoughts of her. ” That will appear later,” he said to himself. He began to think of what he ought to say to the general.

The dinner at the general’s, circumstanced with all the luxury of rich people and important officials, such as Nekhlyudov had been used to, was, after the long privation not only of luxury, but even of the most primitive comforts, especially agreeable to him.

The hostess was a grand St. Petersburg lady of the old style, a former lady of honour at the court of Nicholas, who spoke French naturally and Russian unnaturally. She held herself remarkably straight and, in moving her hands, did not take her elbows away from her waist. She was calm and somewhat sadly respectful to her husband, and exceedingly gracious to her guests, though with different shades of attention, according to the persons. She received Nekhlyudov like one of her own, with that peculiar, refined, imperceptible flattery, which brought back to Nekhlyudov the consciousness of all his worth and gave him a pleasurable satisfaction. She made him feel that she knew his honest, though original, act, which had brought him to Siberia, and that she regarded him as an exceptional man. This fine flattery and all the artistically luxurious appointments in the house of the general had the effect of making Nekhlyudov surrender himself to the pleasure of the beautiful surroundings and the appetizing food, and to the ease and charm of relations with well-brought-up people of his familiar circle, as though everything, amidst which he had lived heretofore, had been a dream, from which he had awakened to the present reality.

At dinner there were, besides the home people, — the general’s daughter with her husband, and the adjutant, — an Englishman, a rich gold miner, and the governor of a distant Siberian city. All these people were pleasant to Nekhlyudov.

The Englishman, a healthy, ruddy man, who spoke French very poorly, but English with remarkable fluency and oratorical impressiveness, had seen a great deal, and was very interesting with his stories of America, India, and Siberia.

The young gold miner, the son of a peasant, in an evening dress which had been made in London and diamond cuff-buttons, who had a large library, gave much to charities, and held European liberal convictions, was agreeable and interesting to Nekhlyudov because he represented to him an entirely new and good type of an educated graft of European culture on a healthy peasant stock.

The governor of the remote Siberian city was that same director of a department, of whom there was so much talk when he was in St. Petersburg. He was a puffed-up man with scanty curling hair, tender blue eyes, large around his waist, with well-kept white, ring-bedecked hands, and a pleasant smile. The host esteemed this governor because among bribetakers he was the only one who did not receive bribes. The hostess, a great lover of music and herself a very good pianist, esteemed him because he was a good musician and played at four hands with her. Nekhlyudov was in such a benevolent frame of mind that even this man was not disagreeable to him.

The merry, energetic adjutant, with his grayish blue chin, who offered his services to everybody, was pleasing for his good nature.

Most agreeable to Nekhlyudov was the charming couple of the general’s daughter and her husband. She was a homely, simple-hearted woman, all absorbed in her first two children ; her husband, whom she had married for love, after a long struggle with her parents, a graduate of the Moscow University and a liberal, a modest and intelligent man, served in the department of statistics, busying himself more particularly with the natives, whom he studied and loved, and whom he tried to save from extinction.

Not only were they all kind and gracious to Nekhlyudov, but they were obviously glad to see him, as a new and interesting person. The general, who came out to the dinner in his military coat, with a white cross on his neck, greeted Nekhlyudov as an old acquaintance, and immediately invited him to the appetizer and brandy. To the general’s question of what Nekhlyudov had been doing after he left him, Nekhlyudov told him that he went to the postoffice, where he learned of the pardon granted to the person of whom they had been speaking in the morning, and he now again asked permission to visit the prison.

The general, apparently dissatisfied to hear him speak of business at table, frowned and did not say anything.

” Do you wish some brandy ? ” he said in French to the Englishman, who had come up to them. The Englishman drank the brandy and said that he had visited the cathedral and factory, but that he would still like to see the large transportation prison.

“ Now, this is excellent,” said the general, turning to Nekhlyudov, — ” you can go together. Give them a permit,” he said to the adjutant.

“ When do you want to go there,” Nekhlyudov asked the Englishman.

« I prefer to visit prisons in the evening,” said the Englishman. ” They are all at home, no preparations are made, and everything is natural.”

” Ah, he wants to see it in all its glory ? Let him. When I wrote, they paid no attention to me, so let them hear about it from the foreign press,” said the general, going up to the table, where the hostess pointed out the places to the guests.

Nekhlyudov sat between the hostess and the Englishman. Opposite him sat the general’s daughter and the ex-director of the department.

At table the conversation went on by fits, now about India, of which the Englishman told something, now of the Tonquin expedition, which the general condemned severely, and now of the universal Siberian rascality and bribery. None of these conversations interested Nekhlyudov very much.

But after dinner, when they were at coffee, in the drawing-room, a very interesting conversation was started between the Englishman and the hostess in regard to Gladstone, during which Nekhlyudov thought he had made many a clever remark, and that this had been noticed by his interlocutors.

Nekhlyudov felt more and more comfortable, after the good dinner and wine, and at coffee, seated in a soft armchair, amidst kind and well-brought-up people. And when the hostess, in reply to the Englishman’s request, sat down at the piano with the ex-director of the department, and they played Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, which they had well practised together, Nekhlyudov became conscious of a spiritual condition of complete self-contentment, such as he had not experienced for a long time, as though he now for the first time discovered what a good man he was.

The piano was an excellent grand, and the execution of the symphony was good. At least, Nekhlyudov thought so, and he loved and knew that symphony. When he heard the beautiful andante, he felt a tickling in his nose, being touched by the contemplation of himself and all his virtues.

Thanking the hostess for the long-missed enjoyment, Nekhlyudov was on the point of bidding them goodbye and taking his leave, when the daughter of the hostess walked over to him with a determined glance and, blushing, said:

” You have been asking about my children. Would you like to see them?”

” She thinks that everybody is interested in seeing her children,” said the mother, smiling at the sweet tactlessness of her daughter. ” The prince is not at all interested in this.”

” On the contrary, I am very, very much interested,” said Nekhlyudov, touched by this happy, ebullient maternal feeling. “ Please, do show them to me ! ”

” She is taking the prince to see her young brood,” laughing, cried the general at the card-table, where he was sitting with his son-in-law, the gold miner, and the adjutant. ” Do your duty ! “

In the meantime the young woman, apparently agitated because her children would soon be subject to criticism, rapidly preceded Nekhlyudov to the inner apartments. In a third high room, papered white and lighted up by a small lamp with a dark shade, stood, side by side, two little beds, and between them sat, in a white pelerine, a Siberian nurse with a good-natured face and high cheekbones. The nurse got up and bowed. The mother bent down to the first bed, in which, with her mouth open, was softly sleeping a two-year-old girl with long, wavy hair, which was dishevelled by the pillow.

” This is Katya,” said the mother, adjusting the blue-striped quilt coverlet, from underneath which peeped out the white sole of a foot. ” Isn’t she pretty ? She is only two years old.”

” Charming ! ”

“And this is Vasyuk, as his grandfather has called him. An entirely different type. He is a Siberian,— don’t you think so?”

” A beautiful boy,” said Nekhlyudov, looking at the chubby face of the boy, who was sleeping on his stomach.

” Really ? ” said the mother, with a significant smile.

Nekhlyudov recalled the chains, the shaven heads, the brawls, the debauch, dying Kryltsdv, Katyusha with all her past, — and he became envious and wished for himself just such a refined and pure happiness as this now seemed to him to be.

Having expressed several praises in regard to her children, and thus having partly satisfied the mother, who eagerly imbibed all these praises, he followed her back to the drawing-room, where the Englishman was waiting for him, in order, as they had agreed, to go together to the prison. Nekhlyudov bade the old and young hosts goodbye, and with the Englishman went out on the porch of the general’s house.

The weather had changed. A heavy snow was falling in tufts and had already covered the road, and the roof, and the trees of the garden, and the driveway, and the top of the carriage, and the horse’s back. The Englishman had his own carriage, and Nekhlyudov, having told the Englishman’s coachman to drive to the prison, seated himself in his own vehicle and, with a heavy sensation of performing an unpleasant duty, followed after him in his vehicle, which rolled softly but with difficulty over the snow.

XXV.

The gloomy building of the prison, with the sentry and lamp near the gate, in spite of the pure, white shroud which now covered everything, — the driveway, the roof, and the walls, — produced by the lighted windows of its façade an even more melancholy impression than in the morning.

The majestic superintendent came out to the gate, and, reading near the lamp the permit which had been given to Nekhlyudov and the Englishman, shrugged his mighty shoulders in perplexity, but obeyed orders and invited the visitors to follow him. He first led them into the yard, then through a door on the right, and up the stairs to the office. He asked them to be seated, and wanted to know what he could do for them. Upon learning that Nekhlyudov wished to see Maslova, he sent a warden for her, and got ready to answer the questions which the Englishman began to put through Nekhlyudov.

” For how many persons is the prison intended ? ” asked the Englishman. ” How many inmates are there now ? How many men, women, and children ? How many hard labour convicts, deportation prisoners, and volunteers ? How many patients ? “

Nekhlyudov translated the words of the Englishman and of the superintendent, without entering into their meaning, as he was quite unexpectedly to himself agitated by the impending meeting. When, in the middle of a sentence which he was translating to the Englishman, he heard approaching steps, and the door of the office was opened and, as had happened often before, the warden entered, and, after him, Katyusha, in a prisoner’s bodice and wrapped in a kerchief, — he, upon seeing her, was overcome by an oppressive sensation.

“ I want to five ; I want a family, children ; I want a human existence,” flashed through his mind just as she walked into the room with rapid steps, without raising her eyes.

He arose and made a few steps toward her. Her face seemed stern and disagreeable to him. She was the same she had been when she upbraided him. She blushed and grew pale ; her fingers convulsively twirled the edge of her bodice; and now she looked into his face, and now again lowered her eyes.

” Do you know that you have been pardoned ? ” said Nekhlyudov.

” Yes, the warden told me so.”

” So, as soon as the papers are received, you may leave and settle where you please — We will think it over — “

She hastened to interrupt him :

“ What have I to think about ? I shall be wherever Vladimir Ivànovich will be.”

Notwithstanding her agitation, she raised her eyes to Nekhlyudov’s, as she pronounced this rapidly and clearly, as though she had prepared her speech in advance.

” Indeed ! ” said Nekhlyudov.

” Why not, Dmitri Ivanovich ? He wants me to live with him — ” She stopjjed, frightened, and corrected herself, ” to be with him. What can there be better for me ? I must regard it as my good fortune. What else could I do?”

” One of two things is the case : either she loves Simonsdn and does not care for the sacrifice which I imagined I was bringing her, or she still loves me and for my own good renounces me and burns her ships by uniting her fate with that of Simonsdn,” thought Nekhlyudov, and he felt ashamed. He was conscious of blushing.

” If you love him — “he said.

” It is not a question of love. I have given that up long ago. Besides, Vladimir Ivanovich is quite a different man.”

” Yes, of course,” began Nekhlyudov. “ He is a fine man, and I think — “

She again interrupted him, as though fearing lest he should say too much, or she not enough.

” Dmitri Ivanovich, you must forgive me for not doing what you want,” she said, looking into his eyes with her mysterious, squinting glance. “Apparently this is best. You, too, must live.”

She told him exactly what he had been saying to himself. But now he was no longer thinking of this ; he was thinking and feeling something quite different. He was not only ashamed, but sorry for everything he was losing in her.

” I did not expect this,” he said.

“ Why should you live and torture yourself here ? You have suffered enough.”

“ I have not suffered ; I was happy here, and I should like to serve you more, if I could.”

“ We,” she said, ” we,” and she looked at Nekhlyudov, ” do not need anything. You have done enough for me as it is. If it were not for you — ” she wanted to say something, but her voice quivered.

“ You have nothing to thank me for,” said Nekhlyudov.

“ What is the use casting accounts ? God will cast our account,” she muttered, and her black eyes glistened with tears that had appeared there.

“ What a good woman you are ! ” he said.

” I good ? ” she said through tears, a pitiful smile lighting up her face.

“ Are you ready ? ” the Englishman asked, in the meantime.

“Directly,” Nekhlyudov answered, and asked her for Kryltsdv’s health.

She overcame her agitation, and told him quietly what she knew : Kryltsdv had become very feeble on the road, and was immediately after their arrival placed in the hospital. Marya Pavlovna was very much disturbed about him, and asked to be taken as a nurse to the hospital, but they would not have her.

“ I had better go,” she said, noticing that the Englishman was waiting for him.

“ I do not say goodbye, — I will see you again,” said Nekhlyudov, giving her his hand.

” Forgive me,” she said, almost inaudibly. Their eyes met, and in the strange, squinting glance and pitiful smile, with which she said “ forgive me,” instead of “ goodbye,” Nekhlyudov read that of the two propositions as to the cause of her decision the second was the correct one, — that she loved him and thought that, by uniting herself with him, she would ruin his life, but that, by going away with Simonson, she freed him, and she was glad to accomplish that which she wished to do, and, at the same time, suffered in parting from him.

She pressed his hand, swiftly turned around, and walked out.

Nekhlyudov looked back at the Englishman, being ready to go with him, but the Englishman was writing something down in his note-book. Nekhlyudov did not disturb him, but sat down on a wooden sofa which was standing near the wall, and suddenly experienced a terrible fatigue. He was not tired from a sleepless night, nor from the journey, nor from agitation ; he simply felt that he was dreadfully tired from the effect of his whole life.

He leaned against the back of the sofa, on which he was sitting, and immediately fell into a deep, deathlike sleep.

” Well, would you like to visit the cells now ? ” asked the superintendent.

Nekhlyudov awoke and wondered where he was. The Englishman had finished his notes and wished to see the cells. Nekhlyudov followed them, tired and listless.

XXVI.

Having passed through the vestibule and the nauseating corridor, where, to their surprise, they found two prisoners urinating straight on the floor, the superintendent, the Englishman, and Nekhlyudov, accompanied by wardens, entered the first cell of the convicts. In this cell, with benches in the middle, all the prisoners were already lying down. There were seventy of them. They lay head to head and side to side. At the appearance of the visitors all jumped up, rattling their chains, and stood up near the benches, glistening with their half-shaven heads. Only two were left lying. One was a young man, who was red in his face and apparently in a fever ; the other was an old man, who did not stop groaning.

The Englishman asked how long the young prisoner had been ill. The superintendent said that he had been ill since the morning, while the old man had long been suffering from his stomach, but that there was no other place for him because the hospital was overcrowded. The Englishman shook his head in disapproval, and said that he should like to say a few words to these men, and asked Nekhlyudov to translate that which he had to say to them. It turned out that the Englishman, in addition to the one purpose of his journey, — the description of the places of deportation and confinement in Siberia, had also another aim, and that was to preach salvation by faith and redemption.

« Tell them that Christ pitied and loved them,” he said, « and died for them. They will be saved if they believe this.” While he was saying this, all the prisoners stood in silence near the benches, with their hands hanging down their sides. ” In this book, tell them,” he concluded, ” it tells all about it. Are there any among them who can read ? ”

It turned out that there were more than twenty who could read. The Englishman took a few bound copies of the New Testament out of a hand-bag, and the muscular hands, with strong, black nails, were stretched out toward him, pushing each other away. He left two Gospels in this cell and went to the next.

In the next cell it was the same. There was the same closeness and stench. Just as in the other, an image was hanging in front, between two windows, and to the left of the door stood the stink-vat, and all lay in the same way, close together, and side by side, and they all jumped up and arrayed themselves in the same manner, and similarly three persons remained lying down. Two of these raised themselves and sat down, while one remained lying and did not even look at the visitors: these were sick persons. The Englishman repeated his speech and again distributed two Gospels.

In the third cell there were four sick people. To the Englishman’s question why it was that the sick were not put together in one room, the superintendent answered that they did not wish it themselves. These patients, he said, were not suffering from infectious diseases, and the physician’s sergeant was watching them and giving them attention.

” He has not shown up for two weeks,” said a voice.

The superintendent did not answer and led them to the neighbouring room. The door was again unlocked, and again all arose and grew silent, and again the Englishman distributed Gospels ; the same took place in the fifth and sixth cells, on the right and left.

From the hard labour convicts they went over to the deportation prisoners, and from the deportation prisoners to the communal prisoners and to those who followed voluntarily. It was the same everywhere. Everywhere the same cold, hungry, idle, diseased, humiliated, confined people looked like wild beasts.

Having distributed a set number of Gospels, the Englishman did not give away any more, and did not even make his speech. The oppressive spectacle and, chiefly, the stifling atmosphere apparently undermined even his energy, and he went from cell to cell, saying only, ” All right,” to all the remarks of the superintendent as to the prisoners of each cell.

Nekhlyudov walked around as if in a sleep, having no strength to excuse himself and go away, and experiencing all the time the same fatigue and hopelessness.

XXVII.

In one of the cells of the deportation prisoners, Nekhlyudov, to his surprise, saw the strange old man whom he had seen in the morning on the ferry. This old man, all wrinkled and with shaggy hair, dressed in nothing but a dirty ash-coloured shirt with holes at the shoulder, and trousers of the same description, was sitting barefooted on the floor near the benches and casting a stern, interrogative glance upon the strangers. His emaciated body, which could be seen through the holes in his shirt, looked wretched and weak, but his face looked even more earnestly concentrated and animated than on the ferry. All the prisoners jumped up, as in the other cells, and stood up erect at the sight of the entering officers ; but the old man remained sitting. His eyes sparkled, and his eyebrows frowned in anger.

” Get up ! ” the superintendent cried to him.

The old man did not stir and only smiled contemptuously.

” Your servants are standing before you, but I am not your servant. You have the seal — ” muttered the old man, pointing to the superintendent’s forehead.

” What ? ” the superintendent cried, threateningly, moving toward him.

” I know this man,” Nekhlyudov hastened to say. ” What has he been arrested for ? “

“The police sent him up for having no passport. We ask them not to send them, but they continue doing so,” the superintendent said, angrily, looking askance at the old man.

” You, I see, are also of the legion of the Antichrist,” the old man turned to Nekhlyudov.

” No, I am a visitor,” said Nekhlyudov.

“Well, have you come to see how the Antichrist tortures people ? All right, look ! He has taken up a lot of people and has shut a whole army up in a cage. People ought to eat their bread in the sweat of their brows, and he has shut them up like pigs and feeds them without work so as to make beasts of them.”

” What does he say ? ” asked the Englishman.

Nekhlyudov told him that the old man condemned the superintendent for keeping people under restraint.

” What, then, ask him, is to be done with those who transgress the law ? ” asked the Englishman.

Nekhlyudov translated the question.

The old man laughed out strangely, displaying two rows of sound teeth.

” The law ! ” he repeated, contemptuously. ” First he has robbed all, the whole earth, has taken away the riches of all the people, has turned it to his own uses, has beaten all such as went out against him, and then he wrote a law not to rob and kill. He ought to have written that law before.”

Nekhlyudov translated. The Englishman smiled.

” Still, ask him what is to be done now with thieves and murderers ? Ask him ! ”

Nekhlyudov again translated the question. The old man frowned austerely.

” Tell him to take the seal of the Antichrist away from him, then there will be no thieves and murderers. Tell him so!”

“ He is crazy ! ” said the Englishman, when Nekhlyudov translated to him the words of the old man, and, shrugging his shoulders, he went out from the cell.

« You do your duty, and leave them alone! Everybody is for himself. God knows whom to punish and whom to pardon, but we do not,” said the old man. ” Be your own master, then there will be no need of masters. Go, go,” he added, scowling and flashing his eyes on Nekhlyudov, who was lagging behind in the cell. ” You have seen how the servants of the Antichrist feed lice on human beings. Go, go ! ”

When Nekhlyudov came out into the corridor, the Englishman and the superintendent were standing at the open door of an empty cell, the Englishman asking the meaning of that cell. The superintendent explained to him that it was the dead-house.

” Oh,” said the Englishman, when Nekhlyudov translated it to him, and expressed his desire to walk in.

The dead-house was an ordinary, small cell. A small lamp was burning on the wall ; it dimly lighted up some bags and wood which was lying in a comer, and four dead bodies lying on the benches, to the right. The first body, in a hempen shirt and trousers, was that of a tall man, with a small, pointed beard and half of his head shaven off. The body had already become stiff ; the ash-gray hands had apparently been placed over the breast, but they had fallen apart ; the feet, too, had fallen apart and had their soles turned in different directions. Next to him lay, in a white skirt and bodice, a barefooted, bareheaded old woman, with a short braid of scanty hair, a small, wrinkled, yellow face, and a sharp nose. Then, after the old woman, there was another male body in something of a lilac colour. This colour reminded Nekhlyudov of something.

He walked over to the body and began to look at it.

A small, sharp, upturned little beard ; a strong, handsome nose ; a white, tall forehead ; scanty, wavy hair. He recognized the familiar features and did not believe his own eyes. But yesterday he had seen that face agitated, provoked, suffering. Now it was quiet, motionless, and terribly beautiful. Yes, it was Kryltsdv, or, at least,

that vestige which his material existence had left behind. ” Why did he suffer ? Why did he live ? Does he understand it now ? ” thought Nekhlyudov, and it seemed to him that there was no answer, that there was nothing but death, and he felt ill. Without bidding the Englishman goodbye, Nekhlyudov asked the warden to take him out into the courtyard, and, feeling the necessity of being left alone, in order to think over everything which he had experienced during that evening, he drove back to the hotel

XXVIII.

Nekhlyudov did not go to bed, but for a long time paced up and down in the room. His affair with Katyusha was ended. He was of no use to her, and this made him sad and ashamed. But it was not tiffs that tormented him. His other affair was not only not ended, but it tormented him much more than ever before and demanded his activity. All that terrible evil, which he had seen and experienced during all that time, but especially on that day in that horrible prison, all that evil, which had also killed dear Kryltsdv, triumphed and lorded it, and he could see no possibility of subduing it, nay, not even of understanding how to subdue it. In his imagination arose those incarcerated in the foul air, those hundreds and thousands of disgraced people, who were confined by indifferent generals, prosecutors, and superintendents ; he recalled the strange, free old man, who accused the authorities and who was declared to be a lunatic, and, among the corpses, the beautiful, wax-like, angry face of dead Kryltsdv. And his previous question, whether he, Nekhlyudov, was insane, or those people who considered themselves wise and who did all those things ; arose before him with renewed force and demanded an answer.

He grew tired of walking up and down and of thinking. He seated himself on the sofa before the lamp and mechanically opened the Gospel, which the Englishman had given him as a souvenir, and which, when looking for something in his pockets, he had thrown out on the table. “ They say that here is the solution of everything,” he thought, and, opening the Gospel, he began to

read at the place where he had opened the book. Matthew, Chap. XVIII.

1. At the same time came the disciples unto Jesus, saying, Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven ? — he read.

2. And Jesus called a little child unto him, and set him in the midst of them,

3. And said, Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.

4-Whosoever therefore shall humble himself as this little child, the same is greatest in the kingdom of heaven.

” Yes, yes, that is so,” he thought, recalling how he had experienced calm and the joy of life only in measure as he had humbled himself.

5. And whoso shall receive one such little child in my name receiveth me.

6. But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.

” Why does it say here, Whoso receiveth ? and whither will he receive ? and what means, In my name ? ” he asked himself, feeling that these words did not mean anything to him. ” And why a millstone about the neck, and the depth of the sea? No, that is not quite right: it is not exact, not clear,” he thought, recalling how he had several times tried to read the Gospel, and how the indefiniteness of such passages had repelled him. He read the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth verses about the offences, and how they must come, of the punishment by being cast into hell fire, and of the angels of children, who in heaven behold the face of the Father. ” What a pity that this is all so indistinct,” he thought, ” while one feels that there is something good in it!”

11. For the Son of man is come to save that which is lost, — he continued to read.

12. How think ye ? if a man have an hundred sheep, and one of them be gone astray, doth he not leave the ninety and nine, and goeth into the mountains, and seeketh that which is gone astray ?

13. And if so be that he find it, verily I say unto you, he rejoiceth more of that sheep, than of the ninety and nine which went not astray.

14. Even so it is not the will of your Father which is in heaven, that one of these little ones should perish.

“ Yes, it was not the will of the Father that they should perish, and now they perish by the hundred and by the thousand. And there is no means of saving them,” he thought.

21. Then came Peter to him, and said, he continued reading, Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him I till seven times ?

22. Jesus saith unto him, I say not unto thee, Until seven times : but until seventy times seven.

23. Therefore is the kingdom of heaven likened unto a certain king, which would take account of his servants.

21}.. And when he had begun to reckon, one was brought unto him, which owed him ten thousand talents.

25. But forasmuch as he had not to pay, his lord commanded him to be sold, and his wife, and children, and all that he had, and payment to be made.

26. The servant therefore fell down, and worshipped him, saying, Lord, have patience with me, and I will pay thee all.

27. Then the lord of that servant was moved with compassion, and loosed him, and forgave him the debt.

28. But the same servant went out, and found one of his fellow servants which owed him an hundred pence : and he laid hands on him, and took him by the throat, saying, Pay me that thou owest.

29. And his fellow servant fell down at his feet, and “besought him, saying, Have patience with me, anti I will pay thee all.

30. And he would not : but went and cast him into prison, till he should pay the debt.

31. So when his fellow servants saw what was done, they were very sorry, and came and told unto their lord all that was done.

32. Then his lord, after that he had called him, said unto him, 0 thou wicked servant, / forgave thee all that debt, because thou desiredst me :

33. Shouldst not thou also have had compassion on thy fellow servant, even as I had pity on thee ?

” And only this ? ” Nekhlyudov suddenly exclaimed aloud, as he read these words. And the inner voice of his whole being said : ” Only this.”

And there happened with Nekhlyudov that which often happens with people who live a spiritual life, namely, the thought which at first had appeared to him as strange and paradoxical, even as jocular, ever more frequently finding a confirmation in life, suddenly arose before him as the simplest, incontrovertible truth. Thus the thought became clear to him that the only sure means of saving people from that terrible evil from which they were suffering was for people to acknowledge themselves guilty before God and therefore incapable of punishing or correcting others. It now became clear to him that all that terrible evil, of which he had been a witness in jails and prisons, and the calm self-confidence of those who committed this evil, originated in the fact that people tried to do the impossible : being evil to correct the evil. Vicious people tried to correct vicious people, and they thought they could do so by mechanical means. All that came of it was that needy and selfish men, having made a profession of this supposed punishment and correction of people, have themselves become corrupted to the last degree, and did not stop corrupting those whom they tormented.

Now it became clear to him what was the cause of all the horrors which he had seen, and what was to be done in order to destroy them. The answer, which he had been unable to find, was the same that Christ had given to Peter : it consisted in the injunction to forgive always, everybody, an endless number of times, because there were no people who were guiltless themselves and who therefore could punish or correct.

“ It cannot be all so simple,” Nekhlyudov said to himself, and yet he saw beyond any doubt that, however strange it had appeared to him in the beginning, being used to the opposite, it was unquestionably not only a theoretical, but also the most practical solution of the question. The customary retort about what to do with evil-doers, whether they were to be left unpunished, no longer disturbed him. This retort would have a meaning if it could be proved that punishment diminishes crime and corrects the transgressors ; but when the very opposite is the fact, and when it is seen that it is not in the power of one set of men to correct another, then the only sensible thing to do is to stop doing that which is not only useless but also harmful, and, in addition, immoral and cruel. You have for several centuries been punishing criminals whom you acknowledge to be criminals. Well, have they been abolished ? They have not only not been abolished, but their numbers have increased, by those transgressors who are corrupted by punishment, and by those transgressing judges, prosecutors, examining magistrates, jailers, who sit in judgment over people and punish them. Nekhlyudov now understood that society and order existed in general, not because there are these legalized transgressors, who judge and punish people, but because, in spite of such corruption, people do not cease pitying and loving each other.

“ I hope to find the confirmation of this thought in this very Gospel.” Nekhlyudov began to read it from the beginning. Having read the sermon on the mount, which had always touched him, he now for the first time saw in this sermon, not abstract beautiful thoughts, and such as for the greater part .presented exaggerated and unrealizable demands, but simple, clear, and practical injunctions, which, in case of their execution (which was quite possible), established that to him wonderful new order of human society, in which all the violence, which so provoked Nekhlyudov, was not only eliminated, but also the greatest possible human good was obtained, — the kingdom of God upon earth.

There were five such injunctions.

First injunction (Matt. v. 21-26). This was that one must not only not kill his brother, but not even be angry with him ; that he must not regard any one as insignificant, ” Baca ; ” and that if he quarrelled with any one, he must be reconciled before offering a gift to God, that is, before praying.

Second injunction (Matt. v. 27-32). This was that man must not only not commit adultery, but must also avoid the enjoyment of a woman’s beauty, and having once come together with a woman, he must not be false to her.

Third injunction (Matt. v. 33-37). This was that man must not promise anything with oaths.

Fourth injunction (Matt. v. 38-42). This was that man must not only not give an eye for an eye, but must also turn the other cheek to him who has smitten him on one ; that he must forgive offences and in humility bear them, and never refuse people that which they ask of him.

Fifth injunction (Matt. v. 43-48). This was that man must not only not hate his enemies, and not fight with them, but he must love, aid, and serve them.

Nekhlyudov stared at the light of the burning lamp and stood as though petrified. Recalling the unseemliness of our life, he vividly imagined what this fife might be if people were brought up under these rules, and a long-forgotten transport took possession of his soul, as though, after long pining and suffering, he had suddenly found peace and freedom.

He did not sleep all night, and, as happens with many, many people who read the Gospel, he now for the first time understood in all their significance the words which had been read many a time without leaving any impression. As a sponge sucks in the water, so he imbibed everything necessary, important, and joyful, which was revealed to him in this book. And everything which he read seemed familiar to him, seemed to confirm and bring into consciousness that which he had known long ago, but did not completely become conscious of or believe. But he not only perceived and believed that, by executing these injunctions, people would attain the highest possible good ; he also perceived and believed that a man had nothing else to do than to carry out these injunctions, that in this lay the only sensible meaning of human life, and that every deviation from it was a mistake which immediately brought punishment in its wake. This flowed from the whole teaching, and was with special clearness expressed in the parable of the vineyards. The husbandmen imagined that the vineyard, where they had been sent to work for their master, was their property ; that ever)-thing which was in the vineyard was made for them, and all that they had to do was to enjoy themselves in this vineyard, forgetting their master, and killing those who reminded them of their master and of their obligations to him.

” Just so we act,” thought Nekhlyudov, ” living in the insipid conviction that we are ourselves the masters of our life, and that it was given us for our enjoyment. This is obviously foolish. If we have been sent here, this was done by somebody’s will and for a certain purpose. We, however, have decided that we are living for our own joy, and apparently we are suffering for it, as will the husbandman who is not doing the will of his master. But the master’s will is expressed in these injunctions. Let the people execute these injunctions, and there will be on earth the kingdom of God, and people will attain the highest good, which is within their reach.”

Seek ye the kingdom of God, and his righteousness ; and all these things shall be added unto you. We are seeking ” all these things ” and obviously do not find them.

” So this is the work of my life. One thing has ended, and another has begun.”

With that night there began for Nekhlyudov an entirely new life, not so much because he entered it under new conditions, as because everything which happened to him after that assumed an entirely new meaning.

The future will show how this new period of his life will end.

Moscow, December 12,1899.

TWO PASSAGES FROM RESURRECTION, REJECTED BY THE AUTHOR FROM THE FINAL EDITION

THE EXECUTION

(Passage omitted in Part I., Chap. XLVI., after line 23, on p. 234 of Vol. XXI.)

” What are you standing there for ? Lie down ! ”

The vagabond loosened his trousers, which dropped to the floor, and stepped out of them and of his prison shoes, and himself walked over to the bench. The wardens caught him under his arms and put him on the bench. The prisoner’s legs fell to either side of the bench. One warden raised up his legs and lay down upon them, two others caught hold of the prisoner’s arms and pressed them down on the bench, a fourth raised his shirt up to the small of his back, laying bare his ribs, which protruded beneath his sallow skin, the groove of his spine, the curvature of his waist, and the firm, muscular thighs of his crooked legs. Petrdv, the broad-shouldered and broadbreasted, muscular warden, chose one of the bunches of birch rods prepared for the occasion, spit into his hands, and, firmly grasping the rods and swishing them with a whistling noise, began to strike the bare body. With every stroke the vagabond uttered a dull sound and shuddered, in so far as he could do so under the load of the wardens. Vasilev was pale, now and then casting his eyes upon what was in front of him, and again lowering them. On the vagabond’s yellow back there appeared the intersecting lines of wales, and his dull sounds passed into groans.

But Petrov, who had received a black eye, as they were leading Vasilev to the career, paid back for the-offence by striking in such a way that the tips of the rods rebounded, and the vagabond’s sallow buttocks and hips soon were smeared with red blood.

When the vagabond was released, and he, with trembling nether jaw, wiped the blood away with the skirt of his shirt and began to pull in the cord of his hempen trousers, the chief warden put his hand on Vasilev’s cloak.

” Take it off,” he said.

Vasilev looked as though he smiled, displaying his white teeth above his black beard, and his whole intelligent, energetic face became distorted. He broke the cords of his garment, threw it off, and lay down, baring his beautiful, lithe, straight, muscular legs.

” You are not — ” he muttered the beginning of some sentence ; but he suddenly faltered, compressing his teeth and preparing himself for the blow.

Petrov threw away the tattered rods, took another bunch from among those which lay on the window, and there began the new torture. Vasilev cried from the very start.

” Oh, oh ! ” and he struggled so much that the wardens got down on their knees and so hung to his shoulders that their faces grew red from effort.

“ Thirty,” said the inspector, when it was only twenty-six.

” Not at all, your Honour, only twenty-six.”

” Thirty, thirty,” the inspector said, scowling and clawing his beard.

Vasilev did not get up when he was released.

” Get up,” said one of the wardens, raising him up.

Vasilev raised himself, but tottered, and would have fallen if the wardens had not held him up. He breathed heavily and in short puffs. His pale lips trembled, emitting a strange sound, which resembled the one made by people who with their lips try to amuse children.

His knees trembled and struck against each other.

“ That’s for striking wardens in the face,” muttered Petrov, throwing away the rods and trying to encourage and justify himself ; but he was not at all at his ease, and, letting the rolled-up sleeves of his uniform down over his hirsute arm and wiping the perspiration, which had come out on his forehead, with a dirty handkerchief, he went out of the visiting-room.

« To the hospital,” said the inspector, and, scowling and clearing his throat, as though he had swallowed something bitter and poisonous, he sat down on the window-sill and lighted a cigarette.

“ Shall I go home ? ” he thought ; but he recalled the rapid passages of the Hungarian dances in Liszt’s arrangement, which he had heard for two days and even that same morning, and a greater gloom fell upon his soul. Just then Nekhlyudov was announced to him.

“ What does he want, anyhow ? ” thought the inspector, and, breathing heavily, he went into the vestibule.

IN THE BARRACKS

(Passage omitted from Chap. XIX. of Part II.)

At this same time, in one of the barracks, a woman, with dress torn over her breast, hair dishevelled, and eyes bulging out, shrieked in a desperate voice and struck her head, now against the wall, and now against the door. The sentry looked through the peep-hole, went away, and continued to walk up and down. And every time his eye appeared at the hole, the shriek grew louder.

« Don’t look ! Kill me, — give me a knife or poison, — I cannot stand it, I cannot ! “

Steps were heard. The door opening into the corridor was opened, and a man in the uniform of an officer came in through it, accompanied by two attendants. In the neighbouring cells eyes appeared at the peep-holes, but the officer closed these, as he passed by.

« Murderers, tormentors ! ” was heard in one ; in another they struck the door with their fists.

The officer was pale. Though this was frequently repeated, it was always terrible and oppressive. The moment the door was opened to the cell of the hysterical woman, she rushed up toward it and wanted to get out.

” Let me go, let me,” she shrieked, with one hand grasping her torn dress over her breast, and with the other throwing back of her ear some strands of scanty hair which here and there was streaked with gray.

” You know you can’t. Don’t talk nonsense,” said the officer, standing at the door.

“ Let me, or kill me ! ” she shouted, pushing him away.

” Stop it,” the officer said, sternly, but she paid no attention to him.

The officer beckoned to the attendants, and they seized her. She shrieked louder than before.

” Stop, or it will be only worse for you.”

She continued to cry.

” Keep quiet ! “

” I won’t. Oh, oh, oh ! “

But here her cry was suddenly changed to moaning, and then died down entirely. One of the attendants caught hold of her arms, which he bound, and the other gagged her with a piece of cloth, which he tied behind her head, so that she might not be able to tear it off.

She looked at the attendants and at the officer with eyes bulging out of their orbits, her whole face jerked, a noisy breath issued from her nose, and her shoulders rose up to her ears and fell again.

” You must not make such a scandal, — I told you so before. It is your own fault,” said the officer, going out.

The chimes played in a soft tone, ” How glorious is our Lord in Zion.” The sentries were changed. In the cathedral candles burned, and a sentry stood at the tombs of the Tsars.

WHAT IS ART?

by Leo Tolstoy

Translated from the Original Russian and edited by Leo Wiener

Assittant Professor of Slavic Languages at Harvard University

1897

I.

Take any newspaper of our time, and you will find in it a department of the theatre and of music; in almost any number you will find the description of this or that exhibition or of a separate picture, and in each you will find reviews of newly published books of artistic contents, of verses, stories, and novels.

There is a detailed description, immediately after it has happened, of how such and such an actor or actress played this rôle or that in such and such a drama, comedy, or opera, and of what talent he or she displayed, and of what the contents of the new drama, comedy, or opera are, and of their failures and good points. With similar details and care the newspaper describes how such and such an artist sang or played on the piano or violin such and such a piece of music, and in what the good and bad points of this piece and of his playing consist. In every large city there is always, if not several, at least one exhibition of new paintings, the good and bad qualities of which are analyzed by critics and connoisseurs with the greatest profundity. Nearly every day there appear new novels and verses, separately and in periodicals, and the newspapers regard it as their duty to give detailed accounts to their readers about these productions of art.

For the support of art in Russia, where only one-hundredth part of what is necessary for furnishing instruction to the whole people is expended on public education, the government offers millions as subsidies to academies, conservatories, and theatres. In France eight millions are set aside for the arts ; the same is true of Germany and of England. In every large city they build enormous structures for museums, academies, conservatories, dramatic schools, for performances and concerts. Hundreds of thousands of workmen — carpenters, masons, painters, joiners, paper-hangers, tailors, wig-makers, jewellers, bronzers, compositors — pass their whole lives at hard work for the satisfaction of the demands of art, so that there is hardly any other human activity, except the military, which absorbs so many forces as this.

But it is not only these enormous labours that are wasted on this activity, — on it, as on war, human lives are wasted outright : hundreds of thousands of men devote all their lives from their earliest youth, in order to learn how to twirl their feet very rapidly (dancers); others (the musicians) — to learn how to run rapidly over the keys or over the strings ; others again (painters) — to learn how to paint with colours everything they see ; and others — to know how to twist every phrase in every way imaginable, and to find a rhyme for every word. And such people, who frequently are very good, clever men, capable of any useful work, grow wild in these exclusive, stupefying occupations and become dulled to all serious phenomena of life, and one-sided and completely selfsatisfied specialists, who know only how to twirl their legs, their tongues, or their fingers.

But this is not enough. I remember I was once present at the rehearsal of one of the most common modem operas, which is given in all the theatres of Europe and of America.

I came after the first act had begun. In order to reach the auditorium I had to cross behind the curtain. I was led through dark corridors and passages in the basement of an enormous building, past enormous machines for the change of the scenery and for illumination, where in the darkness and dust I saw men working at something. One of these labourers, with a gray, lean face, dressed in a dirty blouse, with dirty working hands with sprawling fingers, apparently tired and dissatisfied with something, passed by me, angrily rebuking some one. Ascending a dark staircase, I entered the stage behind the curtain. Among scenery lying in heaps, curtains, and some kind of poles, were standing about and moving, tens, if not hundreds, of painted and dressed-up men in costumes fitting tightly over their thighs and calves, and women with their bodies bared as much as always. All these were singers, choirmen and girls, and ballet-dancers, waiting for their turn. My guide led me across the stage and across a plank bridge over the orchestra, where sat about a hundred musicians of every description, from cymbals to flute and harp, into the dark parterre. On an elevation between two lamps with reflectors, the leader of the musical part, directing the orchestra and the singers and the whole getting up of the opera in general, was sitting on a chair before a desk, holding the baton in his hand.

When I came, the performance had already begun, and on the stage they were representing the procession of Indians bringing a bride. Besides the masquerading men and women, two men in frock coats were running up and down the stage: one, the manager of the dramatic part, and the other, who was stepping with extraordinary lightness in his soft boots and running from one place to another, the teacher of dancing, who received a monthly salary which was greater than what ten workmen receive in a year.

These three chiefs arranged the singing, the orchestra, and the procession. The procession was being performed, as always, by pairs with tin-foil halberds on their shoulders. All came out from one spot and walked in a circle and again in a circle, and then stopped. The procession was long in getting into shape; now the Indians with the halberds came out too late, now too early ; now they came out in time, but crowded too much in going out, and now they did not crowd, but did not take up the right positions at the sides of the stage, and every time everything stopped and began anew. The procession began with a recitative of a man dressed up as a Turk or something like that, who, opening his mouth in a strange manner, sang out, ” I accompany the bri-i-ide.” After singing he waved his arm, — which, of course, was bare, — under his mantle.

And the procession begins, but the French horn does something wrong in a chord of the recitative, and the director, shivering as though from a misfortune which has happened to him, strikes the desk with his baton. Everything comes to a stop, and the director, turning to the orchestra, attacks the French horn, scolding him with the coarsest of words, such as cabmen curse with, because he did not take the right note. And again everything begins from the beginning. The Indians with the halberds come out again, stepping softly in their strange footgear, and again the singer sings, ” I accompany the bri-i-ide.” But here the pairs stand too close. Again a rap with the baton, and scolding, and again from the beginning. Again, ” I accompany the bri-i-ide ; ” again the same motion with the bared arm from under the mantle, and the pairs, stepping softly with their halberds on their shoulders, some of them with serious and sad faces, others chatting and smiling, stand around and begin to sing.

Everything, it would seem, is well, but again there is a rap with the baton, and the director begins with a suffering and furious voice to scold the men and the girls of the choir : it turns out that during the singing some members of the choir have not raised their hands now and then in sign of animation.

” Are you dead, eh ? Cows ! Are you dead that you do not move ? “

Again from the beginning, again, “I accompany the bri-i-ide,” and again the choir-girls sing with gloomy faces, and now one, and now another raises her hand. But two choir-girls are talking to each other, — again an energetic rap of the baton.

“Have you come here to talk? You can gossip at home. You there, in the red pants, stand nearer. Look at me. From the beginning.”

Again, “ I accompany the bri-i-ide,” — and so it lasts an hour, two, three hours. Ever)’ such rehearsal lasts six hours in succession. Raps with baton, repetitions, transpositions, corrections of the singers, of the orchestra, of the procession, of the dances, and everything seasoned with choice curses. Words, like “ ass, stupids, idiots, swine,” directed to the musicians and the singers, I heard something like forty times during one hour. And the unfortunate, physically and morally distorted man, — the flute, the French horn, the singer, — to whom these curses are directed, is silent and does what he is commanded, — he repeats twenty times, ” I accompany the bri-i-ide,” and twenty times sings the same phrase, and again marches in his yellow shoes, with the halberd across his shoulders. The director knows that these people are so distorted that they are not good for anything but blowing the horn and walking with a halberd and in yellow shoes, and that at the same time they have become accustomed to a pleasant, luxurious life, and will endure everything, rather than be deprived of this pleasant life, — and so he calmly abandons himself to his vulgarity, the more so since he saw this in Paris and in Vienna and knows that the best directors do so and that this is the musical tradition of great artists, who are so much absorbed in the great work of their art that they have no time to analyze the feelings of the artists.

It is difficult to find a more disgusting spectacle. I have seen at the unloading of merchandise one labourer curse another for not having supported a weight which was pressing down upon him, or at the harvest an elder scolding a labourer for rounding up a stack badly, when the labourer would submissively listen in silence. No matter how disagreeable it is to see this, the unpleasant feeling is mitigated by the consciousness that here a necessary and important work is being done and that the mistake for which the boss is scolding the labourer may have spoiled the necessary work.

But what is being done here, and for what purpose, and for whom ? It is very likely that he, the director, is himself worn out like that labourer; it is even evident that he is exhausted, — but who compels him to wear himself out ? Yes, and for what purpose does he wear himself out ? The opera which they were rehearsing was one of the most common operas for those who are used to them, but one of the greatest insipidities that one can imagine : The King of India wants to get married ; they bring a bride to him, and he dresses himself up as a singer, the bride falls in love with the presumptive singer and is in despair, and then discovers that the singer is the king himself, and all are very much satisfied.

There cannot be the slightest doubt that there never have been, and never could have been, such Indians, and that what they represented not only did not resemble any Indians, but did not even resemble anything in the world, except other operas ; that nobody expresses his feelings in a recitative and in quartettes, standing at a certain distance and waving his hand ; that no one walks with tin-foil halberds, in slippers, in pairs, except in the theatre ; that nobody gets angry like that, or makes love, or smiles, or weeps like that, and that no one in the world can be touched by all these performances.

Involuntarily there arises the question : For whom is all this being done ? Whom can it please ? If now and then there is a good motive in the opera, which it would give pleasure to hear, it would be possible to sing the opera simply, without these stupid costumes, and processions, and recitatives, and wavings of the hand. But the ballet, in which half-naked women make lascivious evolutions and intertwine in all kinds of sensual garlands, is simply an immoral performance. And so it is hard to make out for whom all this is intended. To an educated man it is intolerable and annoying ; to a real working man it is completely incomprehensible. It can please only those, and doubtfully even them, who have filled themselves with the spirit of gentlemen, but who are not yet satiated with gentlemanly pleasures, — corrupt artisans, who wish to testify to their culture, and young lackeys.

And all this abominable stupidity is not only not prepared with good-natured merriment and with simplicity, but with fury and beastly cruelty.

They say that this is done for art, and that art is a very important matter. But is it true that this is art, and that art is such an important matter, that such sacrifices may be brought to it ? This question is especially important, because the art, for the sake of which the labours of millions of men and even the lives of men and, above all else, love among men are sacrificed, becomes in the consciousness of men something more and more obscure and indefinite.

Criticism, in which heretofore the lovers of art found a support for their judgments about art, has of late become so contradictory that, if we omit from the sphere of art everything which the critics of the various schools do not recognize as possessing the right of belonging to art, there will lie hardly anything left in art.

Like the theologians of the various sects, so the artists of the various denominations exclude and destroy one another. Listen to the artists of the modem schools, and you will see in all branches one set of artists denying the rest : in poetry, — the old romanticists, denying the Parnassians and the decadents ; the Parnassians, denying the romanticists and the decadents; the decadents, denying all their predecessors and the symbolists ; the symbolists, denying all their predecessors and the Magi ; and the Magi, denying all their predecessors ; in the novel, — the naturalists, psychologists, naturists, denying one another. The same is true of painting and of music. Thus art, which absorbs the enormous labours of the nation and of human lives, and which impairs the love among them, is not only nothing clearly and firmly defined, but is also understood so contradictorily by its lovers that it is hard to say what indeed is meant by art, and especially by good, useful art, such that in the name of it there may be brought those sacrifices which are made for it.

II.

For every ballet, circus, opera, operetta, exhibition, painting, concert, printing of a book, we need the strained labour of thousands and thousands of men, who under pressure perform what frequently is destructive and debasing work.

It would be well if the artists did all their work themselves, but as it is, they need the aid of workmen, not only for the production of the art, but also for their for the most part luxurious existence, and in one way or another they receive it either in the form of pay from rich people, or in the form of subsidies from the government, which are given them by the million for theatres, conservatories, academies. This money is collected from the masses, whose cows are sold for this purpose and who never enjoy these Esthetic pleasures which art gives them.

It was well for the Greek or the Roman artist, or even for our artist of the first half of our century, when there were slaves and it was considered right that there should be, with a calm conscience to make men serve him and his pleasure ; but in our time, when in all men there is at least a faint consciousness of the equality of all men, it is impossible to make people work for art against their will, without having first decided the question whether it is true that art is such a good and important thing that it redeems this violence.

Otherwise it is terrible to consider that it may very easily happen that terrible sacrifices in labour, in human life, in morality, are made for art’s sake, while art not only fails to be useful, but is even harmful.

And so for a society, amidst which the productions of art arise and are supported, it is necessary to know whether all is really art which is given out as such, and whether all that which is art is good, as it is considered to be in our society, and whether, if it is good, it is important and deserves all those sacrifices which are demanded in its name. And still more indispensable is it for every artist to know this, in order that he may be assured that everything which he does has a meaning, and is not an infatuation of that small circle of men among whom he is living, evoking in him a false conviction that he is doing something good and that what he is taking from other people in the form of support for his for the most part luxurious life will be paid by those productions over which he is working. And so the answers to these questions are of particular importance in our time.

What, then, is this art which is considered so important and so indispensable for humanity that for it may be made those sacrifices, not only of labour and of human lives, but also of the good, which are made for it ?

What is art? How is this, — what is art? Art is architecture, sculpture, painting, music, poetry in all its forms, will be the answer of the average man, of the lover of art, or even of the artist himself, assuming that what he is talking about is clearly and universally understood by all men. But in architecture, you will say, there are simple structures, which do not form the object of art, and, besides, structures which make a pretence of being objects of art, unsuccessful, monstrous structures, which, therefore, cannot be acknowledged to be objects of art. Where, then, is the sign of the object of art to be found ?

The same is true of sculpture, and of music, and of poetry. Art in all its forms borders, on the one hand, on what is practically useful ; on the other, on attempts at art which are failures. It seems to him that all this has been decided long ago and is well known to all

” Art is an activity which manifests beauty,” such an average man will say.

” But if art consists in this, is a ballet, an operetta, also art ? ” you will ask.

” Yes,” the average man will answer, but with some hesitation. “A good ballet and a graceful operetta are also art, in so far as they manifest beauty.”

But if, without asking the average man any further as to how a good ballet and a graceful operetta differ from ungraceful ones, — questions which he would find it hard to answer, — if you ask the same average man whether the activity of the costumer and the wig-maker who adorn the figures and the faces of the women in the ballet and the operetta, and of the tailor Worth, the perfumer, and the cook may be considered to be art, he in the majority of cases will reject the activity of the tailor, the wig-maker, the costumer, and the cook, as not belonging to the sphere of art. But in this the average man will be mistaken, for the very reason that he is an average man, and not a specialist, and has not busied himself with questions of æsthetics. If he busied himself with them, he would find in the famous Renan, in his book, Marc Aurèle, a discussion as to the tailor’s art being art, and a statement that those men who in the attire of woman do not see the work of the highest art are very narrow and very stupid. ” C’est le grand art,” he says. Besides, the average man would find out that in many æsthetics, as, for example, in the æsthetics of the learned Professor Kralik, Weltschonheit, Ver such einer allegemeiuen Æsthetïk, and in Guyau, Les problèmes de l’esthétique, the costumer’s art and the arts of taste and of feeling are recognized as being art.

“ Es folgt nun ein Fiinfblatt von Kiinsten, die der subjectiven Sinnlichkeit entkeimen,” says Kralik (p. 175). ” Sie sind die âstethische Behandlung der fünf Sinne.”

These five arts are the following :

Die Kunst des Geschmacksinns, — the art of the sense of taste (p. 175).

Die Kunst des Geruchsinns, — the art of the sense of smell (p. 177).

Die Kunst des Tastsinns, — the art of the sense of feeling (p. 180).

Die Kunst des Gehorsinns, — the art of the sense of hearing (p. 182).

Die Kunst des Gesichtsinns, — the art of the sense of sight (p. 184).

Of the first, the Kunst des Geschmacksinns, the following is said : ” Man halt zwar gewohnlich nur zwei oder hdchstens drei Sinne fur wiirdig, den Stoff kunstlicher Behandlung abzugeben, aber ich glaube, nur mit beding-tem Recht. Ich will kein all zu grosses Gewicht darauf legen, dass der gemeine Sprachgebrauch manch andere Kiinste, wie zum Beispiel die Kochkunst, kennt.

“Und es ist doch gewiss eine âsthetische Leistung, wenn es der Kochkunst gelingt aus einem thierischen Kadaver einen Gegenstand des Geschmacks in jedem Sinne zu machen. Der Grundsatz der Kunst des Geschmacksinns (die weiter istals die sogenannte Kochkunst) ist also dieser. Es soil ailes Geniessbare als Sinnbild einer Idee behandelt werden und in jedesmaligem Einklang zur auszudriickenden Idee.”

The author recognizes, like Renan, eine Kostiimkunst (p. 200), and other arts.

The same is the opinion of the French writer, Guyau, who is highly esteemed by some writers of our day. In his book, Les problèmes de Vesthétique, he speaks seriously of the sensations of feeling, taste, and smell as being able to give Esthetic impressions.

“ Si la couleur manque au toucher, il nous fournit en revanche une notion, que l’œil seul ne peut nous donner et qui a une valeur esthétique considerable : celle du doux, du soyeux, du poli. Ce qui caractérisé la beauté du velours, c’est le douceur au toucher, non moins que son brillant. Dans l’idée, que nous nous faisons de la beauté d’une femme, la velouté de sa peau entre comme élément essentiel.

” Chacun de nous probablement avec un peu d’attention se rappellera des jouissances du gout, qui ont été des véritables jouissances esthétiques.”

And he goes on to tell how a glass of milk drunk by him in the mountains gave him an Esthetic pleasure.

Thus the conception of art as a manifestation of beauty is not at all so simple as it seems, especially now, when in this conception of beauty they include, as the modern æstheticians do, our sensations of feeling, taste, and smell.

But the average man either does not know this, or does not wish to know it, and is firmly convinced that all questions of art are very simply and very clearly solved by recognizing beauty as the contents of art. To the average man it seems clear and comprehensible that art is the product of beauty ; and by beauty are all the questions of art solved for him.

But what is beauty, which, according to his opinion, forms the contents of art? How is it determined, and what is it?

As in every other matter, the more obscure and complicated the conception is which is transmitted in words, the greater is the aplomb and self-assurance with which people use this word, making it appear that what is understood by the word is so simple and so clear that it is not worth while to talk of what it really means. Thus people generally act in reference to questions of religious superstition, and so people act in our time in reference to the concept of beauty. It is assumed that what is understood by the word ” beauty ” is known and comprehensible to all. At the same time this is not only unknown, but ever since, in the last 150 years, from the year 1750, when Baumgarten laid the foundation for Esthetics, there have been written mountains of books by most learned and profound men, the question as to what beauty is has remained completely open and with every new work on Esthetics is solved in a new way. One of the last books which, among others, I read on aesthetics, is a not at all bad little book by Julius Mithalter, called Ratsel des Schonen. The title quite correctly explains the position of the question as to what beauty is. The meaning of the word ” beauty ” has remained an enigma after 150 years of discussion by a thousand learned men as to the meaning of this word. The Germans solve the enigma in their own way, though in a hundred different manners. The physiological æstheticians, especially the Englishmen of the Spencer-Grant Allen school, also decide it each in his own way ; the French eclectics and the followers of Guy au and Taine also decide it in their own way, and all these men know all the previous solutions by Baumgarten, and Kant, and Schelling, and Schiller, and Fichte, and Winkelmann, and Lessing, and Hegel, and Schopenhauer, and Hartmann, and Schasler, and Cousin, and Lévêque, and so forth.

What is this strange conception of beauty, which seems so comprehensible to those who do not think what they are saying, and on the definition of which all the philosophers of the various nations having all kinds of tendencies have been unable to agree for the past 150 years ? What is the concept of beauty on which the prevailing doctrine about art is based ?

By the word ” beauty ” we understand in the Russian language only that which pleases our vision. Although of late we have begun to speak of ” ugly acts,” ” beautiful music,” this is not Russian.

A Russian from among the masses, who does not know any foreign languages, will not understand you, if you tell him that a man who gave another his last garment, or something like that, acted “ beautifully,” or, having cheated another, acted ” ugly,” or that a song is ” beautiful.” In Russian an act may be good, or bad ; music may be agreeable and good, or disagreeable and bad, but it cannot be beautiful or ugly.

Beautiful can be a man, a horse, a house, a view, a motion, but of acts, thoughts, character, music, if we like them very much, we can say that they are good, or bad, if we do not like them ; ” beautiful ” we can say only of what pleases our sense of vision. Thus the word and the concept of ” good ” includes the concept of ” beautiful,” but not vice versa: the concept of “beautiful” does not include that of ” good.” If we say “ good ” of an object which is valued for its external appearance, we say by this that it is also beautiful ; but if we say ” beautiful,” it does not at all designate that the object is good.

Such is the meaning ascribed by the Russian language, consequently by the Russian national mind, to the words and the concepts of ” good ” and ” beautiful.”

In all European languages, in the languages of those nations among which the teaciring of the beautiful is disseminated, as being the essence of art, the words ” beau,” ” schon,” ” beautiful,” ” hello,” having retained the meaning of beauty of form, have also come to signify goodness, that is, have come to take the place of “ good.”

Thus, it is quite natural in these languages to employ expressions like ” belle âme, schone Gedanken, beautiful deed ; ” but for the definition of the l>eauty of form, these languages have no corresponding word, and are obliged to use the combination of words, ” beau par la forme,” and so forth.

Observation made on the meaning which the words ” beauty,” ” beautiful,” have, both in our language and in all the ancient languages, not excluding the European languages, particularly those of the nations among whom the æsthetical theory has been established, shows us that a special meaning, that of goodness, is ascribed to the word ” beauty.”

What is remarkable in this is the fact that since we, the Russians, have come more and more fully to adopt the European views of art, the same evolution has been taking place in our language, and, with the greatest assurance and without surprising any one, people have begun to speak and to write of beautiful music and ugly acts and even thoughts, whereas forty years ago, in my youth, such expressions as ” beautiful music ” and “ ugly acts ” were not only unused, but even incomprehensible. It is evident that this new meaning, which by European thought is attached to beauty, is being adopted also by Russian society.

In what, then, does this meaning consist? What is beauty, as understood by the European nations ?

In order to answer this question, I shall quote here a small part of those definitions of beauty which are most current in the existing works on Esthetics. I beg the reader most earnestly not to feel wearied, but to read these quotations or, what would be better still, to read any scientific Esthetics he may please. Leaving out the extensive works on aesthetics by the Germans, it would be very well for this purpose to read the German work by Kralik, the English by Knight, and the French by Lévêque. It is indispensable to read some learned work on aesthetics, in order that one may form for oneself a conception of the variety of opinions and of the frightful obscurity which reign in this sphere of opinions, and not take another person’s word for it.

This, for example, is what Schasler, the German æsthetician, says about the character of all aesthetic investigations, in his famous, compendious, and minute work on aesthetics:

“ In hardly any other sphere of the philosophic sciences can we find such contradictory and rude investigations and manners of exposition as in the sphere of aesthetics. On the one hand, there is an elegant phraseology, without any contents, distinguished for the most part by a most one-sided superficiality ; on the other, with an unquestionable profundity of investigation and wealth of contents, a repellent clumsiness of a philosophic terminology, which vests the simplest things in the garment of abstract learning, as though to make them worthy of entering into the illuminated halls of the system, and, finally, between these two methods of investigation and exposition, a third, forming, as it were, a transition from one to the other, a method which consists in eclecticism, which foppishly displays now an elegant phraseology, and now a pedantic learning… . But a form of exposition which may not fall into any one of the three faults, but may be truly concrete and with its essential contents may express its meaning in a clear and popular philosophic language, is nowhere to be met with less frequently than in the sphere of Esthetics.”1

It is sufficient to read Schasler’s own book, in order to become convinced of the justice of his opinion.

“ Il n’y a pas de science,” says of the same subject Véron, a French writer, in the introduction to his very good work on aesthetics, ” qui ait été de plus, que l’esthétique, livrée aux reveries des métaphysiciens. Depuis Platon jusqu’aux doctrines officielles de nos jours, on a fait de l’art je ne sais quel amalgame de fantaisies quintessences et de mystères transcendentaux, qui trouvent leur expression suprême dans le conception absolue du beau ideal prototype immuable et divin des choses réelles.” 3

1 Schasler, Kritische Geschichte der Æsthetik, 1872, i. p. xiii. Ail notes in What Is Artf are the author’s.

a Véron, L’esthétique, 1878, p. v.

This opinion is the more correct, as the reader will convince himself, if he takes the trouble to read the following definitions of beauty, which I quote from the chief authors on Esthetics.

I will not quote the definitions of beauty which are ascribed to the ancients, to Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, down to Plotinus, because, in reality, there did not exist with the ancients that definition of beauty, distinct from goodness, which forms the foundation and aim of Esthetics in our day. In adapting the opinions of the ancients about beauty to our concept, as they generally do in works on aesthetics, we attribute to the words of the ancients a meaning which they did not have (see concerning this the beautiful book of Bénard, L’esthétique d’Aristote, and Walter’s Geschichte der Æsthetik im Alter thum).

III.

I will begin with the founder of aesthetics, Baumgarten (1714-62).

According to Baumgarten,1 the subject of logical cognition is truth ; the subject of Esthetic (that is, sensuous) cognition is beauty. Beauty is the perfect (absolute), which is cognized by feeling. Truth is the perfect, which is cognized by reason. Goodness is the perfect, which is attained through moral will.

Beauty is, according to Baumgarten, defined by the correspondence, that is, order of parts in their mutual relation among themselves and in their relation to the whole. The aim of beauty itself is to please and excite desire (Wohlgefallen und Erregung eines Verlangens),— a proposition which, according to Kant, is directly opposed to the chief quality and sign of beauty.

In respect to the manifestation of beauty, Baumgarten assumes that the highest realization of beauty we recognize in Nature, and so the imitation of Nature, according to Baumgarten, is the highest problem of art (a proposition which is directly opposed to the opinions of the later æstheticians).

Omitting the less remarkable followers of Baumgarten, Meyer, Eschenburg, Eberhard, who modify their teacher’s opinions but a little, by separating what is agreeable from what is beautiful, I quote the definitions of beauty in the authors who appeared immediately after Baumgarten, and who defined beauty quite differently. These writers were Schutz, Sulzer, Mendelssohn, Moritz. These writers recognize, in contradistinction to Baumgarten’s proposition, that the aim of art is not beauty, but goodness. Thus Sulzer (1720-79) says that only that which contains the good in itself may be recognized as beautiful. According to Sulzer, the aim of the whole life of humanity is the good of the social life. It is obtained through the education of the moral sentiment, and art must be subjected to this aim. Beauty is that which evokes and educates this feeling.

1 Scbasler, lb. p. 361.

Almost in the same way does Mendelssohn (1729-36) understand beauty. Art, according to Mendelssohn,1 is the elevation of what is beautiful, as cognized by a dim feeling, to what is true and good. But the aim of art is moral perfection.

For the æstheticians of this school the ideal of beauty is a beautiful soul in a beautiful body. Thus in these æstheticians is completely wiped out the division of the perfect (the absolute) into its three forms, — truth, goodness, and beauty, and beauty is again united with goodness and truth.

But such a conception of beauty is not supported by the later æstheticians ; there appears Winkelmann’s Esthetics, which is again totally opposed to these views, which in a most decisive and sharp manner separates the problems of art from the aims of goodness, and which sets up as the aim of art external and even nothing but plastic art. To these opinions also hold Lessing and later Gbthe.

According to Winkelmann’s (1717-67) work, the law and aim of every art is nothing but beauty, quite distinct and independent of goodness. Now, beauty is of three kinds : (1) the beauty of forms, (2) the beauty of the idea, which finds its expression in the position of the figure (in relation to plastic art), and (3) the beauty of expression, which is possible only in the presence of the first two conditions ; this beauty of expression is the highest aim of art, and is realized in antique art, for which reason modern art must strive to imitate antiquity.1

1 L/b. p. 369.

Beauty is similarly understood by Lessing, Herder, then Gothe, and all the prominent æstheticians of Germany up to Kant, with which time there begins an entirely different comprehension of art.

In England, France, Italy, Holland, there originated at the same time, independently of the writers of Germany, æsthetical theories of their own, which are just as obscure and as contradictory, but all the æstheticians, just like the Germans, who put at the base of their reflections the concept of beauty, understand beauty not as something not absolutely in existence, but more or less blending with goodness or having one and the same root with it. In England, almost at the same time with Baumgarten, and even a little earlier, Shaftesbury, Hutcheson, Home, Burke, Hogarth, and others write about art.

According to Shaftesbury (1670-1713) what is beautiful is harmonious and proportionable ; what is beautiful and proportionable, is true ; and what is at once both beautiful and true, is agreeable and good. Beauty, according to Shaftesbury, is cognized by the spirit only. God is the fundamental beauty, — beauty and goodness proceed from one source.2 Thus, according to Shaftesbury, though beauty is viewed as something distinct from goodness, it again blends with it into something indivisible.

According to Hutcheson (1694-1744), in his Original of our Ideas of Beauty and Virtue, the aim of art is beauty, the essence of which consists in the manifestation of unity in multiplicity. But in the cognition of what is beauty we are guided by the ethical instinct (” an internal sense”). Now this instinct may be opposed to the ESthetical. Thus, according to Hutcheson, beauty no longer ’Knight, The Philosophy of the Beautiful, i. pp. 165-166. always coincides with goodness, and is separated from it and may be contrary to it.1

1. lb. pp. 388-390.

According to Home (1696-1782), beauty is that which is agreeable, and so beauty is determined only by taste. Now, the foundation of true taste rests on this fact, that the greatest wealth, fulness, strength, and variety of impressions are contained within most circumscribed limits. In this lies the ideal of the perfect production of art.

According to Burke (1730-97), Enquiry into the Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and the Beautiful, the sublime and the beautiful, which form the aim of art, have for their foundation the feeling of self-preservation and the social feeling. These feelings, as viewed in their sources, are means for the preservation of the species through the individual The first is attained through nutrition, defence, and war ; the second, through communion and propagation. And so self-preservation and war, which is connected with it, are the source of the sublime ; the communal feeling and the sexual necessity, which is united with it, serve as the source of beauty.2

Such are the chief English definitions of art and beauty for the eighteenth century.

At the same time Père André, Batteux, Diderot, d’Alembert, and Voltaire, in part, were writing in France on art.

According to Père André (Essai sur le Beau) (1741), there are three kinds of beauty: (1) divine beauty, (2) natural beauty, and (3) artificial beauty.3

According to Batteux (1713-80), art consists in the imitation of the beauty of Nature, and its aim is enjoyment.4 5

Diderot’s definition of art is similar to it. Taste is, as in the case of the English, assumed as the arbiter of what is beautiful. But the laws of taste are not only not established, but it is admitted that all this is impossible. D’Alembert and Voltaire1 are of the same opinion.

According to the Italian æsthetician of the same time, Pagano, art is the bringing together into one of the beauties scattered in Nature. The ability to see these beauties is taste ; the ability to unite them into one whole is the artistic genius. Beauty, according to Pagano, is so blended with goodness that beauty is manifesting goodness, and good is inner beauty.

According to the opinion of other Italians, Muratori (1672-1750), (Riflessioni sopro il buon gusto intorno le scienze e le arti), and especially Spaletti2 (Saggio sopro la bellezza, 1765), art is reduced to an egoistical sensation which, as in the case of Burke, is based on the striving after self-preservation and the communal feeling.

Among the Dutch we must note Hemsterhuis (1720-90), who had an influence on the German æstheticians and on Gothe. According to his teaching, beauty is what offers the greatest enjoyment, and what offers us the greatest enjoyment is what gives us the greatest number of ideas in the shortest possible time. The enjoyment of the beautiful is the highest cognition which man can attain, because in the shortest time possible it gives the greatest number of perceptions.8

Such were the theories of the Esthetics outside of Germany in the course of the past century. But in Germany there appears after Winkelmann again an entirely new Esthetic theory by Kant (1724-1804), which more than any other makes clear the essence of the concept of beauty, and so also of art.

1 Knight, pp. 102-104. 2Schasler, p. 328.

8 Schasler, pp. 331, 333.

Kant’s æsthetics is based on this: man, according to Kant, cognizes Nature outside himself, and himself in Nature. In Nature outside himself he seeks truth, in himself he seeks goodness, — one is the work of pure reason, the other — of practical reason (freedom). In addition to these two instruments of cognition, according to Kant, there is also the ability to judge (Urtheilskraft), which forms judgments without concepts and produces pleasure without desire (Urtheil ohne Begriff und Ver-gnügen ohne Begehren). This ability forms the basis of the Esthetic feeling. But beauty, according to Kant, in the subjective sense, is what pleases, without conception or practical advantage, in general, of necessity ; in the objective sense it is the form of the suitable object in the measure in which it is conceived without any representation of its aim.1

Beauty is similarly defined by Kant’s followers, among them by Schiller (1759-1805). According to Schiller, who wrote a great deal on æsthetics, the aim of art is, as with Kant, beauty, the source of which is enjoyment without any practical advantage. Thus art may be called a game, not in the sense of an insignificant occupation, but in the sense of the manifestation of the beauty of life itself, which has no other aim than beauty.2

Next to Schiller, the most remarkable of Kant’s followers in the field of æsthetics was Wilhelm Humboldt, who though he added nothing to the definition of beauty, expatiated on its various aspects, as the drama, music, humour, etc.3

1 lb. pp. 525-528. 2 Knight, pp. 61-63.

3 Schasler, pp. 740-743.

After Kant, it is Fichte, Schelling, and Hegel, and their followers, besides less important authors, who have written on æsthetics. According to Fichte (1761-1814), the consciousness of the beautiful results from the following : the universe, that is, Nature, has two sides, — it is the product of our limitation and of our free ideal activity. In the first sense the universe is limited, in the second it is free. In the first sense everybody is limited, distorted, compressed, narrowed, and we see ugliness ; in the second we see inner fulness, vitality, regeneration, — beauty. Thus the ugliness or the beauty of an object, according to Fichte, depends on the view-point of the observer. Thus beauty is not contained in the world, but in the beautiful soul (schdner Geist). Art is the manifestation of this beautiful soul, and its aim is the education, not only of the mind, — that is the work of the scholar, — not only of the heart, — that is the work of the moral preacher, — but also of the whole man. And so the sign of beauty is found, not in something external, but in the presence of the beautiful soul in the artist.1

With Fichte, Friedrich Schlegel and Adam Muller define beauty in the same way. According to Schlegel (1778-1829), beauty in art is understood in too incomplete, one-sided, and disjointed a manner ; beauty is found not only in art, but also in Nature, in love, so that the truly beautiful is expressed in the union of art, Nature, and love. For this reason Schlegel recognizes, inseparable from Esthetic art, a moral and a philosophic art.2

According to Adam Müller (1779-1829), there are two beauties : one — social art, which attracts men, as the sun attracts the planets, — this is preeminently the antique art, — and the other — individual beauty, which becomes such because the one who contemplates himself becomes the sun which attracts beauty, — this is the beauty of the new art. The world, in which all the contradictions are harmonized, is the highest beauty, and every production of art is a repetition of this universal harmony.8 The highest art is the art of life.4

1 lb. pp. 769-771. » lb. p. 87. • Kralik, p. 148.

4 lb. p. 820.

The next philosopher after Fichte and his followers, and contemporaneous with him, was Schelling (1775-1854), who had a great influence on the æsthetic concepts of our time. According to Schelling, art is the product or consequence of that world conception according to which the subject is transformed into its object, or the object itself becomes its subject. Beauty is the representation of the infinite in the finite. The chief character of the product of art is unconscious infinitude. Art is the union of the subjective with the objective, — of Nature and reason, of the unconscious with the conscious. Thus art is the highest means of cognition. Beauty is the contemplation of things in themselves, as they are found in the basis of all things (in den Urbildern). The beautiful is not produced by the artist through his knowledge or will, but by the idea of beauty itself in him.1

Of Schelling’s followers the most noticeable was Solger (1780-1819) ( Vorlesungen uber Æsthetik). According to Solger, the idea of beauty is the fundamental idea of anything. In the world we see only the distortion of the fundamental idea, — but art through fancy may rise to the height of the fundamental idea. And so art is the similitude of creativeness.2

According to another follower of Schelling, Krause (1781-1832), true real beauty is the manifestation of the idea in the individual form ; but art is the realization of beauty in the sphere of the free human spirit. The highest degree of art is the art of life, which directs its activity to the adornment of life, so that it may be a beautiful place of abode for a beautiful man.3

2 Schasler, pp. 828-829. 834, 841. - Id. p. 891.

3 lb. p. 917.

After Schelling and his followers begins Hegel’s æsthetic doctrine, which, consciously in many and unconsciously in the majority, has remained new until the present. This doctrine not only fails to be clearer and more definite than the former doctrines, but, if that is at all possible, is even more hazy and mystical.

According to Hegel (1770-1831), God is manifested in Nature and in art in the form of beauty. God expresses himself in a twofold manner, — in the object and in the subject, — in Nature and in the spirit. Beauty is the idea made transparent through matter. Truly beautiful is only the spirit and all that which partakes of the spirit: the beautiful has only spiritual contents. But the spiritual has to be manifested in a sensuous form ; and the sensuous manifestation of the spirit is only semblance (Schein). This semblance is the only reality of the beautiful. Thus art is the realization of this semblance of the idea, and is a means, together with religion and philosophy, for bringing to consciousness and expressing the profoundest problems of men and the highest truths of the spirit.

Truth and beauty are, according to Hegel, one and the same : the only difference is that truth is the idea itself, in so far as it exists and is thinkable in itself. But the idea, as it is manifested without, becomes for consciousness, not only true, but also beautiful The beautiful is the manifestation of the idea.1

After Hegel come his numerous followers, Weisse, Arnold Ruge, Rosenkranz, Theodor Vischer, and others.

According to Weisse (1801-67), art is the introduction (Einbildung) of the absolutely spiritual essence of beauty into the external, dead, and indifferent matter, the concept of which, outside of the beauty introduced into it, represents in itself the negation of every existence for oneself (Negation ailes Fiirsichseins).

In the idea of truth, says Weisse, lies the contradiction of the subjective and the objective sides of cognition, in that the single ego cognizes the All-being. This contradiction may be removed by the concept which would unite 1 Id. pp. 946, 1085, 984-985, 990.

into one the moment of universality and unity, which in the concept of truth falls into two parts. Such a concept would be truth harmonized (aufgehoben), — beauty is such harmonized truth.1

According to Huge (1802-80), a strict adherent of Hegel, beauty is a self-expressing idea. The spirit, contemplating itself, finds itself expressed, either in full,— and then this full expression of oneself is beauty, or not in full, — and then there appears in him the necessity of changing his incomplete expression, and then the spirit becomes creative art.2

According to Vischer (1807-87), beauty is the idea in the form of the limited manifestation. But the idea itself is not indivisible, but forms a system of ideas, which present themselves as an ascending and descending line. The higher the idea, the more beauty does it contain ; but even the lowest contains beauty, because it forms a necessary link of the system. The highest form of the idea is personality, and so the highest art is that which has the highest personality for its object.3

Such are the German theories of Esthetics in the one Hegelian direction ; but the Esthetic considerations are not exhausted with this : side by side with the Hegelian theories there appear simultaneously in Germany theories of beauty which not only do not recognize Hegel’s propositions in regard to beauty as the manifestation of an idea, and of art as an expression of this idea, but which are even directly opposed to this view, and which deny and ridicule it. Such are those of Herbart and especially Schopenhauer.

According to Herbart (1776-1841), there is no beauty in itself, and there can be none ; but what there is, is our judgment, and it is necessary to discover the foundations of this judgment (æsthetisches Elementarurtheil). And these foundations of judgments are found in the relation >Id. pp. 966, 955-956. »Id. 1017. 816. pp. 1065-1066. of impressions. There are certain relations, which we call beautiful, and art consists in finding these relations, which are coexisting in painting, plastic art, and architecture, and consecutive and coexisting in music, and only consecutive in poetry. In opposition to former æstheticians, beautiful objects are, according to Herbart, frequently such as express absolutely nothing, as, for example, the rainbow, which is beautiful on account of its fine and colours, and by no means in relation to the significance of its myth, as Iris, or Noah’s rainbow.1

Another opponent of Hegel was Schopenhauer, who rejected Hegel’s whole system and his aesthetics.

According to Schopenhauer (1788-1860), the will objectifies itself in the world at various stages, and, although the higher the degree of its objectivation is, the more beautiful it is, each degree has its beauty. The renunciation of one’s individuality and the contemplation of one of these degrees of the manifestation of the will give us the consciousness of beauty. All men, according to Schopenhauer, possess the ability to cognize this idea at its various stages and thus to free themselves for a time from their personality. But the genius of the artist has this ability in the highest degree, and so manifests the highest beauty.2

After these more prominent authors there follow in Germany less original ones, who had less influence, such as Hartmann, Kirchmann, Schnasse, Helmholtz partly (as an æsthetician), Bergmann, Jungmann, and an endless number of others.

According to Hartmann (1842), beauty does not lie in the external world, not in the thing itself, nor in man’s soul, but in what is seeming (Schein), which is produced by the artist. The thing in itself is not beautiful, but the artist changes it into beauty.8

1 lb. pp. 1097-1100. 8 Id. pp. 1124, 1107.

8 Knight, pp. 81-82.

According to Schnasse (1798-1875), there is no beauty in the world. In Nature there is but an approximation to it. Art gives what Nature cannot give. Beauty is manifested in the activity of the free ego, which is conscious of a harmony that does not exist in Nature.1

Kirch man n wrote a whole experimental Esthetics. According to Kirchmann (1802-84), there are six spheres of history : (1) the sphere of knowledge, (2) the sphere of wealth, (3) the sphere of morality, (4) of religion, (5) of politics, and (6) of beauty. The activity in this sphere is art.2

According to Helmholtz (1821), who wrote of beauty in relation to music, beauty is attained in a musical composition invariably only through following the laws,— but these laws are unknown to the artist, so that beauty is manifested in the artist unconsciously, and cannot be subjected to analysis.3

According to Bergmann (1840), in his Ueber das Schone (1887), it is impossible objectively to determine beauty : beauty is cognized subjectively, and so the problem of Esthetics consists in determining what it is that pleases this or that man.4

According to Jungmann (died 1885), beauty is, in the first place, a suprasensible property of things ; in the second, beauty produces in us pleasure through mere contemplation ; in the third, beauty is the foundation of love.6

The French and the English theories of aesthetics and those of other nations for recent times are, in their chief representatives, the following :

In France, the prominent authors on aesthetics for this time were : Cousin, Jouffroy, Petit, Ravaisson, Lévêque.

1 26. p. 83. 2 Schasler, p. 1122. 8 Knight, pp. 85-86.

6 26. p. 88. 8 26. p. 88.

Cousin (1792-1867) is an eclectic and a follower of the German idealists. According to his theory, beauty has always a moral basis. Cousin refutes the proposition that art is imitation, and that the beautiful is that which pleases. He asserts that beauty may be determined in itself, and that its essence consists in diversity in unity.1

After Cousin, Jouffroy (1796-1842) wrote on aesthetics. Jouffroy is also a follower of German aesthetics and a disciple of Cousin. According to his definition, beauty is the expression of the invisible by means of visible signs, which make it manifest. The visible world is the garment by means of which we see beauty.2

The Swiss Pictet,3 who wrote on art, repeats Hegel and Plato, assuming beauty to lie in the immediate and free manifestation of the divine idea which makes itself manifest in sensuous images.

Lévêque is a follower of Schelling and of Hegel. According to Lévêque, beauty is something invisible which is concealed in Nature. Force or spirit is the manifestation of organized energy.4

Similarly indefinite judgments about the essence of beauty were uttered by the French metaphysician Ravaisson, who recognizes beauty as the final aim of the world. “ La beauté la plus divine et principalement la plus parfaite contient le secret.”6 According to his opinion, beauty is the aim of the world.

“ Le monde entier est l’œuvre d’une beauté absolue, qui n’est la cause des choses que par l’amour qu’elle met en elles.”

1 26. p. 112. 2 26. p. 116. 8 26. p. 118.

4 26. pp. 123-124. 8 philosophie en France, p. 232.

I purposely do not translate these metaphysical expressions, because, no matter how hazy the Germans may be, the French, when they fill themselves with the contents of German books and imitate them, surpass them by far, as they unite into one the heterogeneous concepts and indiscriminately substitute one for the other. Thus, the French philosopher Renouvier, who also discusses beauty, says : ” Ne craignons pas de dire, qu’une vérité, qui ne serait pas belle, n’est qu’un jeu logique de notre esprit et que la seule vérité solide et digne de ce nom c’est la beauté.” 6

Besides these idealistic æstheticians, who have written under the influence of German philosophy, Taine, Guyau, Cherbuliez, Coster, Véron, have of late had in France an influence on the comprehension of art and beauty.

According to Taine (1828-93), beauty is the manifestation of the essential character of some important idea, which is more perfect than its expression in reality.7

According to Guyau (1854—88), beauty is not something foreign to the object itself, nor a parasitical plant upon it, but the florescence itself of the being on which it is manifested. But art is the expression of rational and conscious life, which calls forth in us, on the one hand, the profoundest sensations of existence, on the other, the highest and most elevated of ideas. Art raises man from his personal life to the universal, not only through a participation in the same ideas and beliefs, but also through the same sentiments.8

According to Cherbuliez, art is an activity which (1) satisfies our inherent love of images (apparences), (2) introduces ideas into these images, and (3) offers enjoyment simultaneously to our feelings, our heart, and our reason. But beauty, according to Cherbuliez, is not inherent in the objects, but is an act of our soul. Beauty is an illusion. There is no absolute beauty, and that appears beautiful which to us seems to be characteristic and harmonious.

According to Coster, the ideas of beauty, goodness, and truth are inborn. These ideas enlighten our intellect and are identical with God, who is goodness, truth, and beauty. The idea of beauty includes the unity of essence, the diversity of the component elements, and order, which introduces unity into the diversity of the manifestations of life.6

For completeness’ sake I will quote a few more recent writings on art.

La psychologie du Beau et de I*Art, by Mario Filo (1895). According to Mario Filo, beauty is the product of our physical sensations, and the aim of art is enjoyment, but this enjoyment is for some reason sure to be considered highly moral

Then Essais Sïir l’art contemporain, by H. Fierens-Gevaert (1807), according to whom art depends on its connection with the past and on the religious ideal which the artist of the present sets before himself, giving to his production the form of his individuality.

Then Sar Peladan’s L’art idéaliste et mystique (1894). According to Feladan, beauty is one of the expressions of God. ” Il n’y a pas d’autre Réalité que Dieu ; il n’y a pas d’autre Vérité que Dieu ; il n’y a pas d’autre Beauté que Dieu ” (p. 33). This book is very fantastic and very ignorant, but it is characteristic on account of its propositions and on account of a certain success which it has among the French youth.

Such are the Esthetics which were most current in France until recently, from which Véron’s book, L’esthétique (1878), forms an exception on account of its lucidity and sensibleness ; although it does not precisely define art, it at least removes from Esthetics the hazy concept of absolute beauty.

According to Véron (1825-89), art is a manifestation of feeling (émotion), which is transmitted from without through combinations of lines, forms, colours, or through the consecutiveness of gestures, sounds, or words, which are subject to certain rhythms.7

7 Knight, p. 134. 7 L’esthétique, p. 106.

In England the writers on Esthetics of this time more and more frequently define beauty, not by its characteristic properties, but by taste, and the question of beauty gives way to the question of taste.

After Reid (1704—96), who recognized beauty only in dependence on the person contemplating it, Alison, in his book, On the Nature and Principles of Taste (1790), proves the same. The same, but from another side, is affirmed by Erasmus Darwin (1731-1802), the uncle of the famous Charles. He says that we find beautiful what in our conception is united with what we love. The same tendency is found in Richard Knight’s book, Analytical Inquiry on the Principles of Taste (1805).

The same tendency is to be found in the majority of the theories by the English æstheticians. In the beginning of the present century, Charles Darwin in part, Spencer, Mozley, Grant Allen, Ker, Knight, were prominent writers in Esthetics in England.

According to Charles Darwin (1809-83), Descent of Man (1871), beauty is a sentiment which is not peculiar to man alone, but also to animals, and so also to man’s ancestors. The birds adorn their nests and appreciate beauty in their mates. Beauty has an influence on marriages. Beauty includes the concept of various characters. The origin of the art of music is the call of the males for their females.1

According to Spencer (1820), the origin of art is play, a thought which was expressed before by Schiller. In the lower animals all the energy of life is spent on the support and continuation of life ; but in man there appears, after the gratification of his needs, a surplus of strength. This surplus is used for play, which passes into art. Play is a simulation of the real act, — and so is art.

The source of Esthetic enjoyment is : (1) what exercises the senses (vision or any other sense) in the completes 1

1 Knight, p. 238.

manner, with the least loss and the greatest amount of exercise ; (2) the greatest diversity of sensations evoked, and (3) the union of the first two with the representation arising from it.1

According to Todhunter (The Theory of the Beautiful, 1872), beauty is infinite attractiveness, which we cognize with reason and with the enthusiasm of love. The recognition of beauty as such depends on taste and cannot be defined by anything. The only approximation to a definition is the greatest culture of men ; but there is no definition of what culture is. The essence of art, of what moves us through lines, colours, sounds, words, is not the product of blind forces, but of rational forces striving, while aiding one another, toward a rational aim. Beauty is a harmonization of contradictions.2

According to Mozley (Sermons Preached before the University of Orford, 1876), beauty is found in the human soul. Nature tells us of what is divine, and art is the hieroglyphic expression of the divine.3

According to Grant Allen (Physiological Æsthetics, 1877), the continuator of Spencer, beauty has a physical origin. He says that Esthetic enjoyment is due to the contemplation of the beautiful, and the concept of the beautiful results from a physiological process. The beginning of art is play ; with the surplus of physical forces man abandons himself to play, and with the surplus of receptive forces man abandons himself to the activity of art. Beautiful is that which gives the greatest excitation with a minimum of loss. The difference in the appreciation of the beautiful is due to taste. Taste may be educated. It is necessary to believe in the judgment of ” the finest nurtured and most discriminative men,” that is, those who are best capable to appreciate. These men form the taste of the future generation.4

1 lb. 239-240. - lb. pp. 240-243. » lb. p. 247.

4 Id. 250-262.

According to Ker (Essay on Philosophy of Art, 1883), beauty gives us the means of a full comprehension of the objective world without references to other parts of the world, as is inevitable for science. And so science destroys the contradiction between unity and multiplicity, between the law and the phenomenon, between the subject and the object, uniting them into one. Art is the manifestation and assertion of freedom, because it is free from the obscurity and incomprehensibility of finite things.1

According to Knight (.Philosophy of the Beautiful, II., 1893), beauty is, as with Schelling, the union of the object with the subject, an extraction from Nature of what is proper to man, and the consciousness in oneself of what is common to all Nature.

The opinions on beauty and art which are quoted here by no means exhaust everything which has been written about this subject. Besides, every day there appear new writers on Esthetics, and in the opinions of these new writers there is the same enchanted obscurity and contradictoriness in the definition of beauty. Some from inertia continue Baumgarten’s and Hegel’s mystical Esthetics with various modifications, others transfer the question into the subjective sphere and seek for the bases of the beautiful in matters of art; others — the æstheticians of the very latest formation — find the beginning of beauty in physiological laws; others again discuss the question quite independently of the concept of beauty. Thus, according to Sully (iStudies in Psychology and Aesthetics, 1874), the concept of beauty is completely set aside, since art, according to Sully’s definition, is the product of a permanent or passing subject, capable of affording active pleasure and agreeable impressions to a certain number of spectators or bearers, independently of the advantages derived from it.2 U&. pp. 25S-259. -â p. 243.

IV.

Now, what results from all these definitions of beauty as enunciated by the science of Esthetics ? If we leave out of consideration the definitions of beauty, which are entirely inexact and do not cover the concept of art, and which assume it to he, now in usefulness, now in fitness, now in symmetry, now in order, now in proportion, now in smoothness, now in the harmony of the parts, now in unity, now in diversity, now in the various combinations of these principles, if we leave out of consideration these unsatisfactory attempts at objective definitions, — all the Esthetic definitions of beauty reduce themselves to two fundamental conceptions: the first is this, that beauty is something which exists in itself, one of the manifestations of the absolutely perfect, — the Idea, the Spirit, the Will, God, — and the other — that beauty is a pleasure of a certain kind, experienced by us, which has no aim of personal advantage.

The first definition was accepted by Fichte, Schelling, Hegel, Schopenhauer, and the philosophizing Frenchmen, Cousin, Jouffroy, Ravaisson, and others, not to mention the philosophical æstheticians of secondary importance. The greater half of the educated people of our time hold to the same objectively mystical definition of beauty. This conception of beauty has been very popular, especially among men of the former generation.

The second conception of beauty, as of a pleasure of a certain kind, derived by us, which has not for its aim any personal advantage, is preeminently popular among the English æstheticians, and is shared by the other half, mainly the younger, of our society.

Thus there exist, as indeed it cannot be otherwise, only two definitions of beauty : one — the objective, mystical definition, which blends this connection with the higher perfection, with God,— a fantastical definition, which is not founded on anything; the other, on the contrary, is very simple and comprehensible, and subjective ; it considers beauty to be what pleases us (to the word ” pleases ” I do not add ” without any aim, or advantage,” because the word ” pleases ” naturally includes this absence of considerations of advantage).

On the one hand, beauty is understood as something mystical and very elevated, but, unfortunately, something very indefinite, and so including philosophy, and religion, and life itself, as is the case with Schelling and Hegel and their German and French followers ; or, on the other hand, as it must be accepted, according to the definition of Kant and his followers, beauty is nothing but an unselfish enjoyment of a peculiar kind, which we experience. In this case, beauty, though, it seems to be very clear, is unfortunately again inexact, because it expands in another direction, namely, it includes the enjoyments derived from drink, food, the touch of a tender skin, and so forth, as it is accepted by Guyau, Kralik, and others.

It is true that, in following the evolution of the doctrine of beauty in Esthetics, we can observe that in the beginning, ever since the time when the science of Esthetics was established, there predominated the metaphysical definition of beauty, and that the nearer we approach our time, the more and more is there worked out an experimental definition, which of late has been assuming a physiological character, so that we meet with such aesthetics as Véron’s and Sully’s, who try to get along entirely without the concept of beauty. But such æstheticians have very little success, and the majority, both of the public and the artists and the scholars, hold firmly to the concept of beauty as it is defined in the majority of the aesthetics, that is, as something mystical or metaphysical, or as some special kind of enjoyment.

But what, in reality, is the concept of beauty to which the men of our circle and time hold so stubbornly in their definition of art ?

Beauty in the subjective sense we call what furnishes us enjoyment of a certain kind. In the objective sense, we call beauty something which is absolutely perfect, and we accept it as such only because we derive from the manifestation of this absolute perfection a certain kind of enjoyment, so that the objective definition is nothing but a differently expressed subjective definition. In reality both concepts of beauty reduce themselves to a certain kind of pleasure derived by us, that is, we accept as beauty what pleases us, without evoking desire in us. It would seem that, with such a state of affairs, it would be natural for the science of art not to be satisfied with the definition of art as based on beauty, that is, on what pleases, and to seek a common definition, applicable to all products of art, on the basis of which it would be possible to determine the pertinency or non-pertinency of objects to art. But, as the reader may see from the extracts quoted by me from the Esthetics, and still more clearly from the æsthetical works themselves, if he will take the trouble to read them, there is no such definition. All the attempts at defining absolute beauty in itself, as imitation of Nature, as fitness, as correspondence of parts, symmetry, harmony, unity in diversity, etc., either define nothing, or define only certain features of certain products of art and are far from covering everything which all men have always regarded as art.

There is no objective definition of art ; but the existing definitions, both the metaphysical and the experimental, reduce themselves to a subjective definition and, however strange it may seem to say so, to this, that that is considered to be art which manifests beauty ; but beauty is what pleases (without evoking desire). Many æstheticians have felt the insufficiency and weakness of such a definition, and, in order to find a basis for it, have asked themselves why this or that pleases, and have transferred the question of beauty to that of taste, as was done by Hutcheson, Voltaire, Diderot, and others. But all the attempts at defining what taste is, as the reader may see from the history of aesthetics and from experience, cannot bring us to anything, and there is no explanation, and there can be none, as to why such and such a thing pleases one and does not please another, and vice versa. Thus the whole existing aesthetics does not consist in what one could expect from the mental activity which calls itself science, — namely, in defining the properties and laws of art or of the beautiful, if this is the contents of art, or the property of taste, if taste decides the question of art and its value, and then in recognizing as art, on the basis of these laws, those productions which fit in with these laws, and in rejecting those which do not fit in with them ; — it consists in this, that, having come to recognize a certain kind of production as good, because it pleases us, we form a theory of art, according to which all the productions which please a certain circle of men should be included in this theory. There exists an artistic canon, according to which favourite productions are in our circle recognized as art (Phidias, Sophocles, Homer, Titian, Raphael, Bach, Beethoven, Dante, Shakespeare, Gothe, and others), and the Esthetic judgments must be such as to take in all these productions. Opinions as to the value and significance of art, which are not based on certain laws, according to which we consider this or that good or bad, but on this, whether it coincides with the canon of art, as established by us, are constantly met with in Esthetic literature. The other day I read a book by Volkelt : it is not at all bad. In discussing the demands of the moral in the productions of art, the author says outright that the putting forward of demands of morality in art is wrong, and in proof of this he mentions that, if we were to admit this demand, Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet and Gbthe’s Wilhelm Meister would not fit in with the definition of good art. But since both do enter into the canon of art, this demand is not right. And so, it is necessary to find a definition of art into which these productions would fit, and so Volkelt, in the stead of the demand of what is moral, places at the base of art the demand of what is important ( Bedeutu ngs voile).

All existing aesthetics are composed according to this plan. Instead of giving a definition of true art, and then, judging from this, whether a production fits in with this definition, or not, or judging as to what is art, and what not, a certain series of productions, which for some reason please men of a certain circle, is recognized as art, and they invent a definition of art which would cover all these productions. A remarkable confirmation of this method I found lately in a very good book, History of Painting in the Nineteenth Century, by Muther. While approaching the description of the Préraphaélites, decadents, and symbolists, who have already been taken into the canon of art, he not only fails to have the courage to condemn this tendency, but is also zealously trying to expand his frame, so as to include in it the Préraphaélites, and decadents, and symbolists, who appear to him as a legitimate reaction against the excesses of naturalism. No matter what the madness in art may be, the moment it is accepted among the higher classes of our society, there is at once worked out a theory which explains and legitimizes this madness, as though there never existed periods in history when in certain exclusive circles of men there was accepted and approved a false, monstrous, senseless art, which left no traces and was completely forgotton later on ; and what senselessness and monstrosity art may reach, especially when it knows that it is considered, as in our day, infallible, we may see from what is going on now in the art of our circle.

Thus the theory of art, based on beauty and expounded in Esthetics and in dim outlines professed by the public, is nothing but the acknowledgment that that is good which pleased and still pleases us, that is, a certain circle of men.

In order to define any human activity, we must understand its meaning and significance. But in order to understand the meaning and significance of any human activity, we must necessarily first of all view this activity in itself, in dependence on its causes and consequences, and not merely in relation to the pleasure which we derive from it.

But if we acknowledge that the aim of any activity is nothing but our enjoyment, and define it only in reference to this enjoyment, this definition will obviously be false. The same took place in the definition of art. In analyzing the question of food, it will not occur to any one to see the significance of food in the enjoyment which we derive from its consumption. Everybody understands that the gratification of our taste can in no way serve as a basis for the definition of the value of food, and that, therefore, we have no right whatever to assume that those dinners with Cayenne pepper, Limburger cheese, alcohol, and so forth, to which we are accustomed and which please us, form the best human food.

Similarly beauty, or what pleases us, can in no way serve as a basis for the definition of art, and a series of objects which afford us pleasure can by no means be a sample of what art ought to be.

To see the aim and mission of art in the enjoyment which we derive from it, is the same as ascribing — as is done by men who stand on the lowest stage of moral development (savages, for example) — the aim and significance of food to the enjoyment which we derive from its consumption.

Just as people who think that the aim and mission of food is enjoyment cannot learn the true meaning of eating, so people who think that the aim of art is enjoyment cannot learn its meaning and destination, because to an activity which has its meaning in connection with other phenomena of life they ascribe a false and exclusive aim of enjoyment. Men came to understand that the meaning of food is the nutrition of the body, only when they stopped regarding enjoyment as the aim of this activity. The same is true of art. Men will understand the meaning of art only when they will cease to regard beauty, that is, enjoyment, as the aim of this activity. The recognition of beauty, or of a certain kind of enjoyment which is derived from art, as the aim of art, not only fails to contribute the definition of what art is, but, on the contrary, by transferring the question into a sphere which is entirely alien to art, — into metaphysical, psychological, physiological, and even historical reflections as to why such and such a production pleases some, and such and such does not please them, or pleases others, makes this definition impossible. And as the reflection as to why one person likes a pear and another meat in no way contributes to the definition as to what the essence of nutrition consists in, so the solution of the questions of taste in art (to which the discussions about art are involuntarily reduced) not only fails to contribute to the elucidation of what that special human activity which we call art consists in, but makes this elucidation completely impossible.

In reply to the questions as to what art is, for which the labours of millions of men, human lives themselves, and even morality are sacrificed, we received from the existing Esthetics answers which all reduce themselves to this, that the aim of art is beauty, — but beauty is recognized through the enjoyment which we derive from it, — and that the enjoyment from art is good and important, that is, that the enjoyment is good because it is an enjoyment. Thus, what is regarded as a definition of art is not at all a definition of art, but only a device for the justification of the existing art. And so, no matter how strange it may seem, in spite of the mountains of books written on art, there has so far not been made any exact definition of art. The cause of it is this, that at the basis of the concept of art they have been placing the concept of beauty.

V.

What, then, is art, if we reject the concept of beauty, which brings confusion into the whole matter ? The last and most comprehensible definition of art, which is independent of the concept of beauty, will be as follows : art is an activity, which arose in the animal kingdom from the sexual feeling and the proneness to play (Schiller, Darwin, Spencer), which is accompanied by a pleasurable excitation of the nervous energy (Grant Allen). This will be a definition of physiological evolution. Or: art is the manifestation from without, by means of lines, colours, gestures, sounds, words, of emotions experienced by man (Véron). This will be an experimental definition. According to the very latest definitions by Sully, art will be : ” the production of some permanent object or passing action, which is fitted not only to supply an active enjoyment to the producer, but to convey a pleasurable impression to a number of spectators or listeners quite apart from any personal advantage to be derived from it.”

In spite of the superiority of these definitions over the metaphysical definitions, which are based on the concept of beauty, these definitions are none the less far from being exact. The first, the definition of physiological evolution, is inexact, because it does not speak of the activity itself which forms the essence of art, but of the origin of art. The definition according to the physiological effect on man’s organism is inexact, because many other human activities may be brought under this definition, as is the case in the new æsthetics, in which the

preparation of pretty garments and pleasant perfumes and even food is counted in as art. The experimental definition, which assumes art to lie in the manifestation of «motions, is inexact, because a man may by means of lines, colours, sounds, and words manifest his emotions, without acting through this manifestation upon others, and then this manifestation will not be art.

The third definition, Lully’s, is inexact, because with the production of objects supplying enjoyment to the producer and a pleasurable impression to the spectators and listeners without any advantage to them, may be classed the performance of sleight of hand and of gymnastic exercises, and other activities, which do not form art, and, on the contrary, many objects, from which we derive a disagreeable impression, as, for example, a gloomy and cruel scene in a poetical description or in the theatre forms an unquestionable production of art.

The inexactness of all these definitions is due to this, that in all these definitions, just as in the metaphysical definitions, the aim of art is found in the enjoyment derived from it, and not in its destination in the life of man and of humanity.

In order exactly to define art, it is necessary first of all to cease looking upon it as a means for enjoyment, but to view art as one of the conditions of human life. In viewing life thus, we cannot help but see that art is one of the means of intercourse among men.

Every product of art has this effect, that the receiver enters into a certain kind of intercourse with the producer of art and with all those who contemporaneously with him, before him, or after him, have received or will receive the same artistic impression.

As the word which conveys the thoughts and experiences of men serves as a means for the union of men, so also does art act. The peculiarity of this means of intercourse, which distinguishes it from intercourse by means of the word, consists in this, that by means of the word one man communicates his thoughts to another, while by means of art they communicate their feelings to one another.

The activity of art is based on this, that man, by receiving through hearing or seeing the expressions of another man’s feelings, is capable of experiencing the same feeling which was experienced by the man who expresses his feeling.

Here is the simplest kind of an example : a man laughs, and another man feels happy ; he weeps, and the man who hears this weeping feels sad ; he gets excited and irritated, and another, looking at him, comes to the same state. A man with his motions, with the sounds of his voice, expresses vivacity, determination, or, on the contrary, gloom, calm, and this mood is communicated to others. A man suffers, expressing his suffering by means of groans and writhing, and this suffering is communicated to others; a man expresses his feeling of delight, awe, fear, respect for certain objects, persons, phenomena, and other men are infected and experience the same feelings of delight, awe, fear, respect, for the same objects, persons, and phenomena.

It is on this property of men to be infected by the feelings of other men that the activity of art is based.

If a man infects another or others directly, immediately, by his look or by sounds produced by him at the moment that he experiences the feeling ; or causes another man to yawn, when he himself is yawning, or to laugh or weep, when he himself is laughing or weeping over something, or to suffer, when he himself is suffering, that is not yet art.

Art begins when a man, with the purpose of conveying to others the feeling which he has experienced, evokes it in himself and expresses it by means of well-known external signs.

Here is the simplest kind of a case : a boy, who, let us say, has experienced fear from having met a wolf, tells of this encounter and, in order to evoke in others the sensation which he has experienced, pictures himself, his condition before this encounter, the surroundings, the forest, his carelessness, and then the looks of the wolf, his motions, the distance between him and the wolf, and so forth. All this, if during the recital the boy again lives through the sensation experienced by him, infects his hearers, and causes them to go through everything through which the narrator has passed, is art. Even if the boy did not see the wolf, but frequently was afraid of him, and, wishing to evoke in others the sensation of fear experienced by him, invented the encounter with the wolf and told of it in such a way that by his recital the same sensation was evoked in his hearers which he experienced in picturing the wolf to himself, this is also art. Similarly it will be art, when a man, having in reality or in his imagination experienced the terror of suffering or the charm of enjoyment, has represented these sensations on canvas or in marble, so that others are infected by it. And similarly it will be art if a man has experienced or imagined to himself the sensation of mirth, joy, sadness, despair, vivacity, gloom, or the transitions of these sensations from one to another, and has represented these sensations in words in such a way that the hearers are infected by them and pass through them just as he passed through them.

The most varied sensations, the strongest and the weakest, the most important and the most insignificant, the worst and the best, so long as they infect the reader, spectator, hearer, form the subject of art. The feeling of self-renunciation and submission to fate or to God, as conveyed in the drama ; or of the ecstasy of lovers, as described in the novel ; or the feeling of lust, as represented in a picture ; or of vivacity, as communicated in a solemn march in music ; or of merriment, as evoked by a dance ; or of humour, as evoked by a funny anecdote ; or the sensation of quiet, as conveyed by yesterday’s landscape or cradle-song, — all this is art.

The moment the spectators, the hearers, are infected by the same feeling which the composer experienced, we have art.

To evoke in oneself a sensation which one has experienced before, and, having evoked it in oneself by means of motions, lines, colours, sounds, images, expressed in words, to communicate this sensation in such a way that others may experience the same sensation, — in this does the activity of art consist. Art is a human activity which consists in this, that one man consciously, by means of certain external signs, communicates to others the sensations experienced by him, so that other men are infected by these sensations and pass through them.

Art is not, as the metaphysicians say, the manifestation of any mysterious idea, beauty, God ; it is not, the physiological æstheticians say, a play, in which a man lets out the surplus of his accumulated energy ; it is not the manifestation of emotions by means of external signs ; it is not the production of agreeable objects, above all else, not an enjoyment, but a means for the intercourse of men, necessary for man’s life and for the motion toward the good of the separate man and of humanity, which unites men in the same feelings.

Just as, thanks to the ability of man to understand the ideas which are expressed in words, every man is able to find out everything which in the sphere of thought all humanity has done for him, is able in the present, thanks to the ability of understanding other men’s thoughts, to become a participant in the activity of other men, and himself, thanks to this ability, is able to communicate to his contemporaries and to posterity those ideas which he has acquired from others and his own, which have arisen in him ; even so, and thanks to man’s ability to be infected by other people’s feelings through art, there is made accessible to him, in the field of sentiments, everything which humanity passed through before him, the sentiments which are experienced by his contemporaries, the sentiments experienced by men thousands of years ago, and there is made possible the communication of his own sentiments to other people.

If men did not have the ability of receiving all the thoughts which are communicated in words and which have been thought out by men who lived before him, and to communicate his ideas to others, they would be like animals and like Kaspar Hauser.

If there did not exist man’s other ability, to be infected by art, men would be almost more savage still, and, above all else, disunited and hostile.

And so the activity of art is a very important activity, as important as the activity of speech, and just as universal.

As the word acts upon us, not only in sermons, orations, and books, but also in every speech in which we communicate our thoughts and experiences to one another, so art, in the broad sense of the word, penetrates all our life, but only a few manifestations of this art do we call art, in the narrower sense of this word.

We are accustomed to understand under art only what we read, hear, and see in theatres, at concerts, and at exhibitions, — buildings, statues, poems, novels. But all this is only a very small part of that art by means of which we commune with one another in life. The whole human life is filled with products of art of every kind, from a cradle-song, a jest, mocking, adornments of houses, garments, utensils, to church services, solemn processions. All this is the activity of art. Thus, we call art in the narrower sense of the word not all human activity, which communicates feelings, but only such as we for some reason segregate from this whole activity and which we invest with a special significance.

Such a special significance all men have at all times ascribed to the activity which has conveyed feelings which arise from the religious consciousness of men, and this small part of all art has been called art in the full sense of this word.

Thus art was looked upon by the men of antiquity, by Socrates, Plato, Aristotle. Thus art was looked upon by the Jewish prophets and by the ancient Christians ; thus it is also understood by the Mohammedans, and thus it is understood by the religious people of our time,

Some teachers of humanity, like Plato in his Republic, and the first Christians, and the Mohammedans, and the Buddhists, frequently denied all art.

Men who look upon art in an opposite manner from the present view, according to which every art is considered good so long as it affords enjoyment, have thought that art, in contradistinction to the word, which one may avoid hearing, is to such a degree dangerous by infecting people against their will, that humanity will lose much less if all art shall be expelled than when all arts shall be admitted.

Such men, who have rejected all art, have obviously been wrong, because they have denied what cannot be denied, — one of the indispensable means of intercourse, without which humanity could not live. But not less wrong are the men of our European civilized society, circle, and time, who admit all art, provided it serves beauty, that is, affords men pleasure.

Formerly men were afraid that among the subjects of art there might get such as corrupt people, and so it was all prohibited. But now they fear only lest they may lose some enjoyment, which art gives, and so protect every art. And I think that this latter error is much more gross than the first, and that its consequences are much more harmful.

VI.

But how could it have happened that that art itself, which in antiquity was either admitted or entirely denied, in our day began to be regarded as always good, if only it afforded pleasure ?

This happened from the following causes.

The appreciation of the value of art, that is, of the sensations which it conveys, depends on the comprehension by men of the meaning of life, on what they see their good in, and on what they see the evil of life. But the good and the evil of life are defined by what is called religion.

Humanity moves without interruption from the lower, less private, and less clear to the higher, less common, and clearer comprehension of life. And, as in all motion, there are advanced men in this motion, too: there are men who understand the meaning of life more clearly than others, and of all these advanced men there is always one who more lucidly, accessibly, and forcibly — in words and in his life — expresses this meaning of life. The expression by this man of this meaning of life, together with those superstitious traditions and ceremonies which generally group themselves about the memory of this man, is called religion. The religions are the indices of that higher comprehension of life, accessible at a given time and in a given society to the best advanced men, which all other men of this society invariably and inevitably approach. And so it is only the religions that have always served as a foundation for the valuation of men’s sentiments. If the sentiments bring the men nearer to 186 the ideal indicated by religion, agree with it, and do not contradict it, they are good ; if they remove men from it, do not agree with it, and contradict it, they are bad.

If religion puts the meaning of life in the worship of the one God and in the performance of what is considered His will, the sentiments which arise from the love of this God and His law, as conveyed by art, — the sacred poetry of the prophets, the psalms, the narration of the Book of Genesis, — are good and elevated art. But everything which is opposed to it, like the communication of the sentiments of the worship of foreign gods and of feelings which are not in agreement with the law of God, will be considered bad art. But if religion takes the meaning of life to be in earthly happiness, in beauty, and in force, the joy and alacrity of life, as conveyed by art, will be considered good art; but art which communicates the sentiment of effeminacy or dejection will be bad art, and so it was considered by the Greeks. If the meaning of life lies in the good of one’s nation or in the prolongation of that life which one’s ancestors have led, and in respect for them, then the art which conveys the sentiment of the joy of sacrifice to personal gods for the good of the nation or for the honour of the ancestors and the support of their traditions will be considered good art ; but the art which expresses sentiments which are contrary to it will be bad, and such it was considered to be by the Romans and by the Chinese. If the meaning of life is in the liberation of self from the bonds of animality, the art which conveys sentiments which elevate the soul and debase the flesh will be good art, and such it is considered by the Buddhists, and everything which conveys sentiments which intensify the passions of the body will be bad art.

Always, at all times and in every human society, there is a religious consciousness, common to all men of this society, of what is good and what bad, and this religious consciousness defines the worth of the sentiments conveyed by art. And so with all nations the art which conveys sentiments arising from the religious consciousness common to the men of that nation has been recognized as good and has been encouraged ; but the art which conveys sentiments which do not agree with this religious consciousness has been considered bad and has been rejected ; but all the remaining enormous field of art, by means of which men have intercourse among themselves, has not been at all appreciated and has been rejected only when it was contrary to the religious consciousness of its time. Thus it was with all the nations, — with the Greeks, the Jews, the Hindoos, the Egyptians, the Chinese ; and thus it was at the appearance of Christianity.

The Christianity of the first times regarded as good products of art only such legends, lives of saints, sermons, prayers, songs, as evoked in men the feeling of love for Christ, a sentiment of meekness in contemplating his life, a desire to follow his example, a renunciation of the worldly life, humility, and love of men ; but all the productions which transmitted sentiments of personal enjoyments were regarded by it as bad, and so it rejected all pagan plastic art, permitting only symbolical plastic representations.

Thus it was among the Christians of the first centuries, who accepted Christ’s teaching, if not in its absolutely true form, at least not in the form corrupted by paganism, in which it was accepted later.

But besides these Christians, there appeared, after the time of the wholesale conversion of the nations to Christianity, by order of the authorities, — as was the case under Constantine, Charlemagne, and Vladimir, — the ecclesiastic teaching, which was much nearer to paganism than to the teaching of Christ. And this ecclesiastic Christianity, which is quite distinct from the other, began, on the basis of its doctrine, to change the appreciation of men’s sentiments and the productions of the arts which conveyed them. This ecclesiastic Christianity not only did not recognize the fundamental and essential propositions of true Christianity, — the immediate relation of each man to the Father, and the brotherhood and equality of all men, resulting from it, and the substitution of humility and love for all kinds of violence, — but, on the contrary, by establishing a celestial hierarchy, similar to the pagan mythology, and a worship of this hierarchy, of Christ, the Holy Virgin, the angels, apostles, saints, martyrs, and not only of these divinities, but also of their representations, established as the essence of its teaching blind faith in the church and its decrees.

No matter how foreign this doctrine was to true Christianity, no matter how low it was, not only in comparison with true Christianity, but also with the world conception of such Romans as Julian and his like, — it was none the less for the barbarians who received this Christianity a higher teaching than their former worship of God, heroes, and good and bad spirits. And so this teaching was a religion for those barbarians who accepted it, and on the basis of this religion was the art of that time appreciated; the art which communicated a pious worship of the Holy Virgin, of Jesus, of saints, of angels, a blind faith and submission to the church, terror before the torments, and hope in the bliss of the life beyond the grave, was considered good ; and the art which was contrary to it was all considered bad. The doctrine on the basis of which this art arose was the corrupted teaching of Christ, but the art which arose on tins corrupted teaching was none the less true because it contributed to the religious world conception of the nation in which it originated.

The artists of the Middle Ages, living by the same basis of sentiments, by the same religion, as the masses of the nation, and transmitting the sentiments and moods experienced by them in architecture, sculpture, painting, music, poetry, the drama, were true artists, and their activity, being based on the highest comprehension accessible at the time and shared by the whole nation, may be low for our time, but is none the less true art, which is common to the whole nation.

And so it was up to the time when there appeared in the highest, wealthy, more educated classes of European society a doubt about the truth of that comprehension of life which was expressed in the ecclesiastic Christianity. But where, after the Crusades, the higher development of the papal power, and its misuse, after the acquaintance with the wisdom of the ancients, the men of the wealthy classes saw, on the one hand, the rational clearness of the teaching of the ancient sages, and on the other, the lack of correspondence between the church doctrine and the teaching of Christ, they lost the power of believing, as before, in the church doctrine.

Even though outwardly they preserved the forms of the church doctrine, they no longer were able to believe in it and held on to it only through inertia, and for the sake of the people, who continued to believe blindly in the church doctrine, and whom the men of the higher classes considered it indispensable for their own advantage to maintain in these beliefs. Thus the Christian teaching of the church ceased at a certain time to be a common religious teaching of the whole Christian people ; so the higher classes, those in whose hands was the power, the wealth, and so the leisure and the means for the production and encouragement of art, ceased to believe in the religious teaching of their church, while the people continued to believe in it blindly.

The higher classes of the Middle Ages found themselves as regards religion in the condition in which the cultured Romans found themselves before the appearance of Christianity, that is, they no longer believed in what the people believed in; they themselves had no faith which they could put in the place of the church teaching, which had outlived and lost its significance.

The only difference was this, that while for the Romans, who had lost their faith in their gods, emperors, and domestic gods, it was impossible to extract anything else from that complicated mythology which they had borrowed from all the conquered nations, and it was necessary to accept an entirely new world conception, — the men of the Middle Ages, who had come to doubt the truths of the church doctrine, did not have to look for a new faith. The Christian teaching, which in a distorted form they professed as the church faith, had outlined the path to humanity so far ahead that they needed only to reject those distortions which obscured the teaching revealed by Christ, and to make it their own, if not as a whole, at least in a small part of its whole meaning (but yet greater than what the church had made its own). Precisely this was partly done, not only by the reforms of Wyclif, Huss, Luther, Calvin, but also by the whole current of the non-ecclesiastic Christianity, the representatives of which, in the first times, were the Paulicians and Bogomils, and later the Wal-denses and all the other non-ecclesiastic Christians, the so-called sectarians. But this could be done, and was done, only by the poor, the men not in power. Only very few from the rich and powerful classes, like Francis d’Assisi and others, though this teaching destroyed their advantageous position, accepted the Christian teaching in all its significance. But the majority of the men from the higher classes, though in their hearts they had lost the faith in the church doctrine, were unable or unwilling to accept the Christian teaching because the essence of the Christian world conception which they would have to accept, in rejecting the church faith, was the teaching of the brotherhood and so of the equality of men, and such a teaching denied their privileges, by which they lived, in which they had grown up and had been educated, and to which they were used. As they, in the depth of their hearts, did not believe in the church doctrine which had outlived its age and no longer had for them a true meaning, and as they did not have the strength to accept the true Christianity, the men of these wealthy, ruling classes, the Popes, kings, dukes, and all the mighty of the world, were left without any religion whatever, only with its external forms, which they supported, considering this not only advantageous, but also indispensable for themselves, since this doctrine justified those privileges which they enjoyed. In reality these men did not believe in anything, just as the Romans of the first centuries did not believe in anything. At the same time the power and wealth was in their hands, and it is these men who encouraged art and guided it.

Among these people there began to flourish art, which was valued, not to the extent to which it expressed the sentiments which arise from the religious consciousness of men, but only to the extent to which it was beautiful ; in other words, to the extent to which it afforded enjoyment.

Being unable to believe any longer in the church religion, since its lie was made manifest, and being unable to accept the true Christian teaching, which rejected their whole lives, these wealthy and ruling people, who were left without any religious conception of life, involuntarily turned to that pagan world conception which assumes the meaning of life to lie in enjoyment. And there took place in the higher classes what is called the “renascence of sciences and arts,” which in reality is nothing but the rejection of all religion, and even the recognition of its uselessness.

The ecclesiastic, especially the Catholic, faith, is a connected system which cannot be changed or mended without destroying it. The moment there arose a doubt as to the infallibility of the Popes, — and this doubt did at that time arise in all cultured men,— there inevitably arose a doubt also as to the truth of the Tradition. And the doubt as to the truth of the Tradition destroyed not only Popery and Catholicism, but also the whole church faith, with all its dogmas, with the divinity of Christ, the resurrection, the Trinity, and destroyed the authority of the Scriptures, because the Scriptures were recognized as sacred because Tradition taught so.

Thus the majority of the men of the higher classes of that time, even the Popes and clerical persons, in reality did not believe in anything. These men did not believe in the church teaching, because they saw its inadequacy ; but they were unable to recognize the moral, social teaching of Christ, which was recognized by Francis d’Assisi, Chelcickÿ, and a few others, because this teaching destroyed their public position. And so these men were left without any religious world conception. And having no religious world conception, these men could have no standard for the estimation of good and of bad art, except that of enjoyment. In recognizing as the standard of goodness enjoyment, that is, beauty, the men of the highest classes of European society returned in their conception of art to the rude conception of the original Greeks, which already Plato had condemned. And the theory of art was formed among them in conformity with this comprehension among them.

VII.

Ever since the men of the highest classes lost their faith in the church Christianity, the standard of what is good and bad in art became beauty, that is, the enjoyment which is derived from art. And in conformity with this view on art, there naturally arose among the higher classes an sesthetic theory, which justified such a comprehension, — a theory according to which the aim of art consists in the manifestation of beauty. The followers of the Esthetic theory affirm, in confirmation of its truth, that this theory was not invented by them, that it lies in the essence of things, and that it was accepted even by the ancient Greeks. But this assertion is quite arbitrary and has no other foundation than this, that with the Greeks, on account of the low stage of their moral ideal, as compared with the Christian ideal, the concept of goodness (to dyaGov) was not yet sharply distinguished from the concept of the beautiful (ro koàov).

The highest perfection of goodness, which not only does not coincide with beauty, but for the most part is opposed to it, wlrich the Jews knew even in the days of Isaiah, and which is fully expressed in Christianity, was altogether unknown to the Greeks ; they assumed that the beautiful must by all means be also the good. It is true, the advanced thinkers, Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, felt that goodness may not coincide with beauty. Socrates directly subordinated beauty to goodness ; Plato, in order to unite the two concepts, spoke of spiritual beauty ; Aristotle demanded of art a moral action upon men (xdtfapcriç), but none the less even these thinkers were unable fully to renounce the concept that beauty and goodness coincide.

And so they began in the language of that time to use the compound word xoAoxd-ya^ui (beauty and goodness), which expressed this union.

The Greek thinkers apparently were beginning to approach that concept of goodness which is expressed in Buddhism and in Christianity, and lost themselves in the establishment of relations of goodness and beauty. Plato’s judgments about beauty and goodness are full of contradictions. This very confusion of ideas the men of the European world, who had lost all faith, tried to raise to a law, and they tried to prove that this union of beauty with goodness lies in the very essence of the matter, that beauty and goodness must coincide, that the word and the concept of xaAoxaya&a, which had a meaning for a Greek, but has no meaning whatever for a Christian, forms the highest ideal of humanity. On this misunderstanding was built the new science, — Esthetics. In order to justify this new science, the teaching of the ancients about art was so interpreted as to make it appear that this newly invented science, Esthetics, had already existed with the Greeks.

In reality, the reflections of the ancients on art do not at all resemble ours. Thus, Bénard, in his books on the aesthetics of Aristotle, says quite correctly, ” Pour qui veut y regarder de près, la théorie du beau et celle de l’art sont tout-à-fait séparés dans Aristote, comme elles le sont dans Platon et chez leurs successeurs.” 1

Indeed, the reflections of the ancients on art not only fail to confirm our Esthetics, but rather reject its teaching of beauty. And yet it is affirmed in all Esthetics, beginning with Schasler and ending with Knight, that the science of the beautiful, aesthetics, was begun by the an—

1 Bénard, L’esthétique d’Aristote et de ses successeurs, Paris, 1789, p. 28.

cients, by Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, and was continued in part by the Epicureans and Stoics, by Seneca, Plutarch, and up to Plotinus ; but that by some unfortunate accident this science suddenly disappeared in the fourth century, and for fifteen hundred years was absent and was regenerated, only after an interval of fifteen hundred years, in Germany, in the year 1750, in Baumgarten’s teaching.9

After Plotinus, says Schasler, there pass fifteen centuries, during which time there is not the slightest scientific interest in the world of beauty and of art. These fifteen hundred years, he says, are lost for Esthetics and for the development of the scientific mood of this science.

In reality there is nothing of the kind. The science of Esthetics, the science of what is beautiful, has never disappeared and never could have disappeared, because it never existed ; what did exist was this, that the Greeks, precisely like all other people, always and everywhere regarded art, like anything else, as good only when this art served goodness (as they understood goodness), and bad when it was opposed to this goodness. But the Greeks themselves were so little developed that goodness and beauty seemed to them to coincide, and on this obsolete world conception of the Greeks is based the science of Esthetics, invented by men of the eighteenth century and specially worked into a theory by Baumgarten. The Greeks never had any science of aesthetics (as any one may become convinced who will read Bénard’s beautiful book on Aristotle and his followers, and Walter’s on Plato).

The aesthetic theories and the name of the science itself arose about 150 years ago among the wealthy classes of the Christian European world, and simultaneously among several nations, among the Italians, the Dutch, the French, the English. But its founder and establisher, who vested it in a scientific, theoretic form, was Baumgarten.

With characteristically German external, pedantic circumstantiality and symmetricalness he invented and expounded this remarkable theory, and nobody’s theory pleased so much the cultured masses, in spite of its startling baselessness, or was accepted with such readiness and absence of critical judgment. This theory was so much to the taste of the higher classes that, in spite of its complete arbitrariness and the insufficiency of its propositions, it is repeated by the learned and the unlearned as something indubitable and a matter of course.

Habent sua fata libelli pro capitc lectoris, and even more separate theories habent sua fata on account of the condition of error in which society is, amidst which and for the sake of which these theories are invented. If a theory justifies that false state in which a certain part of society happens to be, no matter how unfounded and even obviously false a theory may be, it is accepted and becomes the faith of that part of society. Such, for example, is the famous unfounded theory of Malthus about the tendency of the population of the globe to increase in a geometric progression, while the means of subsistence increase in an arithmetic progression, and consequently about the overpopulation of the globe ; such also is the theory of the struggle for existence and of natural selection, as the basis of human progress, which has grown up on this theory. Such also is at present Marx’s popular theory about the inevitableness of economic progress, which consists in the absorption of all private production by capitalism. No matter how unfounded such theories may be and how opposed they may be to everything which is known to humanity and is cognized by it ; no matter how immoral they may be, these theories are taken on faith without criticism, and are preached with impassioned bias, sometimes for centuries, until the conditions are destroyed which they justify, or the insipidity of the theories preached becomes too obvious. Such is the remarkable theory of the Baumgartenian triad, Goodness, Beauty, and Truth, from which it turns out that the best that the art of the nations who have lived a Christian life for eighteen hundred years can do consists in choosing for the ideal of its life the one which two thousand years ago was held by a half-savage slave-holding little people, which very well represented the nudity of the human body and built handsome buildings. All these inconsistencies are not observed by any one. Learned men write long, hazy treatises on beauty as one of the members of the æsthetic triad of beauty, truth, and goodness. ” Das Schone, das Wahre, das Gute,” ” Le Beau, le Vrai, le Bon,” with capital letters, is repeated by philosophers, and æstheticians, and artists, and private people, and novelists, and writers of feuilletons, and it seems to all of them that, in pronouncing these sacramental words, they are speaking of something definite and firmly established, — something on which our judgments may be based. In reality these words not only have no definite meaning, but also are in the way of ascribing any definite meaning to the existing art, and are needed only in order to justify that false meaning which we ascribe to the art which transmits all kinds of sensations, so long as these sensations afford us pleasure.

We need but for a time renounce the habit of considering this triad as true as the religious Trinity, and ask ourselves what it is we all understand by the three words which form this triad, in order to convince ourselves beyond any doubt of the complete fantasticalness of the union of these three words and concepts, absolutely different and, above all, incommensurable in meaning, into one.

Goodness, beauty, and truth are placed on one height, and all these three concepts are acknowledged to be fundamental and metaphysical. But in reality there is nothing of the kind.

Goodness is the eternal, highest purpose of our life. No matter how we may understand goodness, our life is nothing but a striving after goodness, that is, toward God.

Goodness is actually a fundamental concept which metaphysically forms the essence of our consciousness, a concept which is not definable by reason.

Goodness is what cannot be defined by anything, but which defines everything else.

But beauty, if we are not satisfied with words, but speak of what we comprehend, — beauty is nothing but what pleases us.

The concept of beauty not only does not coincide with goodness, but is rather opposed to it, since goodness for the most part coincides with victory over bias, while beauty is the foundation of all our bias.

The more we abandon ourselves to beauty, the more do we depart from goodness. I know that in reply to this we are always told that beauty may be moral and spiritual, but that is only a play of words, because by moral or spiritual beauty nothing but goodness is meant. Spiritual beauty, or goodness, for the most part, not only does not coincide with what we generally understand under beauty, but is even opposed to it.

But as to truth, we can still less ascribe to this member of the imaginary triad either unity with goodness and beauty, or even any independent existence.

What we call truth is only a correspondence of the expression or definition of the subject with its essence, or with all men’s universal comprehension of the subject. Now what is there in common between the concepts of beauty and truth on the one side, and of goodness on the other ?

The concepts of beauty and truth are not only not equal to that of goodness, not only do not form one essence with goodness, but even do not coincide with it.

Truth is the correspondence of the expression with the essence of the subject, and so is one of the means for the attainment of goodness, but truth is in itself neither goodness nor beauty, and does not even coincide with them.

Thus, for example, Socrates and Pascal, and many others, considered the cognition of truth about useless things incompatible with goodness. But with beauty truth has even nothing in common, and is, for the most part, opposed to it, because truth, which generally dispels deception, destroys illusion, the chief condition of beauty.

And so the arbitrary union of these three incommensurable and mutually alien conceptions into one has served as the foundation of that remarkable theory according to which there was completely wiped out the distinction between good art, which conveys good sensations, and bad art, which conveys evil sensations ; and one of the lowest manifestations of art, the art for enjoyment only, — against which all the teachers of humanity have warned men, — began to be regarded as the very highest art. And art did not become that important work which it was destined to be, but an idle amusement for idle people.

VIII.

But if art is a human activity which has for its aim the conveyance to men of those highest and best sensations which men have attained, how could it have happened that humanity should have passed a certain, sufficiently long period of its life, — ever since people stopped believing in the church teaching and up to our time, — without this important activity, and should have been contented in its place with the insignificant activity of the art which affords only enjoyment?

In order to answer this question it is necessary first of all to correct a customary error which men make when they ascribe to our art the significance of a true universal art. We are so used naïvely to regard not only the Caucasian race as the very best race of men, but even only the Anglo-Saxon, if we are Englishmen or Americans, and the Germanic, if we are Germans, and the Gallo-Latin, if we are Frenchmen, and the Slavic, if we are Russians, that we, in speaking of our art, are fully convinced that our art is not only true, but even the best and only art, just as the Bible was regarded as the only book. But our art is not only not the only art, but is not even the art of the whole Christian humanity, but only the art of a very small division of this part of humanity. It was possible to talk of a national — Jewish, Greek, Egyptian — art, and now it is possible to speak of Chinese, Japanese, Hindoo art, which is common to the whole nation. Such art, common to the whole people, existed in Russia before Peter, and such also existed in the European societies of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries ; but from the time that the men of the higher classes of European society, having lost the faith in the church teaching, did not accept true Christianity, and remained without any faith, it is impossible to speak of the art of the higher classes of the Christian nations, meaning by it all art. Ever since the higher classes of the Christian nations lost their faith in the ecclesiastic Christianity, the art of the higher classes separated from the art of the whole people, and there grew up two arts : popular art and lordly art. And so the answer to the question as to how it could have happened that humanity should have passed a certain period of time without true art, substituting for it an art which serves only for enjoyment, consists in this, that it is not all humanity, nor even a considerable part of it, but only the higher classes of the Christian European society, that has lived without true art, and that, too, for but a comparatively short period of time.

As the consequence of this absence of true art there took place what could not help but take place, — the corruption of that class which made use of this other art. All the complicated, incomprehensible theories of art, all the fallacious and contradictory judgments about it, and, above all else, that self-confident stagnation of our art on this false path, — all that is due to this assertion, which has entered into universal use and is accepted as undoubted truth, but is striking on account of its obvious fallacy, that the art of our higher classes is all art, the true and exclusively universal art. In spite of the fact that this assertion, which is quite identical with the assertions of religious people of various denominations who think that their religion is the one true religion, is quite arbitrary and obviously incorrect, it is calmly repeated by all the men of our circle, with full confidence in its infallibility.

The art which we possess is all the art, the true, the one art, but at the same time not only two-thirds of the human race, all the nations of Asia, of Africa, live and die without knowing this one, higher art, but, moreover, in our Christian society hardly one hundredth part of the men make use of that art which we call all art ; the other ninety-nine hundredths of our own European nations live and die for generations in tense labour, without ever tasting of this art, which, besides, is such that, even if they were able to make use of it, they would not understand anything about it. We, according to the Esthetics professed by us, acknowledge that art is either one of the highest manifestations of the Idea, God, Beauty, or the highest spiritual enjoyment ; besides, we acknowledge that all men have equal rights, if not to material, at least to spiritual goods, while in the meantime ninety-nine hundredths of our European people live and die generation after generation in tense labour, which is necessary for the production of our art, without making use of it, and yet we calmly assert that the art which we produced is real, true, one, all art.

In reply to the statement that if our art is true art, all the people ought to make use of it, we generally get the reply that if not all men at present enjoy the existing art, it is not the fault of art, but of the false structure of society ; that it is possible to imagine for the future that physical labour will be partly relegated to machines and partly lightened by its regular distribution, and that the labour for the production of art will alternate ; that there is no need for some to sit under the stage all the time, moving the scenery, to raise machines, to work the piano and French horns, and to set up and print books, but that those who do all this will be able to work a small number of hours a day, and in their leisure to enjoy all the benefits of art.

Thus say the defenders of our exclusive art, but I think that they themselves do not believe in what they say because they cannot know that our refined art could have arisen on nothing but the work of the popular masses, and can be continued only so long as there shall be this slavery, and also this, that only under conditions of the tense labour of the workingmen, the specialists — authors, musicians, dancers, actors — can reach that refined degree of perfection, which they do reach, and by which they are able to produce their refined works of art, and that only under these conditions can there be a refined public which appreciates these productions. Free the slaves from capital, and it will be impossible to produce this refined art.

But even if we admit the inadmissible, that there can be found methods with which art — that which with us is considered to be art — will be enjoyed by all the people, there presents itself another consideration, according to which the modern art cannot be all art, and that is tjiat it is entirely incomprehensible to the people. Formerly they used to write poetical productions in the Latin language ; but the modern productions of art are as incomprehensible to the people as if they were written in Sanscrit. In reply to this we are generally told that if the people do not now understand this our art, it only proves their insufficient development, and that precisely the same happened with every new step in art. At first it was not understood, and later the people got used to it.

” The same will happen with the modern art : it will be comprehensible when the whole people shall be as cultured as we are, we, the men of the higher classes, who produce art,” say the defenders of our art. But this assertion is obviously even more incorrect than the first, because we know that the majority of the products of art of the higher classes, which, like all kinds of odes, epics, dramas, cantatas, pastorales, pictures, and so forth, delighted the men of the higher classes of their time, were later never understood, nor appreciated by the large masses, and remained, as they had been, the amusement of the rich of that time, and had a meaning only for them ; from this we may conclude that the same will happen with our art. But when, in proof of the fact that the masses will in time understand our art, they adduce that certain productions of the so-called classical poetry, music, art, which formerly did not please the masses, later, when they are offered to the masses on all sides, begin to please them, this proves only that the crowd, especially the city crowd, which is half-corrupted, could always be easily taught, by having its taste corrupted, any art you please. Besides, this art is not produced by this crowd of people, and is not chosen by it, but is forcibly obtruded upon it in those places in which art is accessible to it.

For the great majority of the whole labouring class our art, inaccessible to them on account of its costliness, is also foreign to them on account of its contents themselves, since it conveys the sensations of people who are removed from the conditions of a life of labour, which are peculiar to the great majority of humanity. What forms an enjoyment for a man of the wealthy classes is, as an enjoyment, incomprehensible to the workingman, and does not evoke any sensation in him, or evokes sensations which are the very opposite to those which they evoke in an idle and satiated man. Thus, for example, the feelings of honour, patriotism, enamourment, which form the chief contents of modern art, evoke iu a workingman nothing but perplexity and contempt, or indignation. Thus, even if the majority of the workingmen were given the chance, during the time which is free from labour, to see, read, hear, as is indeed partly the case in the cities, in picture-galleries, popular concerts, books, ever)‘thing which forms the flower of modern art, the workingmen, in so far as they are working people and have not yet partly passed into the class of people corrupted by idleness, would understand nothing of our refined art, and if they did, the greater part of what they understood would not only fail to elevate their souls, but would even corrupt them.

Thus there can be no doubt whatsoever for thinking and sincere men that the art of the higher classes can never become the art of the whole people ; and so, if art is an important matter, a spiritual good, indispensable for all men, like religion (as the devotees of art are fond of saying), it must be accessible to all men. And if it cannot become the art of the whole people, one of two things is true : either art is not that important matter which it ia claimed to be, or the art which we call art is not this important matter.

This dilemma is not capable of solution, and so clever and immoral men boldly solve it by denying one side of it, namely, the right of the popular masses to enjoy art. These men express outright what is lying in the essence of the matter, namely this, that only the ” scheme Geister,” the chosen ones, as the Romanticists called them, or the ” Uebermenschen,” as the followers of Nietzsche call them, may be participants and enjoyers of what, according to their conception, is highly beautiful, that is, of the highest enjoyment of art ; but all the others, the common herd, which is incapable of experiencing these enjoyments, must minister to the high enjoyments of this higher breed of men. The men who express such views are at least not feigning and do not wish to unite what cannot be united, and admit outright that which is, namely, that our art is only the art of the higher classes. Thus, in reality, art has been understood by all men who in our society busy themselves with art.

The unbelief of the higher classes of the European world has had this effect, that in place of that activity of art which had for its aim the conveyance of those higher sensations which result from the religious consciousness attained by humanity, there has come an activity which has for its aim the bestowal of the greatest enjoyment to a certain society of men. And from the whole enormous mass of art there was segregated and began to be called art what afforded enjoyment to the men of a certain circle.

Not to speak of those moral consequences which such a segregation from the whole sphere of art and the recognition as important art of what did not deserve that valuation have had for European society, this distortion of art weakened and reduced almost to annihilation art itself. The first consequence of it was this, that art was deprived of its characteristic, infinitely varied, and profoundly religious contents. The second consequence was this, that, having in view nothing but a small circle of men, it lost the beauty of form, and became artificial and obscure ; and the third, the chief consequence, was, that it ceased being sincere and became fictitious and reasoned.

The first consequence — the impoverishment of contents— was achieved for the reason that a true product of art is only that which conveys new sensations, such as have not yet been experienced by men. As a product of thought is a product of thought only when it communicates new considerations and thoughts, and does not repeat what is known, even so a product of art is a product of art only when it introduces a new sensation (no matter how insignificant it may be) into the habitual course of human life. It is for this reason that the products of art are so strongly felt by children and youths, when they for the first time afford them sensations which they had not experienced before.

An entirely new, never before expressed sensation acts with the same force upon grown people. The art of the higher classes has deprived itself of this source of sensations, by valuing the sensations not in correspondence with the religious consciousness, but according to the degree of enjoyment which they afford. There is nothing more antiquated and trite than enjoyment, and nothing more new than sensations which arise on the religious consciousness of a certain time. Nor can it be otherwise : man’s enjoyment has a limit which is put to it by his nature ; but the forward movement of humanity, that which is expressed by the religious consciousness, has no limitation. With every step in advance which humanity makes,— and these steps are achieved through an ever greater and greater elucidation of the religious consciousness, — men experience all the time new sensations. And so only on the basis of religious consciousness, which shows the highest degree of men’s comprehension of life at a certain period, can there arise new sensations, such as have never before been experienced by men. From the religious consciousness of the ancient Greek there resulted actually new and important and infinitely varied sensations for the Greeks, which were expressed by Homer and by the tragic authors. The same was true of the Jew, who rose to the religious consciousness of monotheism. From this consciousness resulted all those new and important sensations which were expressed by the prophets. The same was true of the man of the Middle Ages, who believed in the ecclesiastic commune and the celestial hierarchy ; and the same is true of the man of our time, who has attained to the religious consciousness of true Christianity, — the consciousness of the brotherhood of men.

The diversity of feelings which result from the religious consciousness is infinite, and they are all new, because the religious consciousness is nothing but an indication of a new relation of man to the world in the process of creation, whereas the sensations which arise from the desire to enjoy oneself are not only limited, but were long ago explored and expressed. And so the unbelief of our higher European classes has led them to an art which is exceedingly poor in contents.

The impoverishment of the contents of the art of the higher classes has increased even through this, that, ceasing to be religious, the art has ceased to be national, and so has still more diminished the circle of sensations which it has conveyed, since the circle of sensations which the ruling people, the rich who do not know the labour of supporting life, experience is much smaller, poorer, and more insignificant than that of the sensations characteristic of the labouring people.

The men of our circle, the æstheticians, generally think and say the opposite. I remember how the author Gon-chardv, a clever, cultured, but absolutely urban man, an æsthetician, told me that after Turgénev’s Memoirs of a Hunter there was nothing left to write about from the life of the people. Everything was exhausted. The life of the labouring people seemed to him so simple that after Turgénev’s popular tales there was nothing left to describe from it. But the fife of the wealthy people, with its enamourment and self-discontent, seemed to him to be full of endless contents. One hero kissed his lady’s palm, another her elbow, a third kissed a lady in some other way. One pines away from idleness, another, because he is not loved. And it seemed to him that in this sphere there was no end to the variety. And this opinion, that the life of the labouring classes is poor in contents, while our life, that of idle men, is full of interest, is shared by many people of our circle. The life of the workingman, with its endlessly varied forms of labour and its perils underground and on the sea, which are connected with it, with his travels, with his intercourse with masters, the authorities, companions, and men of other religions and nationalities, with his struggle with Nature and wild animals, with his relations to domestic animals, with his work in the forest, the steppe, the field, the garden, with his relations to his wife and his children, not only as near and beloved people, but also as colabourers, helpers, and substitutes in work, with his relations to all the economic questions, not as subjects of sophistry and ambition, but as questions of life for himself and his family, with his pride of contentment and service of men, with his enjoyments of rest, with all these interests permeated by the religious relation to these phenomena, — appears to us, who have not these interests and no religious comprehension, as monotonous in comparison with those petty enjoyments, insignificant cares of our life, not of labour, nor of creation, but of exploiting and destroying that which others have done for us. We think that the sensations which are experienced by the men of our time and circle are very important and varied, whereas, in reality, nearly all the sensations of the men of our circle reduce themselves to three very insignificant and uncomplicated sensations, — to the sensation of pride, of sexual lust, and of the dejection of spirits. These three sensations and their ramifications form almost the exclusive contents of the art of the wealthy classes.

Formerly, in the very beginning of the segregation of the exclusive art of the higher classes from popular art, the sentiment of pride was the chief contents of art. Thus it was during the time of the renascence and after it, when the chief subject of the products of art was the laudation of the mighty, — the Popes, the kings, the dukes. They wrote madrigals, which lauded the mighty, cantatas, hymns ; they painted their portraits and sculptured their statues in all kinds of forms which glorified them. Then art began more and more to be invaded by the element of sexual lust, which now became an indispensable condition of every production of the art of the wealthy classes (with exceedingly few exceptions, and in novels and dramas without exception).

Later on, a third sensation, which forms the contents of the art of the wealthy classes, namely, the sensation of despondency, entered among the number of sensations expressed by art. This sensation was in the beginning of this century expressed only by exclusive men, Byron, Leopardi, then Heine, but of late it has become fashionable and is being expressed by the coarsest and commonest of men. The French critic Doumic says quite correctly that the chief character of the productions of the new writers, ” c’est la lassitude de vivre, le mépris de l’époque présente, le regret d’un autre temps aperçu à travers l’illusion de l’art, le goût du paradoxe, le besoin de se singulariser, une aspiration de raffinés vers la simplicité, l’adoration enfantine du merveilleux, la séduction maladive de la rêverie, l’ebranlement des nerfs, surtout l’appel exaspéré de la sensualité ” (Les jeunes, by René Doumic). And, indeed, of these three sensations, sensuality, as the lowest of sensations, accessible not only to men, but also to all animals, forms the chief subject of all the productions of art of modern times.

From Boccaccio to Marcel Prévost, all the novels and poetic productions are sure to express the sensations of sexual love in its various forms. -Adultery is not only the favourite, but even the only theme of all novels. A performance is not a performance if in it there do not, under some pretext, appear women who are nude above or below. Romances, songs, — all these are expressions of lust in various stages of poetization.

The majority of the pictures of the French artists represent feminine nudity in its various forms. In modern French literature there is hardly a page or a poem in which there is not a description of nudity, and in which the fond concept and word ” nu ” is not used at least twice. There is a writer, René de Gourmont, who is considered talented, and whose works are printed. In order to have an idea about the modern authors, I read his novel, Les chevaux de Diomede. It is through and through a detailed description of sexual intercourses which a certain gentleman had with a number of women. There is not a page without descriptions that fan lust. The same is true of a book which had success, by Pierre Louis, Aphrodite ; the same — of a book which lately fell into my hands, by Huysmans, Certains, which was to be a criticism of painters; the same, with very rare exceptions, of all French novels. They are all productions of people suffering from an erotic mania. These men are evidently convinced that, since their whole life is, in consequence of their morbid condition, centred on expatiating on sexual abominations, the whole life of the world is centred on the same. And it is these men who are suffering from the erotic mania that the whole artistic world of Europe and of America is imitating.

Thus, in consequence of the unbelief and the exclusiveness of the life of the wealthy classes, the art of these classes has become impoverished in contents and has all reduced itself to the expression of the sensations of vanity, of despondency, and, above all, of sexual lust.

X.

In consequence of the unbelief of the higher classes, the art of these men has become poor in contents. Besides, becoming more and more exclusive, it has at the same time become more and more complex, artificial, and obscure.

When a national artist, — such as were the Greek artists and the Jewish prophets, — composed his production, he naturally tried to say what he had to say, so that Ins production might be understood by all men. But when the artist composed for a small circle of men, who were under exclusive conditions, or even for one person and his courtiers, for the Pope, the cardinal, the king, the duke, the queen, the king’s paramour, he naturally had nothing else in view but producing an effect upon these men he knew, who lived under definite conditions with which he was acquainted. This easier method of evoking sensations involuntarily drew the artist to expressing himself in hints which were obscure to all and comprehensible only to the initiated. In the first place, in such a way it was possible to say more, and in the second, such a mode of expression included a certain charm of haziness for the initiated. This method of expression, which is shown in euphemism, in mythological and historical allusions, has entered more and more into use, and of late has reached what seems to be the extreme limits in the art of so-called decadence. Of late, it is not only the haziness, enigmaticalness, obscurity, and incomprehensibleness for the masses, but also the inexactness, indefiniteness, and absence of style that are regarded as an advantage and a condition of the poetic quality of the subjects of art.

Théophile Gautier, in his introduction to the famous Fleurs du Mai, says that Baudelaire did his best to drive out of poetry eloquence, passion, and truth, too well represented, ” l’éloquence, la passion, et la vérité calquée trop exactement.”

And Baudelaire not only gave utterance to this, but also proved it by his verses, and still more by his prose in his Petits poèmes en prose, the meaning of which one has to guess like rebuses, and the majority of which are left unsolved.

The next poet after Baudelaire, who is also considered great, Verlaine, even wrote a whole Art poétique, in which he advises men to write as follows :

” De la musique avant toute chose, Et pour cela préfère l’impair Plus vague et plus soluble dans l’air, Sans rien en lui qui pèse ou qui pose.

” Il faut aussi que tu n’aille point

Choisir tes mots sans quelque méprise: Rien de plus cher que la chanson grise Où l’indécis au Précis se joint.”

And farther:

« De la musique encore et toujours,

Que ton vers soit la chose envolée, Qu’on sente qu’il fuit d’une âme en allée Vers d’autres deux à d’autres amours.

« Que ton vers soit la bonne aventure Eparse au vent crispé du matin, Qui va fleurant la menthe et le thym … Et tout le reste est littérature.”

The next after these two, the poet Mallarmé, who is considered the most prominent of the younger poets, says distinctly that the charm of a poem consists in guessing its meaning, and that in poetry there must always be an enigma :

“Je pense qu’il faut qu’il n’y ait qu’allusion. La contemplation des objets, l’image s’envolant des rêveries suscitées par eux, sont le chant : les Parnassiens, eux, prennent la chose entièrement et la montrent; par là ils manquent de mystère; ils retirent aux esprits cette joie délicieuse de croire qu’ils créent. Nommer un objet, c’est supprimer les trois quarts de la jouissance du poète qui est faite du bonheur de deviner peu à peu ; le suggérer — voilà le rêve. C’est le parfait usage de ce mystère qui constitue le symbole : évoquer petit à petit un objet pour montrer un état d’âme, ou inversement, choisir un objet et en dégager un état d’âme par une série de déchiffrements.

“ Si un être d’une intelligence moyenne et d’une préparation littéraire insuffisante ouvre par hasard un livre ainsi fait et prétend en jouir, il y a malentendu, il faut remettre les choses à leur place. Il doit y avoir toujours énigme en poésie, et c’est le but de la littérature; il n’y en a pas d’autre, — d’évoquer les objets” (Enquête sur révolution littéraire, Jules Huret, pp. 60-61).

Thus obscurity is among the modern poets raised to a dogma, as the French critic Doumic, who does not yet recognize the truth of this dogma, remarks quite correctly.

“ Il serait temps aussi de finir,” — he says, — ” avec cette fameuse théorie de l’obscurité que la nouvelle école a élevée en effet à la hauteur d’un dogme ” (Les jeunes, études et portraits par René Doumic).

And it is not only the French writers who think so.

So think and act the poets of all other nationalities, — the Germans, Scandinavians, Italians, Russians, English; so think all the artists of modern times in all branches of art, — in painting, in sculpture, in music. Leaning on Nietzsche and Wagner, the artists of modern times assume that they need not be understood by the rude masses, — that it is enough for them to evoke poetical conditions in the “best nurtured men,” as the English æsthetician says.

In order that what I say may not appear bold, I will quote here at least a few samples of French poets who have led in this movement. The name of these poets is legion.

I have chosen the modern French authors, because they more glaringly than any others express the new tendency in art, and because the majority of the Europeans imitate them.

Besides those whose names are considered famous, such as Baudelaire and Verlaine, I give here a few names of these poets : Jean Moréas, Charles Maurice, Henri de Régnier, Charles Vignier, Adrien Romaille, René Ghil, Maurice Maeterlinck, C. Albert Aurier, René de Gourmont, St. Paul, Roux le Magnifique, Georges Rodenbach, le Comte Robert de Montesquiou-Fézansac. These are symbolists and decadents. Then come the magi : Joséphin Peladan, Paul Adam, Jules Bois, M. Papus, and so forth.

Besides these, there are 141 other poets counted out by Doumic in his book.

Here are samples from those of the poets who are considered to be the best. I begin with the most famous, Baudelaire, who is recognized to be a great man, worthy of a monument. Here, for example, is his poem from his famous Fleurs du Mai :

” Je t’adore à l’égal de la voûte nocturne, O vase de tristesse, ô grande taciturne, Et t’aime d’autant plus, belle, que tu me fuis, Et que tu me parais, ornement de mes nuits, Plus ironiquement accumuler les lieues, Qui séparent mes bras des immensités bleues. Je m’avance à l’attaque, et je grimpe aux assauts, Comme après un cadavre un chœur de vermisseaux. Et je chéris, ô bête implacable et cruelle !

Jusqu’à cette froideur par où tu m’es plus belle ! “

Here is another, by the same Baudelaire :

“ DUELLUM

” Deux guerriers ont couru l’un sur l’autre ; leurs armes Ont éclaboussé l’air de lueurs et de sang.

— Ces jeux, ces cliquetis du fer sont les vacarmes D’une jeunesse en proie à l’amour vagissant.

“ Les glaives sont brisés ! comme notre Jeunesse,

Ma chère I Mais les dents, les ongles acérés, Vengent bientôt l’épée et la dague traîtresse.

— O fureur des cœurs mûrs par l’amour ulcérés!

“ Dans le ravin hanté des chats-pards et des onces, Nos héros, s’étreignant méchamment, ont roulé, Et leur peau fleurira l’aridité des ronces.

“ — Ce gouffre, c’est l’enfer, de nos amis peuplé 1 Roulons y sans remords, amazone inhumaine, Afin d’éterniser l’ardeur de notre haine ! “

To be exact, I must say that in the collected volume there are some poems which are less incomprehensible, but there is not one that is simple or that could be understood without some effort, — an effort which is seldom rewarded, since the sentiments expressed by the poet are bad and very low.

These sentiments are intentionally always expressed in an original and insipid manner. This intentional obscurity is particularly noticeable in prose, where the author might have spoken simply, if he had so wished.

Here, for example, from his Petits poèmes en prose, is the first piece ” L’étranger.”

” l’étranger

« « Qui aimes-tu le mieux, homme énigmatique, des: ton père, ta mère, ton frère ou ta sœur? ‘

« « Je n’ai ni père, ni mère, ni sœur, ni frère.’

” < Tes amis? ’

«‘Vous vous servez là d’une parole dont le sens m’est resté jusqu’à ce jour inconnu.’

“ « Ta patrie ? ‘

“ ‘J’ignore sons quelle latitude elle est située.’

« ‘ La beauté ? ’

« « Je l’aimerais volontiers, déesse et immortelle.’

” » L’or ? ’

« ‘Je le hais, comme vous haïssez Dieu.’

“ ‘ Eh I qu’aimes tu donc, extraordinaire étranger?’

« ‘ J’aime les nuages … les nuages qui passent … là-bas … les merveilleux nuages !…’”

The piece, ” La soupe et les nuages,” is no doubt intended to express the poet’s incomprehensibility even by her whom he loves. Here it is :

” Ma petite folle bien-aimée me donnait à diner, et par la fenêtre ouverte de la salle à manger je contemplais les mouvantes architectures que Dieu fait avec les vapeurs, les merveilleuses constructions de l’impalpable. Et je me disais à travers ma contemplation : ‘ Toutes ces fantasmagories sont presque aussi belles que les yeux de ma belle bien-aimée, la petite folle monstrueuse aux yeux verts.’

” Et tout-à-coup je reçus un violent coup de poing dans le dos, et j’entendis une voix rauque et charmante, une voix hystérique et comme enrouée par l’eau de vie, la voix de ma chère petite bien-aimée, qui disait : ‘ Allez-vous bientôt manger votre soupe, s–-b–-de marchand de nuages ? * “

However artificial this production may be, it is possible with some effort to guess what it is the poet meant to convey by it; but there are some pieces which are entirely incomprehensible, at least for me.

Here, for example, is ” Le galant tireur,” the meaning of which I was not able to grasp completely :

” LE GALANT TIREUR

” Comme la voiture traversait le bois, il la fit arrêter dans le voisinage d’un tir, disant qu’il lui serait agréable de tirer quelques balles pour tuer le Temps.

“ Tuer ce monstre-là, n’est-ce pas l’occupation la plus ordinaire et la plus légitime de chacun?— Et il offrit galamment la main à sa chère, délicieuse et exécrable femme, à cette mystérieuse femme, à laquelle il doit tant de plaisirs, tant de douleurs, et peut-être aussi une grande partie de son génie.

“ Plusieurs balles frappèrent loin du but proposé : l’une d’elles s’enfonça même dans la plafond ; et comme la charmante créature riait follement, se moquant de la maladresse de son époux, celui-ci se tourna brusquement vers elle, et lui dit : ‘ Observez cette poupée, là-bas, à droite, qui porte le nez en l’air et qui a la mine si hautaine. Eh bien I cher ange, je me figure que c’est vous.’ Et il ferma les yeux et il lâcha la détente. La poupée fut nettement décapitée.

“ Alors s’inclinant vers sa chère, sa délicieuse, son exécrable femme, son inévitable et impitoyable Muse, et lui baisant respectueusement la main, il ajouta :

‘“Ah, mon cher ange, combien je vous remercie de mon adresse I ’ ”

The productions of another celebrity, Verlaine, are not less artificial and not less incomprehensible. Here, for example, is the first from the division of ” Ariettes oubliées.”

Here is the first ariette :

« « Le vent dans la plaine Suspend son haleine ‘ (Favart).

” C’est l’extase langoureuse, C’est la fatigue amoureuse, C’est tous les frissons des bois Parmi l’étreinte des brises, C’est vers les ramures grises, Le chœur des petites voix. O le frêle et frais murmure ! Cela gazouille et susure, Cela ressemble au cri doux Que l’herbe agitée expire … Tu dirais, sous l’eau qui vire, Le roulis sourd des cailloux. Cette âme qui se lamente En cette plainte dormante,

C’est la nôtre, n’est-ce pas ? La mienne, dis, et la tienne, Dont s’exhale l’humble antienne Par ce tiède soir, tout bas.”

What is this ” chœur des petits voix ” ? And what is ” cri doux l’herbe agitée expire ” ? And it remains absolutely incomprehensible to me what meaning the whole may have.

Here is another ariette :

” Dans l’interminable Ennui de la plaine, La neige incertaine Luit comme du sable. Le ciel est de cuivre, Sans lueur aucune. On croirait voir vivre Et mourir la lune. Comme des nuées Flottent gris les chênes Des forêts prochaines Parmi les buées. Ce ciel est de cuivre, Sans lueur aucune. On croirait voir vivre Et mourir la lune. Corneille poussive Et vous, les loups maigres, Par ces bises aigres, Quoi donc vous arrive ? Dans interminable Ennui de la plaine, La neige incertaine Luit comme du sable.”

How does the moon live and die in the copper sky, and how does the snow shine like sand ? All this is not only incomprehensible, but, under the pretext of conveying a mood, a compilation of inexact comparisons and words.

Besides these artificial and obscure poems, there are some that are comprehensible, but very bad in form and contents. Such are all the poems under the title of ” La sagesse.” In these poems the largest space is occupied by very poor expressions of the tritest of Catholic and patriotic sentiments. In them there are, for example, such stanzas :

“ Jo ne veux plus penser qu’à ma mère Marie, Siège de la sagesse et source de pardons, Mère de France aussi de qui nous attendons, Inébranlablement l’honneur de la patrie.”

Before quoting examples from other poets, I cannot refrain from dwelling on the remarkable fame of these two poets, Baudelaire and Verlaine, who are now acknowledged to be great poets. How could the French, who had a Chenier, Musset, Lamartine, and, above all, a Hugo, who but lately had so-called Parnassians, Leconte de Lisle, Sully-Prud’homme, and others, have ascribed such meaning to these two versifiers and consider them to be great poets, who are very inartistic in form and very low and trite as to their contents ? The world conception of the one, Baudelaire, consists in raising coarse egoism to a theory, and putting in the place of morality the concept of beauty, which is as indefinite as the clouds, a beauty which has by all means to be artificial. Baudelaire prefers a woman’s painted face to the natural, and metallic trees and the theatrical imitation of water to the natural.

The world conception of the other poet, Verlaine, consists in a limp laxity of morals, the recognition of his moral impotence, and, as a salvation from this impotence, the coarsest Catholic idolatry. Both are at the same time not only deprived of naïveté, sincerity, and simplicity, but also full of artificiality, striving after originality, and self-conceit. Thus one sees, in their less bad productions, more of Mr. Baudelaire or Mr. Verlaine than what they represent. And these two bad versifiers form a school and lead after them hundreds of followers.

There is but one explanation of this phenomenon : it is this, that the art of that society in which these versifiers are active is not a serious, important matter of life, but only play. But every play grows tiresome with every repetition. In order to make a tiresome game again possible, it is necessary to renovate it : if boston is tiresome, they invent whist ; if whist is tiresome, they invent preference; if preference is tiresome, they invent something new, and so on. The essence of the thing remains the same, but the form changes. Even so it is in this art: its contents, becoming more and more limited, have finally reached such a stage that it seems to the artists of these exclusive classes that everything has been said and nothing new can be said. And so, in order to renovate this art, they seek for new forms.

Baudelaire and Verlaine invent a new form and, in addition, renovate it by heretofore unused pornographic details. And the critique and the public of the higher classes recognize them as great writers.

Only in this way can we explain the success, not only of Baudelaire and Verlaine, but also of all the decadents.

There are, for example, some poems of Mallarmé and Maeterlinck which have no meaning whatever, and, in spite of it, or, perhaps, in consequence of it, are printed not only in tens of thousands of separate editions, but also in the collections of the best productions of the young poets.

Here, for example, is a sonnet by Mallarmé (Pan, 1895, No. 1):

“ A la nue accablante tu

Basse de basalte et de laves A même les échos esclaves Par une trompe sans vertu. Quel sépulcral naufrage (tu Le soir, écume, mais y brave)

Suprême une entre les épaves Abolit le mât dévêtu.

Ou cela que furibond faute De quelque perdition haute, Tout l’abime vain éployé Dans le si blanc cheveu qui traîne Avarement aura noyé Le flanc enfant d’une sirène.”

This poem is not an exception for its incomprehensibleness. I have read several poems by Mallarmé. They are all equally deprived of all sense.

Here is a sample of another famous contemporary poet, a song by Maeterlinck. I copy it also from the periodical Pan, 1895, No. 2.

“ Quand il est sorti (J’entendis la porte) Quand il est sorti Elle avait souri.

Mais quand il rentra (J’entendis la lampe) Mais quand il rentra Une autre était là … Et j’ai vu la mort (J’entendis son âme) Et j’ai vu la mort Qui l’attend encore … On est venu dire (Mon enfant, j’ai peur) On est venu dire Qu’il allait partir … Ma lampe allumée (Mon enfant, j’ai peur) Ma lampe allumée Me suis approchée … A la première porte (Mon enfant, j’ai peur) A la première porte, La flamme a tremblé . . A la seconde porte (Mon enfant, j’ai peur) A la seconde porte, La flamme a parlé . , . A la troisième porte (Lion entant, j’ai peur) A la troisième porte, La lumière est morte … Et s’il revenait un jour Que faut-il lui dire ? Dites lui qu’on l’attendit Jusqu’à s’en mourir … Et s’il interroge encore Sans me reconnaître, Parlez lui comme une sœur, Il souffre peut-être …

Et s’il demande où vous êtes Que faut-il répondre?

Donnez lui mon anneau d’or Sans rien lui répondre … Et s’il veut savoir pourquoi La salle est déserte?

Montrez lui la lampe éteinte Et la porte ouverte … Et s’il m’interroge alors Sur la dernière heure ? Dites lui que j’ai souri De peur qu’il ne pleure . .

Who went out, who came, who told, who died ?

I beg the reader to take the trouble to read what I copied in Appendix I., — the specimens from the better known and esteemed young poets, — Griffin, Régnier, Moréas, and Montesquiou. This is necessary in order to form a clear conception of the present condition of art, and not to think, as many do, that the decadence is an accidental, temporary phenomenon.

In order to avoid a reproach of having chosen the worst poems, I copied from all these books such poems as were found on page 28.

All the poems of these poets are equally incomprehensible, or comprehensible only with great effort and then not fully.

Of the same kind are all the productions of those hundreds of poets from whom 1 have quoted a few names. Similar poems are printed by the Germans, the Scandinavians, the Italians, and us Russians. Of such productions there are printed and distributed, if not millions, at least hundreds of thousands of copies (some of them are sold by the ten thousand). For the setting up, printing, composition, binding of these books, millions are wasted, and millions of work-days, I think not less than was spent on building the great pyramid. But that is not all : the same takes place in all other arts, and millions of work-days are wasted on the productions of similarly incomprehensible subjects in painting, music, and the drama.

Painting not only does not fall behind poetry in this, but even precedes it. Here is an extract from a diary of a lover of painting, who in 1894 visited the Paris exhibitions :

“ I was to-day at three exhibitions, — of the symbolists, impressionists, and neo-impressionists. I looked conscientiously and carefully at the pictures, but again the same perplexity and finally indignation. The first exhibition by Camille Pissaro is the most comprehensible, though there is no drawing, no contents, and the colouring is most improbable. The drawing is so indefinite that at times it is hard to make out which way a hand or a head is turned. The contents are for the most part ‘ effets.’ Effet’de brouillard, Effet du soir, Soleil couchant. A few pictures were with figures, but without any subject.

” In the colouring there predominates the bright blue and bright green. In each painting there is a fundamental tone with which the whole picture seems to be bespattered. For example, in a shepherdess watching the geese, the fundamental tone is ‘ vert de gris,’ and everywhere there occur little blots of this colour, on the face, the hair, the hands, the dress. In the same gallery < Durand Ruel ‘ other paintings are by Puvis de Chavannes, Manet, Monet, Renoir, Sisley, — all of them impressionists. One of them, — I did not make out the name, — it was something like Redon, — painted a blue face in profile. In the whole face there is nothing but this blue tone with white in it. Pissaro’s water-colour is all made in dots. In the foreground a cow is all painted in many-coloured dots. It is impossible to catch the general tone, no matter how far you recede or approach it.

“ From there I went to see the symbolists. I looked for a long time, asking nobody about them, and trying to guess myself what it was all about, — but that is above human reason. One of the first things that attracted my attention was a wooden haut-relief, monstrously executed, representing a (naked) woman, who with both her hands is pressing two streams of blood out of her teats. The blood flows down and passes into lilac-coloured flowers. The hair is at first falling down, then rises, when it is changed into trees. The statue is painted solid yellow, the hair — brown.

” Then a picture : a yellow sea, — on it sails something like a ship, or a heart, — on the horizon is a profile with an aureole and with yellow hair, which passes into the sea and is lost in it. The paint is on some pictures put on so thick that the result is something intermediate between painting and sculpture. The third is still less comprehensible : a male profile, in front of it a flame and black streaks, — leeches, as I was told later. Finally I asked a gentleman who was there what it meant, and he explained to me that the statue was a symbol, that it represented ‘ La terre ; ‘ the sailing heart in the yellow sea was ‘ Illusion perdue,’ and the gentleman with the leeches ‘ Le mal.’ There are here also some impressionist pictures : primitive profiles with some kind of flower in their hands, — of one tone, not painted, and either absolutely indefinite or surrounded by a broad black contour.”

That was in the year 1894 ; now this tendency has been more strongly defined : Rocklin, Stuck, Klinger, Sàsha Schneider, and others.

The same is taking place in the drama. They either represent an architect, who for some reason has not fulfilled his former high resolves and in consequence of this climbs on the roof of a house built by him and from there flies down headlong ; or some incomprehensible old woman, who raises rats and for some unknown reason takes a poetic child to the sea and there drowns it ; or some blind people, who, sitting at the seashore, for some reason all the time repeat one and the same thing; or a bell, which flies into a lake and there keeps ringing.

The same takes place in music, in that art which, it would seem, ought to be more than any other comprehensible to all alike.

A musician whom you know and who enjoys a reputation sits down at the piano and plays for you, as he says, a new production of his own or of a new artist. You hear strange loud sounds, and marvel at the gymnastic exercises of his fingers, and see clearly that the composer wishes to impress you with the idea that the sounds produced by him are poetical strivings of the soul. You see his intention, but no other sensation than ennui is communicated to you. The performance lasts long, or, at least, you think that it lasts very long, since you, receiving no clear impression, involuntarily think of A. Karr’s words : ” Plus ça va vite, plus ça dure longtemps.” And it occurs to you that this may be a mystification, that the performer is trying you, whirling his hands and fingers over the keys, in the hope that you will be caught and will praise, while he will laugh and confess that he has been trying you. But when it is at last finished, and the perspiring and agitated musician, evidently expecting praise, gets up from the piano, you see that all this was in earnest.

The same takes place at all concerts with the productions of Liszt, Wagner, Berlioz, Brahms, and the modern Bichard Strauss, and an endless number of others, who compose uninterruptedly one after another operas and symphonies.

The same takes place in the sphere where, it would seem, it is hard to be incomprehensible, — in the sphere of the novel and the story.

You read Huysmans’ Là bas, or Kipling’s stories, or Villier de ITsle Adam’s L’annonciateur from his Contes cruels, and so forth, and all this is for you not only ” abscons ” (a new word of the new writers), but completely incomprehensible, both in form and in contents. Such, for example, is E. Morel’s novel, Terre Promise, which has just appeared in the Revue blanche, and also the majority of the modern novels : the style is flowery, the sentiments seem to be elevated, but it is absolutely impossible to understand how, when, and to whom things happen.

Such is all the young art of our time.

The men of the first part of our century, the appreciates of Gdthe, Schiller, Musset, Hugo, Dickens, Beethoven, Chopin, Raphael, Vinci, Michelangelo, Delaroche, who cannot make out anything in this latest art, frequently consider the productions of this art to be downright tasteless madness, and want to ignore it. But such a relation to modern art is quite unfounded, because, in the first place, this art is being disseminated more and more and has already conquered for itself a firm place in society, such as romanticism conquered in the thirties ; in the second place, and chiefly, because, if it is possible to judge thus of the productions of the later, the decadent art because we do not understand it, there is an enormous number of men, — all the working people, and many who are not working people, — who similarly do not understand those productions of art which we consider beautiful, — the poetry of our favourite artists, Gothe, Schiller, Hugo, the novels of Dickens, the music of Beethoven and Chopin, the paintings of Raphael, Michelangelo, Vinci, and others.

If I have the right to think that large masses of people do not understand and do not like what I indubitably recognize as good, because they are not sufficiently developed, I have not the right to deny even this, that possibly I do not understand and like the new productions of art only because I am not sufficiently developed in order to understand them. But if I have the right to say that, with the majority of men sharing my views, I do not understand the productions of modem art, only because there is nothing in them to understand and because it is bad art, then a still greater majority, the whole mass of the working people, who do not understand what I regard as beautiful art, may say with precisely the same right that what I consider to be good art is bad art, and that there is nothing in it to understand.

I saw with peculiar clearness the injustice of condemning the modern art, when once a poet, who composed incomprehensible verses, at one time in my presence with merry self-confidence made fun of incomprehensible music, and soon after this a musician, who composed incomprehensible symphonies, with the same self-confidence made fun of incomprehensible verses. I have not the right, and I am not able, to condemn modern art, because I, a man educated in the first half of the century, do not understand it ; all I can say is that it is incomprehensible to me. The only superiority of the art which I acknowledge over the decadent art consists in this, that the art which I acknowledge is comprehensible to a somewhat larger number of men than the modern.

Because I am used to a certain exclusive art and understand it, but do not understand a more exclusive art, 1 have no right whatsoever to conclude that this, my art, is the true one, and the one I do not understand is not true, but bad ; from this I can conclude only this, that art, becoming more and more exclusive, has become more and more incomprehensible for an ever growing number of men, in this its movement toward a greater and ever greater incomprehensibility, on one of the steps of which I find myself with my customary art, and has reached a point where it is understood by the smallest number of the elect, and the number of these elect is growing smaller and smaller.

As soon as the art of the higher classes segregated itself from the popular art, there appeared the conviction that art may be art and at the same time incomprehensible to the masses. The moment this supposition was admitted, it had to be inevitably admitted that art may be comprehensible only for a very small number of the elect and, finally, only for two or one, — one’s own best friend, oneself. This is precisely what the modern artists say : ” I create, and understand myself, and if some one does not understand me, so much the worse for him.”

The assertion that art may be good art, and yet be incomprehensible to a great majority of men, is to such a degree incorrect, its consequences are to such a degree pernicious for art, and, at the same time, it is so diffused, has so corroded our conception, that it is impossible sufficiently to elucidate its whole incompatibility.

There is nothing more common than to hear of supposed productions of art that they are very good, but that it is hard to understand them. We have become accustomed to such an assertion, and yet, to say that a production of art is good, but not comprehensible, is the same as to say of a certain food that it is very good, but that men cannot eat it. People may dislike rotten cheese, decaying partridges, and so forth, food which is esteemed by gastronomers with a corrupt taste, but bread and fruit are good only when people like them. The same is true of art:

corrupted art may be comprehensible to men, but good art is always comprehensible to all men.

They say that the very best productions of art are such as cannot be understood by the majority and are accessible only to the elect, who are prepared for the comprehension of these great productions. But if the majority do not understand, it is necessary to explain to them, to convey to them that knowledge which is necessary for comprehension. But it turns out that there is no such knowledge and that it is impossible to explain the productions, and so those who say that the majority do not understand the good productions of art do not give any explanations, but say that in order to understand, it is necessary to read, to see, to hear the same productions again and again. But this does not mean explaining, but training, and people may be trained for the very worst. As men may be trained to eat decayed food, to use whiskey, tobacco, or opium, so they can be trained for bad art, which is actually being done.

Besides, we cannot say that the majority of men have no taste for the appreciation of the highest productions of art. The majority of men have always understood what we consider to be the highest art ; the artistically simple stories of the Bible, the parables of the Gospel, the national legends, the fairy-tales, the popular songs, are understood by everybody. Why have the masses suddenly been deprived of the ability to understand what is high in our art ?

Of a speech we may say that it is beautiful, but incomprehensible to those who do not know the language in which it is enunciated. A speech made in Chinese may be beautiful and still remain incomprehensible to me, if I do not know Chinese ; but a production of art is distinguished from any other spiritual activity by this very fact, that its language is comprehensible to all, that it infects all without distinction. The tears, the laughter, of a Chinaman will infect me as much as the laughter and the tears of a Russian, just like painting and music and a poetical production, if it is translated into a language which I understand. The song of a Kirgiz and a Japanese moves me, though more feebly than it touches the Kirgiz or Japanese. Similarly am I affected by Japanese painting and Hindoo architecture and an Arabian fable. If I am little moved by a Japanese song and a Chinese novel, it is not because I do not understand these productions, but because I know and am trained to higher subjects of art, and not because this art is too high for me. Great subjects of art are great for this very reason, that they are accessible and comprehensible to all. The story of Joseph, translated into Chinese, affects the Chinese. The story of Sakya Muni affects us. The same is true of buildings, pictures, statues, music. And so, if some art does not move us, we cannot say that this is due to the hearer’s and spectator’s lack of comprehension, but must conclude from this that it is bad art, or no art at all.

Art differs from a reasoning activity demanding preparation and a certain consecutiveness of knowledge (thus it is impossible to teach a man trigonometry if he does not know geometry) in that art acts upon men independently of their degree of development and education, in that the charm of a picture, of sounds, of images, infects every man, no matter at what stage of development he may be.

The business of art consists in making comprehensible and accessible what in the form of reasoning may remain incomprehensible and inaccessible. VAs a rule, in receiving a truly artistic impression the person so impressed imagines that he knew that before, but was unable to express it. [

And Such the highest art has always been : the Iliad, the Odyssey, the history of Jacob, Isaac, Joseph, the Jewish prophets, the psalms, the Gospel parables, the story of Sakya Muni, and the Vedic hymns, all these convey very elevated sentiments, and, in spite of this, are quite comprehensible at the present time to us, the cultured and the uncultured, and were comprehensible to the men of that time, who were even less enlightened than the working people of our day. They talk of the incomprehensibility. But if art is a conveyance of sentiments which result from the religious consciousness of men, how can a sentiment be incomprehensible if it is based on religion, that is, on the relation of man to God ? Such art must have been, and in reality has been, at all times comprehensible, because the relation of every man to God is one and the same. And so the temples and the images and the singing in them has always been comprehensible to all men. An obstacle to the comprehension of the highest, the best sentiments, as it says in the Gospel, is by no means in a lack of development and teaching, but, on the contrary, in a false development and a false teaching. A good and high artistic production may indeed be incomprehensible, but not to simple, uncorrupted working people (to them everything which is very high is comprehensible) ; a truly artistic production may be, and frequently is, incomprehensible to overlearned, corrupted men, who are deprived of religion, as all the time takes place in our society, where the highest religious sentiments are directly incomprehensible to men. I know, for example, some men who consider themselves extremely refined and who say that they do not understand the poetry of love for their neighbour and of selfsacrifice,— that they do not understand the poetry of chastity.

Thus good, great, universal, religious art may be incomprehensible only to a small circle of corrupted men, and not the contrary.

The reason why art cannot be incomprehensible to the masses is not because it is very good, as the artists of our time are fond of saying. It would be more correct to suppose that art is incomprehensible to the great masses, only because this art is very bad or even no art at all. Thus the favourite proof, naively accepted by the cultivated crowd, that in order to feel art we must understand it (what in reality means only to become trained to it), is the surest indication that what it is proposed to understand in such manner is either very bad, exclusive art, or no art at all.

They say: “The productions of art are not liked by the people, because they are incapable of understanding it. But if the productions of art have for their aim the infection of men with the sentiment which the artist experienced, how can we speak of lack of comprehension ? “

A man of the masses reads a book, looks at a picture, hears a drama or a symphony, and receives no impressions whatever. He is told that it is so, because he cannot understand. A man is told that he shall see a certain spectacle, — he goes there, and sees nothing. He is told that this is so because his vision is not prepared for this spectacle. But the man knows that he has excellent sight. If he does not see what he was promised he would see, he concludes only this (which is quite correct), that the men who undertook to show him the spectacle have not fulfilled what they undertook to do. Exactly so and with exactly as much justice does the man from the people judge of the productions of the art of our time, which evoke no sentiments of any kind in him. And so to say that a man is not moved by my art, because he is still too stupid (which is very self-confident and very bold to say), means to change parts, and to throw the onus of the guilty on the innocent.

Voltaire has said that, ” Tous les genres sont bons, hors le genre ennuyeux ; ” with much greater right we can say of art that, ” Tous les genres sont bons, hors celui qu’on ne comprends pas ; ” or, ” qui ne produit pas son effet,” because, what worth can there be in a subject which does not do what it is destined for ?

But the chief thing is, that the moment we admit that art may be art, while it remains incomprehensible to some mentally healthy persons, there is no reason why some circle of corrupted men should not create productions which tickle their corrupt sensations and are incomprehensible to any one but themselves, calling these productions art, which is actually done at present by the so-called decadents.

The road which art has traversed is like the superposition of circles of diminishing diameters on a circle of greater diameter, so that a cone is formed, the apex of which is no longer a circle. Precisely this has been done by the art of our time.

XL

Becoming poorer and poorer in contents and less and less comprehensible in form, it has in its last manifestations lost all the properties of art and has given way to semblances of art.

Not only has the art of the higher classes, in consequence of its segregation from the national art, become poor in contents and bad in form, that is, more and more incomprehensible, but the art of the higher classes has in the course of time ceased to be art and has given place to an imitation of art.

This has taken place from the following causes. National art arises only when some man from the people, having experienced some strong sensation, feels the necessity of communicating it to men. But the art of the wealthy classes does not arise because the artist feels the necessity for it, but chiefly because the men of the higher classes demand diversions for which they reward well. The men of the wealthy classes demand from art the communication of sensations which are agreeable to them, and the artists try to satisfy these demands. But it is very hard to satisfy these demands, since the men of the wealthy classes, passing their lives in idleness and luxury, demand constant diversions from art ; it is, however, impossible at will to produce art, even though of the lowest description. And so the artists, to satisfy the demands of the men of the higher classes, had to work out methods by means of which they could produce subjects which resemble art, and so these methods were worked out.

These methods are the following: (1) borrowing, (2) imitation, (3) effectiveness, and (4) entertainingness.

The first method consists in borrowing from former productions of art either whole subjects, or only separate features of former, well-known poetical productions, and in so transforming them that with certain additions they might represent something new.

Such productions, evoking in the men of a certain circle recollections of artistic sensations experienced before, produce an impression like that from art, and pass among men who seek enjoyment from art for such, if with them other necessary conditions are observed. The subjects which are borrowed from previous artistic productions are generally called poetical subjects, and objects and persons borrowed from previous artistic productions are called poetical objects. Thus, in our circle, all kinds of legends, sagas, ancient traditions, are called poetical subjects ; and as poetical persons and objects are regarded maidens, warriors, shepherds, hermits, angels, devils in every form, moonlight, storms, mountains, the sea, precipices, flowers, long hair, lions, a lamb, a dove, a nightingale ; as poetical in general are regarded all those objects which more than any other were employed by previous artists for their productions.

Some forty years ago a not clever, but very cultured lady, ” ayant beaucoup d’acquis ” (she is dead now), called me to listen to a novel which she had written. In this novel the story began with a heroine in a poetical forest, near the water, in a poetical white garment, with poetical flowing hair, reading verses. The whole took place in Russia, and suddenly, from behind some bushes, there appeared the hero in a hat with a feather à la Guillaume Tell (so it said) and with two poetical dogs accompanying him. It seemed to the authoress that all this was very poetical ; and all would be well if the hero did not have to say something. The moment the gentleman in the hat a la Guillaume Tell began to talk with the maiden in the white dress, it became clear that the authoress had nothing to say, and that she was affected by the poetical recollections from previous productions, and was thinking that by rummaging through these recollections she could produce an artistic impression. But the artistic impression, that is, the infection, is had only when the author has in his own way experienced some kind of a sensation and is conveying it, and not when he communicates a foreign sensation, which has been communicated to him. Such poetry from poetry cannot infect men, but only gives the semblance of art, and that, too, only to men with a corrupted Esthetic taste. This lady was very stupid and not at all talented, and so it was easy to see at once where the trouble was ; but when this borrowing is taken up by well-read and talented men, who, besides, have worked out the technique of their art, we get those borrowings from the Greek, the ancient, the Christian, and the mythological worlds, which have been breeding so extensively and especially now continue to appear so much, and which are taken by the public to be productions of art, if these borrowings are well worked out by the technique of that art in which they are made.

As a characteristic example of such a kind of imitation of art in the sphere of poetry may serve Rostand’s Princess Lointaine, in which there is not a spark of art, but which appears to many and, no doubt, to its author as exceedingly poetical.

The second method which gives a semblance of art is what I called imitation. The essence of this method consists in rendering the details which accompany that which is described or represented. In the literary art this method consists in describing, down to the minutest details, the appearance, faces, garments, gestures, sounds, apartments of the acting persons, with all those incidents which occur in life. Thus, in novels and stories, they describe, with every speech of the acting person, in what voice he said it, and what he did then. And the speeches themselves are not told so as to make the best sense, but as incoherently as they are in life, with interruptions and abrupt endings. In dramatic art this method consists in this, that, in addition to the imitation of the conversations, all the concomitant circumstances, all the actions of the persons, should be precisely such as they are in real life. In painting and sculpture this method reduces painting to photography, and destroys the difference between photography and painting. However strange this may appear, this method is used also in music : music attempts to imitate, not only by its rhythm, but even by its sounds, those sounds which in life accompany that which it wishes to represent.

The third method is the appeal to the external senses, which frequently is of a purely physical nature, — it is what is called effectiveness. These effects in all arts consist mainly in contrasts, — in the juxtaposition of the terrible and the tender, the beautiful and the monstrous, the loud and the quiet, the dark and the light, the most common and the most uncommon. In literary art there are, besides the effects of contrast, other effects which consist in the description and representation of what has never been described or represented before, especially in the description and the representation of details which evoke the sexual passion, or of the details of suffering and death, which evoke the sensation of terror, — so that, for example, in the description of a murder there should be a coroner’s description of the laceration of tissues, of the swelling, of the odour, of the amount and form of the blood. The same happens in painting : besides the contrasts of every kind, there enters into painting a contrast which consists in the careful execution of one subject and carelessness in regard to everything else. But the chief and most usual effect in painting is the effect of light and of the representation of the terrible. In the drama the most common effects, besides the contrasts, are storms, thunder, moonlight, actions upon the sea or near the sea, the change of costumes, the laying bare of the feminine body, insanity, murder, and, in general, death, during which the dying give detailed accounts of all the phases of the agony. In music the most usual effects consist in beginning a crescendo with the feeblest and most monotonous sounds, and in rising to the strongest and most complicated sounds of the whole orchestra, or in repeating the same sounds arpeggio in all the octaves and with all the instruments, or in making the harmony, the time, and the rhythm entirely different from those which naturally result from the train of the musical thought, so as to startle us by their suddenness. Besides, the commonest effects in music are produced in a purely physical way, by the force of the sounds, especially in the orchestra.

Such are some of the more common effects in all the arts; but, in addition to these, there is still another method, common to all arts, and this is, the representation by one art of what is proper for another art to represent, such as, that music should ” describe,” as all programme music and that of Wagner and his followers does, or that painting, the drama, and poetry should ” produce a mood,” as all decadent art does.

The fourth method is entertainingness, that is, a mental interest united with the production of art. Entertainingness may consist in an intricate plot, — a method which until lately was used in English novels and French comedies and dramas, but now has begun to go out of fashion and has given way to documentality, that is, to detailed descriptions of some historic period or some especial branch of contemporary life. Thus, for example, entertainingness consists in describing in a novel the Egyptian or the Roman life, or the life of the miners, or of the clerks of some large establishment, and the reader is interested, and this interest is taken for an artistic impression. Entertainingness may consist in the mere methods of expression. This kind of entertainingness has now become exceedingly common. Poetry and prose, and pictures, and the drama, and musical compositions are produced in such a way that they have to be guessed like rebuses, and this process of guessing also affords pleasure and gives the semblance of an impression received from art.

Frequently it is said that a production of art is very good, because it is poetical or realistic, or effective or interesting, when neither the first, nor the second, nor the third, nor the fourth can be a standard of the value of the art or has anything in common with it.

“Poetical” means “borrowed.” Now, every borrowing is only a leading up of the readers, spectators, or hearers to some dim recollection of those artistic impressions which they received from previous productions of art, and not an infection with the sensation which the artist has experienced. A production which is based on borrowing, as, for example, Gothe’s Faust, may be worked out very beautifully, replete with sallies of wit and all kinds of beauties, but it cannot produce a real artistic impression, because it wants the chief property of a production of art, — completeness, organicalness, — that is, that the form and the contents should form one uninterrupted whole, expressive of the sensations experienced by the artist. By the borrowing the artist conveys no other sensation than what was impressed upon him by the production of some previous art, and so every borrowing of whole subjects or different scenes, situations, descriptions, is only a reflection of art, its semblance, and not art. And so to say of a certain production that it is good because it is poetical, that is, because it resembles a production of art, is the same as saying of a coin that it is good, because it resembles a real coin. Just as little can the imitation of realism, as many think, be a standard of the value of art. Imitation cannot serve as a standard of the value of art, because, if the chief property of art is the infection of others with the sensation described by the artist, the infection with the sensation not only does not coincide with the description of the details of what is being conveyed, but for the most part is impaired by a superabundance of details. The attention of him who receives artistic impressions is distracted by all these well-observed details, and on account of them the author’s feeling, if he has any, is not communicated.

It is just as strange to value the production of art by the degree of its realism and truthfulness of details communicated, as it is to judge of the nutritive value of food by its appearance. When we define the value of a production by its realism, we merely show by this that we are not speaking of a production of art, but of an imitation of it.

The third method of imitating art, effectiveness, like the first two, does not coincide with the concept of true art, because in effectiveness, in the effect of novelty, suddenness of contrast, terror, no sentiment is conveyed, and there is only an effect upon the nerves. When a painter paints beautifully a wound with blood, the sight of this wound will startle me, but there will be no art in this. A prolonged note on a mighty organ will produce a striking impression, will frequently even evoke tears, but there is no music in this, because no sensation is conveyed. And yet it is just such physiological effects that are constantly taken by men of our circle to be art, not only in music, but also in poetry, painting, and the drama. They say that modern art has become refined. On the contrary, thanks to the hunt after effects, it has become extraordinarily gross. They are performing, let us say, the new production of Hannele, which has made the round of the theatres of the whole of Europe, and in which the author wants to convey to the public compassion for a tortured girl. To evoke this feeling in the spectators by means of art, the author ought to have made one of his persons express compassion so that it would infect all men, or correctly describe the girl’s sensations. But he is either unable or unwilling to do so, and chooses another, more complicated method for the stage-manager, but one that is easier for the artist. He makes the girl die on the stage ; and with that, to increase the physiological effect on the audience, he puts out the lights in the theatre, leaving the audience in the dark, and to the sounds of pitiful music shows how the drunken father persecutes and beats this girl. The girl writhes, squeaks, groans, falls. There appear angels who carry her off. And the audience, experiencing some agitation at this, is fully convinced that this is an Esthetic sensation. But in this agitation there is nothing æsthetical, because there is no infection of one man by another, but only a mingled feeling of compassion for another and of joy for myself because I am not suffering, — something like what we experience at the sight of an execution, or what the Romans experienced in their circuses.

The substitution of effectiveness for the Esthetic feeling is particularly noticeable in the musical art, that art which by its nature has an immediate physiological effect upon the nerves. Instead of conveying in melody the author’s sensations as experienced by him, the modern musician accumulates, interweaves sounds, and now intensifying, and now weakening them, produces upon the public a physiological effect, such as may be measured by an apparatus invented for the purpose.1 And the public receives this physiological effect as the effect of art.

1 There exists an apparatus by means of which a very sensitive needle, brought in relation to the tension of the muscle of the hand, indicates the physiological effect of music upon the nerves and the muscles.

As regards the fourth method, entertainingness, this method, though more foreign to art than any other, is more frequently than any other mistaken for art. To say nothing of the intentional concealment by the author in his novel of what the author has to guess about, we very frequently get to hear about a picture or about a musical production, that it is interesting. What is meant by ” interesting ” ? An interesting production of art means either that the production evokes in us unsatisfied curiosity, or that, in being impressed by a production of art, we receive information which is new to us, or that the production is not quite comprehensible and we by degrees and with an effort make our way to its comprehension and in the divination of its meaning derive a certain amount of pleasure. In neither case has the entertainingness anything in common with artistic impressions. Art has for its aim the infection of men with the sensation experienced by the artist. But the mental effort which the spectator, the hearer, the reader, has to make for the gratification of the curiosity evoked, or for the acquisition of new information to be gained from the production, or for the comprehension of the meaning of the production, in absorbing the reader’s, spectator’s, hearer’s attention, impedes the infection. And so the entertainingness of a production has not only nothing in common with the worth of a production of art, but rather impedes the artistic impression than cooperates with it.

Poeticalness, and imitation, and effectiveness, and entertainingness may be found within a production of art, but they cannot take the place of the chief property of art, of the sensation experienced by the artist. Of late the majority of subjects in the art of the higher classes, which are given out as subjects of art, are precisely such as only resemble art, and lack in their foundation the chief characteristic of art, — the sensation experienced by the artist.

To produce a true subject of art, many conditions are needed. This man must stand on the level of the highest world conception of his time, and must have experienced a sensation and have had the desire and the chance to communicate it, and also possess the talent for some kind of art. All these conditions, necessary for the production of true art, are rarely combined. But in order, with the aid of methods worked out, borrowing, imitation, effectiveness, and entertainingness, to produce semblances of art, which in our society are well rewarded, one needs only to have a talent in some sphere of art, which is of very frequent occurrence. By talent I mean the ability, in literary art, — easily to express one’s ideas and impressions, and to notice and remember characteristic details ; in plastic art, — the ability to distinguish, remember, and reproduce lines, forms, colours ; in musical art, — the ability to distinguish intervals, and to remember and reproduce the consecutiveness of sounds. The moment a man in our day possesses such a talent, he is able, after having learned the technique and the methods of the imitation of his art (if his Esthetic sense, which would make bis productions loathsome to him, is atrophied, and if he has patience), without interruption, to the end of his days, to compose productions which in our society are considered to be art.

For the production of such imitations there exist in every kind of art special rules or recipes, so that a talented man, having acquired them, is able à froid, coldly, without the slightest feeling, to produce these articles. In order to write poems, a man talented in literature needs only to train himself to be able in the place of each, one, real, necessary word to use, according to the demand of rhyme or measure, other ten words which have approximately the same meaning, and to train himself to be able to say every sentence, which, to be clear, has only one proper arrangement of words, with all possible permutations of words, so that it should resemble some sense : to train himself besides, being guided by words which occur to him on account of their rhyming, to invent for these words a semblance of ideas, sentiments, and pictures, and then such a man may without interruption compose poems, according to the need, short or long ones, religious, amatory, or patriotic songs.

But if the man with a talent for literature wants to write stories and novels, he need only elaborate a style, that is, train himself to describe everything he sees, and to remember or note down details. When he has mastered this, he can without cessation write novels or stories, according to his desire or according to demand, — historical, naturalistic, social, erotic, psychological, or even religious stories, such as there are a demand and fashion for. His subjects he can take from reading or from his own experiences, and the characters of the acting persons he may copy from his acquaintances.

Such novels and stories, so long as they are decked out with well-observed and well-copied details, best of all, erotic details, will be regarded as productions of art, though there may not be a spark of sentiment in them.

For the production of art in the dramatic form, a talented man must, in addition to everything needed for the novel or story, learn also to put in the mouth of his acting persons as many bright and witty remarks as possible, make use of theatrical effects, and be able so to interweave the actions of persons that there shall not be one single long conversation on the stage, but as much bustle and motion as possible. If the writer is able to do so, he can without cessation write dramatic productions, one after another, choosing subjects from the criminal chronicles or from the last question which interests society, like hypnotism, heredity, and so forth, or from the most ancient and even fantastic spheres.

A talented man in the sphere of painting or sculpture can still more easily produce articles resembling art. For this purpose he need only learn to draw, paint, and sculpture, especially naked bodies. Having learned this, he may without cessation paint one picture after another, and sculpture one statue after another, according to his inclinations, choosing either mythological, or religious, or fantastic, or symbolical subjects; or representing what they write about in newspapers, — a coronation, a strike, the Turko-Russian War, the calamities of a famine ; or, what is most common, representing everything which seems beautiful, — from a naked woman to brass basins.

For the production of musical art, a talented man needs even less that which forms the essence of art, that is, of a sentiment which may infect others ; but, on the other hand, physical, gymnastic labour he needs more than for any other art, unless it be the art of dancing. For a musical production of art a man has to learn to move his fingers on some instrument as rapidly as those do who have reached the highest degree of perfection on it ; then he must find out how they used in antiquity to write music for many voices, which is called to learn counterpoint, the fugue ; then he must learn to orchestrate, that is, to make use of the effects of the instruments. Having learned all this, a musician can without cessation write one production after another: either some programme music, or operas and romances, inventing sounds which more or less correspond to words, or chamber music, that is, taking other men’s themes and working them over by means of the counterpoint and fugue within definite forms ; or, what is most common, he can write fantastic music, that is, take any combination of sounds that happens to occur to him and upon these accidental sounds build up all kinds of complications and adornments.

Thus, adulterations of art, which the public of our higher classes accepts as real art, are produced in all the spheres of art according to a well-defined recipe.

It is this substitution of adulterations of art for the productions of art that has been the third and most important consequence of the segregation of the art of the highest classes from the national art.

XII.

There are three conditions which contribute to the production in our society of articles of adulterated art. These conditions are : (1) the considerable reward of the artists for their productions, and so the established professionalism of the artists, (2) the criticism of art, and (3) the schools of art.

So long as art was not divided, and nothing but religious art was valued and encouraged, while indifferent art was not encouraged, so long did there exist no adulterations of art ; if they did exist, they immediately fell, as they were condemned by the whole people. But the moment this division took place, and every art, so long as it afforded enjoyment, was considered good by the men of the wealthy classes, and, affording enjoyment, began to be rewarded more than any other public activity, a greater number of men at once devoted themselves to this activity, and it assumed an entirely different character from what it had before, and became a profession.

The moment art became a profession, the chief and most precious property of art, its sincerity, was considerably weakened and partially destroyed.

The professional artist lives by his art, and so he must without cessation invent subjects for his productions, and he invents them. It is obvious what a difference there must be between the products of art, when they were created by men like the Jewish prophets, the authors of the psalms, Francis d’Assisi, the author of the Iliad and the Odyssey, the authors of all the national fairy-tales, legends, songs, who not only received no reward for their

productions, but even did not connect their names with them, or when art was produced at first by court poets, dramatists, and musicians, who received for it honour and rewards, and that art which later has been produced by official artists, who live by their trade and receive rewards from journalists, editors, impresarios, in general from mediators between the artists and the urban public,— the consumers of art.

In this professionalism, the first condition is the diffusion of the adulterated, false art.

The second condition, is the lately arisen criticism of art, that is, the valuation of art, not by all, certainly not by simple, men, but by learned, that is, by corrupted and, at the same time, self-confident men.

A friend of mine, in expressing the relation of the critics to the artists, semi-jestingly defined it like this : ” Critics are stupids, who are discussing the wise.” This definition, however one-sided it is, is inexact and gross, but none the less includes a measure of truth and is incomparably more correct than that according to which critics are supposed to explain artistic productions.

” The critics explain.” What do they explain ?

An artist, if he is a real artist, has in his production conveyed to men the feeling which he has lived through ; what is there here to explain ?

If the production is good, as art, the sentiment which the artist has expressed will, independently of its being moral or immoral, be communicated to other men. If it has been communicated to other men, they experience it, and all interpretations are superfluous. But if the production does not infect men, no interpretations will make it infectious. It is impossible to interpret an artist’s production. If it were possible to explain in words what the artist wanted to say, he would have said it in words. But he spoke by means of his art, because it was impossible in any other way to convey the sensation which he experienced. An interpretation in words of a product of art proves only that he who is interpreting is unable to be infected by art. So it is and, no matter how strange it may seem, critics have always been men who less than any one else are able to be infected by art. For the most part they are men who write fluently, cultured, clever men, but with an absolutely corrupted or atrophied ability to be infected by art. And so these men have with their writings considerably contributed to the corruption of the taste of the public, which reads them and believes in them.

There has never been any art criticism, and there could have been none and can be none in a society where art has not divided and so is esteemed by the religious world conception of the whole nation. The art criticism arose and could have arisen only in the art of the higher classes who do not recognize the religious consciousness of their time.

National art has a definite and indubitable inner criterion, — religious consciousness ; but the art of the higher classes does not have it, and so the appreciates of this art were inevitably compelled to hold to some external criterion. And as such criterion there appears to them, as the English æsthetician has expressed it, the taste of “ the best nurtured men,” that is, the authority of the men who consider themselves cultured, and not only this authority, but also the tradition of the authority of these men. But this tradition is very faulty, because the judgments of these ” best nurtured men ” are frequently very faulty and because the judgments which were correct for a certain time cease to be such after awhile. But the critics, who have no foundations for their judgments, repeat them all the time. There was a period when the ancient tragic writers were considered good, and criticism regards them as such. Dante was thought to be a great poet, Raphael a great painter, Bach a great musician, and the critics, having no standard by which to separate good from bad art, not only regard these artists as great, but also all the productions of these artists do they regard as great and worthy of imitation. Nothing has to such an extent contributed to the corruption of art as these authorities, as established by criticism. A man produces some artistic production, like any artist, expressing in it in his peculiar way the sensations experienced by him, — and the majority of men are infected by the artist’s sensations, and his production becomes famous. And criticism, in passing judgment on the artist, begins to say that his production is not bad, but he is none the less no Dante, no Shakespeare, no Gothe, no Beethoven of the later period, no Raphael. And the young artist, hearing such judgments, begins to imitate those who are given him as models, and produces not only feeble, but even adulterated, false productions.

Thus, for example, our Pushkin writes his minor poems, Evgéni Onyégin, The Gipsies, his stories, and they are productions of various worth, but none the less productions of true art. But under the influence of that false criticism which lauds Shakespeare he writes Boris Godunov, a reflectingly cold production, and this production of criticism is praised and put up as a model, and there appear imitations of imitations, Ostrdvski’s Minin, A. Tolstoy’s Tsar Boris, and others. Such imitations of imitations fill all the literatures with the most insignificant, absolutely useless productions.

The chief harm of the critics consists in this, that, being men who are devoid of the ability to be infected by art (and all critics are such : if they were not devoid of this ability, they could not undertake the impossible interpretation of artistic productions), the critics direct their attention to reflective, invented productions, which they laud and adduce as models worthy of imitation. For this reason they with such assurance praise the Greek tragic writers, Dante, Tasso, Milton, Shakespeare, Gothe (nearly the whole of him without exception); of the moderns — Zola, Ibsen ; the music of the latest period, Beethoven’s, Wagner’s. For the justification of their laudations of these reflective, invented productions they invent whole theories (such also is the famous theory of beauty), and not only dull, talented men according to these theories compose their productions, but also true artists, using violence on themselves, frequently surrender themselves to these theories.

Every false production which is lauded by the critics is a door through which the hypocrites of art at once make their way.

Only thanks to the criticisms which in our day praise the gross, wild, and in our day senseless productions of the ancient Greeks, of Sophocles, Euripides, Æschylus, and especially Aristophanes, — or of the moderns, of Dante, Tasso, Milton, Shakespeare ; in painting — all of Raphael, all of Michelangelo with his insipid “ The Last Judgment in music— all of Bach and all of Beethoven with his last period, there have become possible in our day men like Ibsen, Maeterlinck, Verlaine, Mallarmé, Puvis de Chavannes, Klinger, Bocklin, Stuck, Schneider ; in music — Wagner, Liszt, Berlioz, Brahms, Richard Strauss, and so forth, and all the enormous mass of entirely useless imitators of these imitators.

As the best illustration of the harmful influence of criticism may serve its relation to Beethoven. Among his numberless productions, which are frequently written to order, there are, in spite of the artificiality of their forms, some artistic productions ; but he grows deaf, is unable to hear, and begins to write imaginary, unfinished productions, and so those which frequently are insipid and incomprehensible in a musical sense. I know that musicians can quite vividly imagine sounds and hear what they are reading ; but the imagined sounds can never take the place of the real ones, and every composer must hear his production, in order to be able to give it the finishing touches. Beethoven could not hear, could not give the finishing touches, and so sent out into the world these productions, which represented an artistic delirium. But criticism, having once recognized him as a great composer, takes special delight in sticking to these same monstrous productions, and discovers in them unusual beauties. As a justification of its laudations, it ascribes to musical art, distorting the very concept of musical art, the property of representing what it cannot represent, and there appear imitators, an endless number of imitators, of those monstrous attempts at artistic productions which are written by deaf Beethoven.

And there appears Wagner, who at first, in his critical essays, lauds Beethoven, particularly during his last period, and brings this music in connection with Schopenhauer’s mystical theory, which is as insipid as Beethoven’s music itself, — namely, that music is the expression of the will, — not of separate manifestations of the will on various stages of objectification, but of its very essence, — and then on the basis of this very theory writes his own music in connection with a still falser system of the union of all the arts. After Wagner there appear still other imitators, who still more depart from art: a Brahms, a Richard Strauss, and others.

Such are the results of criticism. But the third condition for the corruption of art, — the schools which teach art, are, if anything, even more harmful.

The moment art became art for the class of wealthy people, and not for the whole nation, it became a profession, and as soon as it became a profession, there were worked out methods which teach this profession, and the men who chose for themselves the profession of art began to study these methods, and there appeared professional schools, — classes of rhetoric, or classes of literature, in the gymnasia, academies for painting, conservatories for music, theatrical schools of dramatic art.

In these schools they teach art. But art is the conveyance to other people of a special sensation experienced by the artist. How, then, is one to be taught this in schools ?

No school can evoke in a man any sensation, and still less can it teach a man what the essence of art consists in, — the manifestation of sensations in his own, peculiar way.

There is but one thing the school can teach, and that is, how to convey sensations experienced by other artists in the same way as the other artists conveyed them. It is precisely this that they teach in the schools of art, and this instruction not only does not contribute to the diffusion of true art, but, on the contrary, in disseminating adulterations of art, more than anything else deprives men of the possibility of understanding true art.

In the literary art men are taught how, without wishing to say anything, to write a composition of many pages on a theme on which they have never reflected, and to write it in such a way that it may resemble the compositions of authors who are acknowledged to be famous. It is this that the pupils are taught in the gymnasia.

In painting, the chief instruction consists in drawing and painting from originals and from Nature, particularly the naked body, which is never seen, and which a man who is occupied with true art hardly ever has occasion to represent, and to draw and paint as previous masters used to draw and to paint ; and they are taught to compose pictures, giving them themes the like of which have been treated before by acknowledged celebrities. Similarly, pupils in dramatic schools are taught to pronounce monologues just as they were pronounced by such as were considered to be famous tragedians. The same is true of music. The whole theory of music is nothing but a disconnected repetition of those methods which the acknowledged masters of composition used for their musical themes.

I have already somewhere mentioned the profound utterance of the Russian painter Bryulov about art, and I cannot refrain from quoting him again, because it shows better than anything what they can and what they ought to teach in the schools. In correcting a pupil’s study, Bryulov barely touched it up in a few places, and the poor, dead study suddenly revived. ” You have barely touched it up, and all is changed,” said one of the pupils. ” Art begins where the barely begins,” said Bryulov, giving with these words utterance to the most characteristic feature of art. This remark is true for all the arts, but its correctness is particularly noticeable in the execution of music. In order that a musical execution may be artistic, may be art, that is, that it may produce an infection, three chief conditions have to be observed. (Besides these conditions, there are many other conditions for musical perfection : it is necessary that the transition from one sound to another should be abrupt or blending, that the sound should evenly increase or decrease, that it should combine with such a sound and not with another, that the sound should have such and such a timbre, and many other things.) But let us take the three chief conditions, — the height, the time, and the force of the sound. A musical execution is an art and infects a person, only when the sound is neither higher nor lower than what it ought to be, that is, when there is taken that infinitely small medium of the note demanded, and when the note shall be protracted precisely as much as it ought to be, and when the force of the note shall be neither stronger nor weaker than what is necessary. The least deviation in the height of the sound in either direction, the slightest increase or decrease of time, and the slightest intensification or weakening of the sound in comparison with what is demanded, destroys the perfection of the execution, and so the infectiousness of the production. Thus the infection through the art of music, which it seems is so simple and so easily evoked, is received by us only when the performer finds those infinitely small moments which are demanded for the perfection of music. The same is true of all arts : barely brighter, barely darker, barely higher, lower, more to the right, more to the left, — in painting ; barely weakening or intensifying the intonation, — in dramatic art; or something is done just a little earlier, just a little later, barely underdone, overdone, exaggerated, — in poetry, and there is no infection. Infection is obtained only when, and to the extent in which, the artist finds those infinitely small moments of which the production of art is composed. But there is no possibility of teaching one in an external way to discover these infinitely small moments: they are found only when a man abandons himself to a sensation. No instruction can make a dancer fall in with the beat of the music, and a singer or violin player take the infinitely small mean of a note, and a person who draws draw the one possible and necessary line, and a poet find the one needed permutation of the one needed series of words. All this is discovered by the feeling alone. And so the schools can teach only what is needed in order to do something which resembles art, but by no means art itself.

The instruction of the schools stops where the barely begins, consequently, where art begins.

The training of men to do what resembles art disaccustoms them to understand true art. From this results the fact that there are no duller persons in art than those who have passed through the professional schools of art and have made the best progress in them. These professional schools produce a hypocrisy of art, precisely like the religious hypocrisy which is produced by the schools which instruct preachers and all kinds of religious teachers in general. Just as impossible as it is to teach men to become religious teachers of men, so it is impossible to teach a man to become an artist.

Thus the art schools are doubly pernicious to art : in the first place, by killing the ability of reproducing true art in the men who have had the misfortune of getting into these schools and taking a course of seven, eight, or ten years in them ; in the second, by breeding at an enormous rate that adulterated art which corrupts the taste of the masses, such as our world is full of. But in order that men, bom artists, may be able to learn the methods of all kinds of arts, as they have been worked out by previous artists, all primary schools ought to have such classes of drawing and of music, — of singing, — so that any talented man, who has gone through them, may make use of the existing and accessible models and then independently perfect himself in his art.

It is these three conditions, the professionalism of the artists, the criticism, and the schools of art that have produced this result, that the majority of the men of our time absolutely fail to comprehend what art is and accept the grossest adulterations of art for art itself.

XIII.

To what extent the men of our circle and of our time have become devoid of the ability to perceive true art and have become accustomed to accept as art such objects as have nothing in common with it, can best of all be seen in the productions of Richard Wagner, which of late have come to be esteemed and acknowledged more and more, not only by the Germans, but also by the French and the English, as the very highest art, which has opened new horizons.

The peculiarity of Wagner’s music, as is well known, consists in this, that music must serve poetry, by expressing all the shades of a poetic production.

The union of the drama with music, invented in the fifteenth century in Italy for the purpose of reestablishing the imagined old Greek drama with its music, is an artificial form, which has had success only among the highest classes, and then only when talented musicians, like Mozart, Weber, Rossini, and others, inspired by the dramatic subject, freely abandoned themselves to their inspiration, subordinating the text to the music, for which reason it was the music to a given text that in their operas was of importance to the hearer, and by no means the text, which, even though it was most senseless, as, for example, in the Magic Flute, none the less did not interfere with the artistic impression of the music.

Wagner wants to improve the opera by subordinating the music to the demands of poetry and blending it with them. But every art has its definite sphere, which does not coincide with the other arts, but only touches upon

them ; and so, if the manifestations, not only of many, but even of only two, arts, the dramatic and the musical, are united into one whole, the demands of one art will not give a chance to execute the demands of another, which indeed has always been the case with the common opera, where the dramatic art was subordinated, or rather, gave way, to the musical art. But Wagner wants the musical art to be subordinated to the dramatic, and both to manifest themselves in all their force. This is impossible, because every production of art, if it is a true production of art, is the expression of the artist’s intimate feelings, and exclusive, resembling nothing else. Such is the production of music, and such is the production of dramatic art, if it is true art. And so, for the production of one art to coincide with that of another, the impossible has to happen. Two productions of art from different spheres have to be absolutely exclusive and different from anything which has existed before, and at the same time they are to coincide and must absolutely resemble one another.

This cannot be, just as there cannot be two men, or even two leaves on a tree, that are perfectly alike. Still less can two productions of various spheres of art — of the musical and the literary — be absolutely alike. If they coincide, either one is an artistic production and the other an adulteration, or both are adulterations. Two living leaves cannot perfectly resemble one another, but two artificial leaves may. The same is true of productions of art. They can fully coincide only when neither the one nor the other is art, but both are an invented semblance of art.

If poetry and music may unite more or less in a hymn, a song, a romance (and even then not in such a way that the music follows every verse of the text, as Wagner wants, but that each of them produces the same mood), this is due to the fact that poetry and music have partly one and the same aim, — the evoking of a mood, and the moods produced by lyrical poetry and music may more or less coincide. But even in these combinations the centre of gravity is always in one of the two productions, so that only one produces an artistic impression, while the other remains unnoticed. Much less can there be such a union between epic or dramatic poetry and music.

Besides, one of the chief conditions of artistic creation is the artist’s complete liberty from all preconceived demands. But the necessity to adapt one’s musical production to the production of poetry, or vice versa, is such a preconceived demand that every possibility of creation is destroyed, and so productions of this kind, which are adapted to one another, have always been, and always must be, productions, not of art, but only of its semblance, like music in melodramas, legends under pictures, illustrations, librettos in operas.

And such also are Wagner’s productions. We see the confirmation of this in the fact that in Wagner’s new music there is absent the chief feature of every true artistic production, — completeness, organicalness, — when the least change of form impairs the meaning of the whole production. In a true artistic production, — in a poem, drama, picture, song, symphony, — it is impossible to take a single verse, or scene, or figure, or beat out of its place and put it into another without impairing the meaning of the whole production, just as it is impossible to avoid impairing the life of an organic being, if an organ is taken out of its place and is put into another. But with Wagner’s music of the last period, with the exception of a few, quite insignificant passages, which have an independent, musical meaning, it is possible to make all kinds of permutations and transpose what was in the beginning to the end, and vice versa, without altering the musical sense. The reason why with this

the sense of Wagner’s music is not altered is because it lies in the words, and not in the music.

The musical text of Wagner’s operas is like what a versifier would do, — such as there are plenty of to-day, — who, having contorted his tongue in such a way that he is able for every theme, for every rhyme, for every measure to write verses which resemble verses that make sense, should take it into his head with his verses to illustrate some one of Beethoven’s symphonies or sonatas, or a ballad by Chopin, by writing for the first beats of one character such verses as in his opinion correspond to these first beats ; and then should for the following beats of another character write other corresponding verses, without any inner connection with the first verses and, besides, without rhyme and without any measure. Such a production without music would in a poetical sense precisely resemble Wagner’s operas in a musical sense, if they were listened to without any text.

But Wagner is not only a musician, he is also a poet, or both at the same time, and so, to judge Wagner, we must also know his text, — that very text to which the music is to minister. Wagner’s chief poetical production is the poetical elaboration of the Nibelung. This production has in our time received such an enormous importance and has such an influence on everything which is now given out as art, that it is necessary for every man of our time to have an idea about it. I have attentively read the four little books in which this production is printed, and have made a short extract from it, which I give in the second appendix, and I earnestly advise the reader, if he has not read the text itself, a thing which would be best of all, at least to read my exposition, in order to form an idea of this remarkable production. This production is a specimen of the grossest adulteration of poetry, so gross as even to be ridiculous.

But, they say, it is not possible to judge Wagner’s productions, unless one has seen them on the stage. This winter they gave in Moscow the second day, or the second act, of this drama, which, I was told, was the best of all, and I attended this performance.

When I arrived, the immense theatre was already full from top to bottom. Here were grand dukes and the flower of the aristocracy, and of the merchant class, and of the learned profession, and of the middle class official urban public. The majority had librettos in their hands, trying to make out the meaning of the opera. The musicians, — some of them old, gray-haired men, — with the scores in their hands, followed the music. Apparently the execution of this production was an important event.

I was a little late, but I was told that the short prelude, with which the act begins, has little significance, and that this omission was not important. On the stage, amidst scenery which was supposed to represent a cave in a rock, in front of an object which was supposed to represent a blacksmith’s arrangement, there sat an actor dressed in tights and in a mantle of skins, in a wig, with a false beard, and with his white, feeble hands, unwonted to work (by his agile movements, but chiefly by his belly and absence of muscles, the actor may be told), he was striking with a hammer, such as never has existed, at a sword, such as can positively not exist, and he was striking in a manner in which no one ever strikes with a hammer, and, while doing this, he opened his mouth in a strange manner and sang something which could not be understood. Music from various instruments accompanied these strange sounds which he uttered. From the libretto one could learn that the actor was supposed to represent a mighty dwarf who was living in a grotto and forging a sword for Siegfried, whom he had brought up. You could tell that he was a dwarf, because he walked all the time bending at the knee his legs in the tights. Opening his mouth in the same strange manner, this actor for a long time did something intermediate between singing and shouting. The music at the same time ran over something strange, some beginnings of something, which did not last and did not end with anything. From the libretto one could learn that the dwarf was talking to himself about a ring which a giant had got possession of and which he wished to obtain through Siegfried ; now, Siegfried needed a good sword, and so the dwarf was busy forging that sword.

After this character’s long talk or singing to himself, other sounds are suddenly heard in the orchestra, and they, too, somehow have no beginning and no end. There appears another actor with a horn over his shoulder, and a man running on his hands and feet, disguised as a bear, and with this bear he attacks the blacksmith-dwarf, who runs away without unbending his knees in the tights. This other actor is supposed to represent the hero Siegfried himself. The sounds which are heard in the orchestra at the entrance of this actor are supposed to represent Siegfried’s character and are called Siegfried’s Leit-motiv. These sounds are repeated every time that Siegfried makes his appearance. There is one certain combination of sounds into a Leit-motiv for every person. Thus the Leit-motiv is repeated every time when the person represented by it makes his appearance; even at the mention of a person the Motiv corresponding to that person is heard. More than this: every object has its Leit-motiv or chord. There is a Motiv of the ring, a Motiv of the helmet, a Motiv of the apple, the fire, the spear, the sword, the water, etc., and the moment mention is made of the ring, the helmet, the apple, we get the Motiv or the chord of the helmet, the apple.

The actor with the horn opens his mouth as unnaturally as the dwarf, and for a long time yells out his words in a singsong way, and is answered in the same singsong way by Mime, — that is the name of the dwarf. The meaning of this conversation, which one can learn only from the libretto, is this, that Siegfried was brought up by the dwarf and for this somehow despises him and wants to kill him. The dwarf has forged the sword for Siegfried, but Siegfried is dissatisfied with the sword. From the ten-page conversation (according to the libretto), which for half an hour is conducted with the same strange singsong openings of the mouth, it can be seen that Siegfried’s mother bore him in the forest, and that of his father nothing is known but that he had a sword, which was broken and fragments of which are in Mime’s possession, and that Siegfried knows no fear and wants to get out of the forest, while Mime does not let him go. During this musical conversation there are never forgotten, at the mention of the father, the sword, and so forth, the Motivs of these persons and objects.

After these conversations on the stage there resound new sounds, those of the God Wotan, and a pilgrim makes his appearance. This pilgrim is God Wotan. This God Wotan, himself in a wig and in tights, standing in a stupid attitude with his spear, for some reason is telling everything which Mime cannot help but know, but which the spectators have to be told about. He does not tell all this in a simple way, but in the form of riddles, which he commands to be put to him, for some reason pledging his head that he will guess them. With this the pilgrim strikes his spear against the ground, and every time he does so, fire issues from the earth, and in the orchestra are heard the sounds of the spear and of the fire. The conversation is accompanied by the orchestra, in which are artificially interwoven the Motivs of the persons and the objects spoken of. Besides, the sensations are in a most naïve manner expressed by means of the music : the terrible,— those are the sounds of the bass ; the frivolous, — those are quick passages in soprano, and so forth.

The riddles have no other meaning than to tell the spectators who the Nibelungs, the giants, the gods are, and what was before. This conversation, through strangely opened mouths, takes also place in a singsong manner, and lasts according to the libretto for eight pages, and correspondingly long on the stage. After this the pilgrim goes away, and Siegfried comes back and talks with Mime in thirteen pages. There is not a single tune, but all the time nothing but an interweaving of the Leit-motivs of the persons and objects of the conversation. The conversation turns on this, that Mime wants to teach Siegfried what terror is, while Siegfried does not know what terror is. Having finished this conversation, Siegfried seizes what is to represent a fragment of a sword, saws it to pieces, puts it on what is supposed to represent the forge, melts it, and then forges it, and sings, ” Heaho, heaho, hoho! Hobo, hoho, hobo, hoho; hoheo, haho, haheo, hoho,” and the first act is ended.

The question for which I had come to the theatre was for me answered indubitably, as indubitably as the question of the worth of the story by my lady acquaintance, when she read to me a scene between the maiden with the flowing hair in a white dress, and the hero with two white dogs and a feathered hat à la Guillaume Tell.

From an author who can compose such false scenes as I witnessed here, which cut the æsthetic feeling as though with knives, nothing else could be expected ; a man may boldly make up his mind that everything which such an author may write will be bad, because such an author does not apparently know what a true artistic production is. I wanted to go away, but my friends, with whom I was there, begged me to stay, assuring me that it is impossible to form an opinion by this one act, and that it would be better in the second, — and so I remained for the second act.

The act — night. Then it dawns. The whole performance in general is full of dawnings, mists, moonshines, darkness, magic fires, storms, and so forth.

The scene represents a forest, and in the forest there is a cave. Near the cave sits a third actor, representing another dwarf. It is dawning. God Wotan with the spear comes again, and again in the form of a pilgrim. Again there are his sounds, new sounds, the deepest bass that can be produced. These sounds indicate that the dragon is speaking. Wotan wakens the dragon. The same bass sounds are heard, but deeper and deeper down. At first the dragon says, ” I want to sleep,” but later he crawls out from the cave. The dragon is represented by two men dressed in a green skin in the form of scales ; on one side they wag a tail, and on the other they open the jaws, like a crocodile’s, which is attached to them, and from which issues fire from an electric lamp. The dragon, which is supposed to be terrible, and, no doubt, may appear so to children of five years of age, pronounces certain words in bellowing bass. All this is so stupid and such a cheap show that one only marvels how people of more than seven years of age can seriously attend such a performance ; but thousands of quasi-cultivated people sit and listen attentively, and look, and are delighted.

Enter Siegfried with his horn and Mime. In the orchestra are heard sounds which indicate them, and Siegfried and Mime discuss as to whether Siegfried knows what terror is. After this Mime goes away, and there begins a scene which is supposed to be most poetical. Siegfried, in his tights, lies down in what is supposed to be a beautiful pose, and now is silent, and now talks to himself. He meditates, listens to the singing of the birds, and wants to imitate them. For this purpose he cuts a reed with his sword, and makes himself a pipe. Day dawns more and more, and the birds sing. Siegfried tries to imitate the birds. In the orchestra is heard an imitation of the birds, mingling with the sounds which correspond to the words which he speaks. But Siegfried is not successful with his playing on the pipe, and he blows his horn. This scene is unbearable. There is not even a sign of any music, that is, of the art which serves as a means for the communication of the mood experienced by the author. There is here something perfectly incomprehensible in a musical sense. In a musical sense one constantly experiences hope, after which there immediately follows disappointment ; it is as though a musical thought began, but was immediately cut short. If there is something resembling incipient music, these beginnings are so short, so obstructed with complications of harmony, orchestration, and effects of contrasts, so obscure, so unfinished, and the falsity of what is taking place on the stage is withal so abominable, that it is difficult to notice them, to say nothing of being infected by them. But above all else, the author’s intention is so audible and so visible in every note, from the beginning to the end, that one does not see and hear Siegfried or the birds, but only the narrow-minded, self-conceited, bad tone and taste of a German who has the most absolutely wrong ideas about poetry and who in the grossest and most primitive manner possible wants to convey to me these wrong conceptions of poetry.

Everybody knows that feeling of distrust and opposition which is provoked by the palpable intention of the author. A story-teller need but say in advance, “Get ready to weep or to laugh,” and you will be sure not to weep or to laugh ; and when you see that the author prescribes admiration for what is not only not admirable, but even ridiculous or detestable, and when you at the same time see that the author is unquestionably sure that he has captivated you, you get a heavy, painful sensation, something like what a man would experience if an old, ugly woman should attire herself in a ball-dress and should smilingly circle around in front of him, being sure of his sympathy. This impression was increased by the fact that all about me I saw a crowd of three thousand people, who not only submissively listened to this incredible insipidity, but even considered it their duty to go into ecstasies over it.

I somehow managed to sit through the next scene with the appearance of the monster, which was accompanied by his bass notes, interwoven with Siegfried’s Motiv, the struggle with the monster, all his bellowings, the fires, the swinging of the sword, but I was absolutely unable to stand it any longer, and ran out of the theatre with an expression of disgust, which I am even now unable to forget.

As I listened to this opera, I involuntarily thought of an honourable, clever, literate village labourer, especially one of those clever, truly religious men whom I know among the masses, and I imagined the terrible perplexity at which such a man would arrive, if he were shown what I saw on that evening.

What would he say, if he learned of all those labours which were spent on this performance, and saw the public, those mighty ones of this world, whom he was in the habit of respecting, those old, bald-headed men with gray beards, who sit six solid hours in silence, listening attentively and looking at all these stupid things. But, to say nothing of a grown labourer, it is hard even to imagine a child of more than seven years, who could busy himself with this stupid, senseless fairy-tale.

And yet an enormous audience, the flower of the cultured men of the highest classes, sit through these six hours of a senseless performance, and go home, imagining that, having paid their tribute to this piece of stupidity, they have acquired a new right to recognize themselves as a leading and enlightened audience.

I am speaking of a Moscow audience. But what is a Moscow audience ? It is one hundredth part of that public

which considers itself most enlightened, and which regards it as its desert that it has to such an extent lost the ability to be infected by art, that it not only can without indignation be present at this stupid falsity, but even be in raptures over it.

In Baireuth, where these performances began, people arrived from all the corners of the world, spending as much as one thousand roubles to each person, in order to see this performance, — people who consider themselves to be refined and cultivated, — and for four days in succession they sat each day through six hours, in order to see and hear this insipidity and falsity.

But why have people been travelling, and why do they even now travel, to see these performances, and why are they in raptures over them ? Involuntarily there arises the question: how is the success of Wagner’s productions to be explained ?

I explain to myself this success by this, that, thanks to the exclusive position in which Wagner was, having at his command the king’s means, he with great cleverness made use of all the methods of adulterated art, which had been worked out by a long practice in false art, and produced a model adulterated production of art. I purposely took this production as a model, because in none of the adulterations of art known to me is there such a masterly and forceful combination of all the methods by means of which art is adulterated, namely, borrowing, imitation, effectiveness, and entertainingness.

Beginning with a subject taken from antiquity, and ending with mists and moon and sun rises, Wagner in this production makes use of everything which is regarded as poetical. Here we find the sleeping beauty, and nymphs, and subterranean fires, and gnomes, and battles, and swords, and love, and incest, and a monster, and the singing of birds, — the whole arsenal of poeticalness is brought into action.

With this, everything is imitative, — the scenery and the costumes are imitative. Everything is done in the way in which, from all the data of archaeology, it must have been done in antiquity, — the very sounds are imitative. Wagner, who was not devoid of musical talent, invented such sounds as precisely imitate the strokes of the hammer, the hissing of iron at white heat, the singing of birds, and so forth.

Besides, in this production everything is to the highest degree strikingly effective — striking by its very peculiarities, by its monsters, its magic fires, its actions which take place in the water, its darkness, in which the spectators are, the invisibility of the orchestra, its new, never before employed, harmonious combinations.

Besides, everything is entertaining. The interest is not only in who will get killed, and by whom, who will get married and to whom, whose son this man is, and what will happen later — the interest is also in the relation of the music to the text : the waves roll in the Rhine, — how will this be expressed in music ? An evil dwarf makes his appearance, — how will the music express the evil dwarf ? How will the music express the dwarf’s sensuality ? How will valour, fire, apples be expressed by music? How does the Leit-motiv of the speaker interweave with the Leit-motivs of the persons and objects of which he speaks? Besides, the music itself is interesting. It departs from all formerly accepted laws, and in it appear the most unexpected and completely new modulations (which is very easy and quite possible in a music which has no inner legality). The dissonances are new, and they are solved in a novel way, and this, too, is interesting.

This poeticalness, imitation, startling effects, and entertainingness are in these productions, thanks to the peculiarities of Wagner’s talent and to that advantageous position in which he was, carried to the highest degree of perfection, and act upon the hearer by hypnotizing him, something in the way a man would be hypnotized who for the period of several hours should be listening to an insane man’s delirium pronounced with great oratorical art.

I am told, “ You cannot judge, if you have not seen Wagner’s productions at Baireuth, in the dark, where the music is not visible, being under the stage, and the execution is carried to the highest degree of perfection.” This proves that the matter is not in the art, but in the hypnotization. It is precisely what the spiritualists say. To convince one of the truth of their visions, they generally say : ” You cannot judge ; investigate it, be present at several séances, that is, sit in silence in the dark for several hours in succession in the company of half-insane persons, and repeat this about ten times, and you will see everything we see.”

How can a man help seeing it ? Put yourself just under such conditions, and you will see everything you wish. It is still easier to attain this by drinking wine or smoking opium. The same is true of listening to Wagner’s operas. Sit in the dark for four days in succession, in the company of not quite normal men, subjecting your brain to the most powerful influence, by means of the auditory nerves, of sounds most calculated to irritate the brain, and you will certainly arrive at an abnormal state and will go into ecstasies over insipidities. However, for this purpose one does not need four days : for this the five hours of one day, during which one performance lasts, as was the case in Moscow, are sufficient. And it is not only the five hours that are sufficient ; one hour will do for men who have no clear conception of what art ought to be, and who have formed an opinion in advance that what they will see is beautiful, and that indifference and dissatisfaction with this production will serve as a proof of their lack of culture and of their backwardness.

I watched the audience at the performance which I attended. The men who guided the whole audience and gave it tone were such as had been hypnotized in advance and who again surrendered themselves to a familiar hypnosis. These hypnotized men, being in an abnormal state, were in full ecstasy. Besides, all the art critics, who are devoid of the ability to be infected by art and so show especial appreciation of productions in which everything is a matter of reason, as in Wagner’s opera, also profoundly approved of a production which gives rich food to mental processes. After these two divisions of men there came that great urban crowd, with princes, nabobs, and patrons of art at its head, with its corrupted and partly atrophied ability to be infected by art, and indifferent to it, always, like poor hunting-dogs, clinging to those who most determinately express their opinion.

“ Oh, yes, of course! What poetry ! Wonderful ! Particularly the birds ! ” — ” Yes, yes, I am quite vanquished.” These men repeat in all kinds of voices what they have just heard from men whose opinion seems to them to deserve confidence.

If there are people who are offended by the insipidity and falsity, they timidly keep quiet, just as sober people are timid and keep quiet among those who are drunk.

And thus a senseless, gross, false production, which has nothing in common with art, thanks to the mastery of adulterated art, makes the round of the whole world, costs millions in staging it, and more and more corrupts the tastes of the men of the higher classes and their conception of what art is.

XIV.

I know that the majority of men who not only are considered to be clever, but who really are so, who are capable of comprehending the most difficult scientific, mathematical, philosophical discussions, are very rarely able to understand the simplest and most obvious truth, if it is such that in consequence of it they will have to admit that the opinion which they have formed of a subject, at times with great effort, — an opinion of which they are proud, which they have taught others, on the basis of which they have arranged their whole life,— that this opinion may be false. And so I have not much hope that the proofs which I adduce in regard to the corruption of art and of taste in our society will be accepted or even seriously discussed ; still, I must finish telling what my investigation has inevitably led me to. This investigation has led me to the conclusion that nearly everything which is considered to be art, — good art and all art in our society, — is not only not true and good art, but not even art at all : it is only an adulteration of art. This proposition, I know, is very strange and sounds paradoxical, but if we only admit the correctness of the statement that art is a human activity by means of which one set of men convey their sensations to another, and not a ministration to beauty, or the manifestation of an idea, etc., we shall be obliged to admit it. If it is true that art is an activity by means of which one man, having experienced a sensation, consciously conveys it to another, we shall be forced to admit that in everything which among us is called the art of the higher classes, — in all those novels, stories, dramas, comedies, pictures, sculptures, symphonies, operas, operettas, ballets, etc., which are given out as productions of art, hardly one in a hundred thousand is due to a sensation experienced by its author ; everything else is nothing but factory products, adulterations of art, in which borrowings, imitation, effectiveness, and entertainingness take the place of infection by a sensation.

That the number of true productions of art are to the number of these adulterations as one is to one hundred thousand and even more, may be proved by the following calculation. I read somewhere that in Paris alone there are thirty thousand painters. The same number there must be in England, the same in Germany, the same in Russia and Italy and the other minor countries. Thus there must be something like 120,000 painters in Europe ; there are, no doubt, as many musicians and as many artist authors. If these three hundred thousand men produce no more than three productions a year (many of them produce ten or more), each year will give one million productions of art. How many, then, have there been in the last ten years, and how many for the whole time that the art of the higher classes has been separated from that of the masses ? Obviously millions of them. Who of the greatest connoisseurs of art has really received an impression from all these so-called productions of art ? To say nothing of all the working people, who have no conception about all these productions, the men of the higher classes cannot know one thousandth part, and do not remember those which they knew anything about. All these objects appear under the form of art, produce no impression on anybody, except at times the impression of a diversion on the idle crowd of rich men, and disappear without leaving a trace. In reply to this we are told that, if there were no enormous quantity of failures, there would also be no real productions of art. But such a reflection is like one a baker would make in response to the reproach that his bread is good for nothing, which is, that if there were not hundreds of spoiled loaves, there would not be one well-baked loaf. It is true that where there is gold there is also much sand ; but this can by no means serve as an excuse for saying a lot of insipid things in order to say something clever.

We are surrounded by productions which are considered artistic. We have side by side thousands of poems, thousands of poetic stories, thousands of dramas, thousands of pictures, thousands of musical productions. All poems describe love or Nature, or the author’s mental state, and measure and rhyme are observed in them all ; all dramas and comedies are exquisitely staged and beautifully performed by trained actors ; all novels are divided into chapters, and in all love is described, and there are effective scenes, and correct details of life are described ; all symphonies contain an allegro, an andante, a scherzo, and a finale, and all of them consist of modulations and chords, and are performed by exquisitely trained musicians ; all pictures, in golden frames, give sharply outlined representations of persons and their accessories. But among these productions of all kinds of art there is one among hundreds of thousands, which is not exactly a little better than any other, but is distinguished from all the others as a diamond is distinguished from glass. One cannot be bought at any price, so precious it is ; the other has not only no price, but even a negative value, because it deceives and corrupts taste. But in their appearance they are absolutely the same to a man with a corrupt and atrophied feeling.

The difficulty of telling artistic productions in our society is increased by the fact that the external worth of the work in the false productions is not only not worse, but frequently even better than in the true productions ; an adulterated article often startles a person more than one which is real, and the contents of an adulterated article are more interesting. How is one to choose ? How is one to find this one out of a hundred thousand of productions, which in appearance does in no way differ from such as are intentionally made to look like a real one ?

For a man with an uncorrupted taste, for a labouring man, one who is not from the city, this is as easy as it is easy for an animal with an uncorrupted instinct to discover in the forest or the field the one track, out of thousands, which it needs. The animal will find without fail what it needs ; even so a man, if only his natural qualities are not distorted in him, will out of a thousand objects unerringly choose the true subject of art which he needs, infecting it with the sensation experienced by the artist ; but it is not so for people with a taste which is spoiled by education and by life. The sense which receives art is atrophied in them, and in the valuation of artistic productions they have to be guided by reflection and by study, and this reflection and this study completely confuse them, so that the majority of the men of our society are absolutely unable to distinguish a production of art from the coarsest adulteration of the same. People sit for hours at concerts and in theatres, listening to the productions of new composers, and feel themselves obliged to read the novels of famous new novelists and to examine pictures, which represent either something incomprehensible, or all the time exactly what they see much better in reality ; and, above all, they consider it obligatory to go into raptures over all these things, imagining that all these things are objects of art, and pass by real products of art, not only without attention, but even with contempt, merely because in their circle these are not included among the objects of art.

The other day I was coming home from a walk in an oppressed state of mind. As I approached the house, I heard the loud singing of a large choir of peasant

women. They were welcoming my daughter, who had been married and was visiting at my house. In this singing, with their shouts and striking against the scythes, there was expressed such a definite feeling of joy, alacrity, energy, that I did not notice myself how I was infected by this sensation, and walked toward the house with greater vivacity and reached it all brightened up and happy. In the same state of excitation I found all the home folk who had heard the singing. That same evening we had a visit from a fine musician who was famous for his execution of classical productions, especially those by Beethoven, and he played for us Beethoven’s sonata,

Opus 101.

I consider it necessary to remark, for the benefit of those who might refer my judgment in regard to this sonata of Beethoven to my lack of comprehension, that, being very susceptible to music, I understood as well as anybody everything which people understand in this sonata and in the other things of Beethoven’s last period. For a long time I put myself into such a mood that I admired these formless improvisations, which make the contents of the compositions of Beethoven’s last period ; but I needed only to assume a serious attitude to the matter of art, comparing the impression received from the productions of Beethoven’s last period with that pleasant, clear, and strong musical impression which, for example, one receives from the melodies of Bach (his arias), Haydn, Mozart, Chopin, — where their melodies are not obstructed with complications and adornments, — and of the same Beethoven in the first period, but chiefly with the impression received from the Italian, Norwegian, Russian popular song, from the Hungarian Csardas, and so forth, and immediately there was destroyed that obscure and almost morbid irritation artificially evoked by me from the productions of Beethoven’s last period.

At the end of the performance, the persons present, though it was evident that it had all been tiresome to them, began, as such things are generally done, vigorously to praise Beethoven’s profound production, without forgetting to mention that formerly people had not understood this last period, but that it really was the best. When I allowed myself to compare the impression produced on me by the singing of the peasant women, which had also been experienced by those who had heard that singing, with this sonata, the lovers of Beethoven only smiled contemptuously, considering it unnecessary to answer such strange remarks.

And yet the song of the women was true art, which conveyed a definite and strong sensation, while Beethoven’s one hundred and first sonata was only an unsuccessful attempt at art, which contained no definite feeling and so could not infect any one.

For my work on art I diligently and with much labour read this winter the famous novels and stories which are praised by all of Europe, those by Zola, Bourget, Huysmans, Kipling. At the same time I came across a story in a children’s periodical, by an entirely unknown writer, which told of the preparations which were being made for Easter in a widow’s poor family. The story tells with what difficulty the mother obtained some white flour, which she spread on the table, in order to knead it, after which she went to fetch some yeast, having told the children not to leave the room and to watch the flour. The mother went away, and the neighbouring children ran with a noise under the window, inviting them to come out into the street to play. The children forgot their mother’s command, ran out into the street, and engaged in a game. The mother returns with the yeast ; in the room a hen is on the table, scattering on the earth floor the last of the flour to her chicks, which pick it out of the dust. The mother in despair scolds her children, the children yell. And the mother pities her children ; but there is no white flour left, and, to find help out of the calamity, the mother decides that she will bake Easter bread out of sifted black flour, smearing it with the white of an egg, and surrounding it with eggs.

” Black bread — the white loaf’s grandfather,” the mother quotes the proverb to the children, to console them for not having an Easter bread baked of white flour. And the children suddenly pass from despair to joyous raptures, and in different voices repeat the proverb and with greater merriment wait for the Easter bread.

Well ? The reading of the novels and stories by Zola, Bourget, Huysmans, Kipling, and others, with the most pretentious of subjects, did not move me for a moment ; I was, however, all the time annoyed at the authors, as one is annoyed at a man who considers you so naïve that he does not even conceal that method of deception with which he wishes to catch you. From the very first lines you see the intention with which the story is written, and all the details become useless, and you feel annoyed. Above all else, you know that the author has no other feeling than the desire to write a story or a novel, and that he never had any other feeling. And so you receive no artistic impression whatever ; but I could not tear myself away from the story of the unknown author about the children and the chicks, because I was at once infected by the sensation which obviously the author had gone through, experienced, and conveyed.

We have a painter, Vasnetsdv. He has painted images for the Kiev Cathedral ; all praise him as the founder of some high, new kind of Christian art. He worked on these pictures for tens of years, he was paid tens of thousands for them, and all these images are a miserable imitation of an imitation of imitations, which does not contain a spark of any sentiment. This same Vasnetsov painted for Turgénev’s story, The Quail (it tells of how a father in the presence of his boy killed a quail and was sorry for it), a picture, in which is represented a boy sleeping with wide-open upper lip, while the quail is above him, as a vision. This picture is a true production of art.

In the English Academy there are side by side two pictures, — one of these, by J. C. Dalmas, represents the temptation of St. Anthony. The saint is kneeling, and praying. Behind him stands a naked woman and some animals. It is evident that the painter took a fancy to the woman, but that he had no use for Anthony, and that the temptation was not only not terrible to him (the painter), but even in the highest degree enjoyable. And so, if there is any art in this picture, it is very bad and false. In the same book there is side by side with this a small picture by Langley, representing a transient beggar boy whom a woman, evidently taking pity on him, has called into the house. The boy is pitifully contracting his bare legs under the bench, and eating ; the woman is looking on, apparently supposing that the boy may want more, and a girl of seven years of age, leaning her head on her hand, is looking attentively and seriously at the boy, without taking her eyes off him, having evidently come to understand for the first time what poverty is, and what the inequality of men is, and for the first time asking herself the question, why she has everything, while tliis one is barefoot and hungry. She both is sorry for him and feels joy. She loves the boy and the good. And one feels that the artist loved this girl and that which she loved. And this picture, it seems, of a little known artist, is a beautiful, true production of art.

I remember, I once saw Hamlet performed by Rossi ; both the tragedy and the actor who played the chief part are by our critics considered to be the last word of the dramatic art. And yet I experienced all the time, both from the contents of the drama, and from the performance, that peculiar suffering which is produced by false imitations of the productions of art. Lately I read an account of the theatre among the wild people of the Voguls. One of the persons present describes the following performance : one, a tall Vogul, the other, small, both dressed in deerskins, represent, one, a doe, the other, her fawn. A third Vogul represents a hunter on snowshoes and with a bow ; a fourth by his voice represents a bird, which warns the doe of the danger. The drama consists in this, that the hunter is running on the track of the doe with her fawn. The deer run away from the scene and come back again. This performance is taking place in a small felt tent. The hunter comes nearer and nearer to the pursued animals. The fawn is worn out and presses close to his mother. The doe stops to take a rest, the hunter runs up and aims at her. Just then the bird squeaks, warning the deer of the danger. The deer run away. Again there is a pursuit, and again the hunter comes near, catches up with them, and discharges his arrow. The arrow strikes the fawn. The fawn cannot run, presses close to his mother, and she licks his wound. The hunter draws another arrow. The spectators, so the eye-witness tells, become breathless, and in the audience are heard deep sobs and even weeping. I felt from the description alone that this was a true production of art.

What I say will be accepted as a senseless paradox, at which one can only marvel, and yet I cannot help but say what I think, namely, that the people of our circle, of whom some compose verses, stories, novels, operas, symphonies, sonatas, paint pictures of all kinds, chisel sculptures, while others listen and look on, while others again value and criticize all this, discuss, condemn, celebrate, raise monuments to one another, and so for several generations, — that all these people, with exceedingly few exceptions, the artists, the public, and the critics, never, except in their first childhood and youth, when they have not yet heard any discussions about art, have experienced that simple sensation, familiar to the simplest man and even to a child, of infection by the sensations of another person, which makes one rejoice at another man’s joy, weep at another man’s sorrow, unite one’s soul with that of another man, and which forms the essence of the art, and that, therefore, these men not only are unable to distinguish an object of true art from its adulteration, but always accept the worst and most adulterated art as true and beautiful, while they do not even notice true art, because the adulterations are always more painted up, while true art is always modest.

XV.

In our society art has become so much corrupted, that not only bad art has come to be regarded as good, but there has even been lost the very conception of what art is, so that, in order to speak of the art of our society, it is necessary first of all to segregate true art from the adulterations.

The sign which segregates true art from its adulterations is this indubitable one, — the infectiousness of art. If a man without any activity on his part and without any change of his position, in reading, hearing, seeing the production of another man, experiences a state of mind which unites him with that man and with others who, like him, apperceive the subject of art, then the subject which evokes such a state is a subject of art. No matter how poetical, how seemingly real, how effective or entertaining a subject may be, it is not a subject of art, if it does not evoke in man that sensation of joy which is distinct from all other sensations, that union of one’s soul with another (the author) and with others (the hearers or spectators) who perceive the same artistic production.

It is true, this sign is internal, and men who have forgotten the effect produced by true art and expect from art something different, — and there is an immense majority of such in our society, — may think that that feeling of diversion and of some excitement, which they experience from the adulterations of art, is the æsthetical feeling, and although it is impossible to change the minds of these men, just as it is impossible to convince a colourblind person that green is not red, this sign none the less remains fully defined for people with an un corrupted and unatrophied feeling in matters of art, and clearly determines the sensation produced by art from any other.

The chief peculiarity of this sensation is this, that the receiver to such an extent blends with the artist that it seems to him that the subject perceived by him was not made by any one else, but by him, and that everything expressed by this subject is the same which he had been wanting to express for a long time. A true production of art has this effect, that in the consciousness of the perceiver, there is destroyed the division between him and the artist, and not only between him and the artist, but also between him and all men who are perceiving the same production of art. In this liberation of the personality, from its separation from other men, from its seclusion, in this blending of the personality with others does the chief attractive force and property of art consist.

If a man experiences this sensation, is infected by the mental condition in which the author is, and feels his blending with other men, the subject which evokes this state is art ; if this infection is lacking, and there is no blending with the author and with those who perceive the production, there is no art. More than this : not only is the infectiousness a certain sign of art, but the degree of the infection is the only standard of the value of art.

The stronger the infection, the better is the art as art, not to speak of its contents, that is, independently of the value of those sensations which it conveys.

Art becomes more or less infectious in consequence of three conditions : (1) in consequence of a greater or lesser peculiarity of the sensation conveyed ; (2) in consequence of a greater or lesser clearness of the transmission of this sensation ; and (3) in consequence of the sincerity of the artist, that is, of the greater or lesser force with which the artist himself experiences the sensation which he is conveying.

The more the sensation to be conveyed is special, the more strongly does it act upon the perceiver. The perceiver experiences a greater enjoyment, the more special the condition of the mind is, to which he is transferred, and so he more willingly and more powerfully blends with it.

But the lucidity of the expression of the sensation contributes to the infectiousness, because, blending in his consciousness with the author, the one who receives the impression is the more satisfied, the more clearly the sensation is expressed which, it seems to him, he has known and experienced for a long time, and for which he has just found an expression.

Still more is the degree of the infectiousness of art increased with the degree of the artist’s sincerity. The moment the hearer, spectator, reader, feels that the artist is himself infected by his production and writes, sings, plays for himself, and not for the purpose of acting upon others, this mental condition of the artist infects the person receiving the impression, and, on the other hand, as soon as the spectator, reader, hearer, feels that the author writes, sings, plays, not for his own satisfaction, but for him, the person receiving the impression, and does not himself feel what he wants to express, opposition makes its appearance, and the most special and the newest sensation and the most intricate technique not only fail to make an impression, but are even repulsive.

I am speaking of three conditions of the infectiousness of art ; in reality there is but the last, which is, that the artist should experience an inner need of expressing the sensation which is communicated by him. This condition includes the first, for, if the artist is sincere, he will express the sensation as he has received it. And since no man resembles another, this sensation will be different for any one else, and the more peculiar and the deeper the source from which the artist draws, the more intimate and sincere will it be. This sincerity will cause the artist to find a clear expression for the sensation which he wishes to convey.

Therefore this third condition, sincerity, is the most important of the three. This condition is always present in national art, for which reason it acts so powerfully, and is nearly always absent in our art of the higher classes winch is continuously manufactured by the artists for their personal, selfish, or vain purposes.

Such are the three conditions, the presence of which separates art from its adulterations, and at the same time determines the value of each production of art independently of its contents.

The absence of one of these conditions has this effect, that the production no longer belongs to art, but to its adulterations. If a production does not render the individual peculiarity of the artist’s sensation, especially, if it is not clearly expressed, or if it did not arise from the author’s inner necessity, it is not a production of art. But if all three conditions are present, even in the smallest degree, the production, however weak it may be, is a production of art.

The presence of all three conditions, of peculiarity, clearness, and sincerity, in varying degrees, determines the worth of the objects of art as art, independently of its contents. All the productions of art are as to their worth classified in accordance with the presence of one of these three conditions. In one it is the peculiarity of the conveyable subject which predominates ; in another it is the clearness of expression ; in a third — sincerity ; in a fourth — sincerity and peculiarity, but the absence of clearness ; in a fifth — peculiarity and clearness, but less sincerity, and so forth, in all possible degrees and combinations.

Thus is art separated from what is not art, and the worth of art as art determined, independently of its

contents, that is, independently of whether it conveys good or bad sensations.

But by what is good or bad art, as regards its contents, determined ?

XVI.

By what is good or bad art, as regards its contents, determined ?

Art is, together with speech, one of the instruments of intercourse, and so also of progress, that is, of humanity’s forward movement toward perfection. Speech makes it possible for the men of the last living generations to know what the preceding generations and the best leading contemporary men have found out by means of experience and by reasoning ; art makes it possible for the men of the last living generations to experience all those sensations which men experienced before them and which the best and leading men are still experiencing. And as there takes place an evolution of knowledge, that is, as the truer and necessary knowledge crowds out and takes the place of faulty and unnecessary knowledge, so also does the evolution of feelings take place by means of art, crowding out the lower, less good feelings, which are less necessary for the good of men, to make place for better feelings, which are more necessary for this good. In this does the mission of art consist ; and so art is according to its contents better, the more it fulfils this mission, and worse, the less it fulfils it.

But the valuation of feelings, that is, the acknowledgment of these or those feelings as better or less good, that is, as necessary for the good of men, is achieved by the religious consciousness of a certain time.

In any given historic time and in every society of men there exists a higher comprehension of the meaning of life, attained by the men of this society, which determines the highest good after which this society is striving.

This comprehension is the religious consciousness of a certain time and society. This religious consciousness is always clearly expressed by some leading men of the society, and is more or less vividly felt by all. Such a religious consciousness, corresponding with its expression, has always existed in every society. If it seems to us that the religious consciousness is absent in a society, it seems so to us, not because it is really lacking, but because we do not wish to see it. And the reason we do not wish to see it is because it arraigns our life, which is not in accord with it.

The religious consciousness in a society is the same as the direction of flowing water. If the water runs, there is a direction in which it flows. If a society lives, there is a religious consciousness, which indicates the direction along which all the men of that society are tending more or less consciously.

For this reason the religious consciousness has always existed in every society. In correspondence with this religious consciousness the sensations which are conveyed by art have always been valued. Only on the basis of this religious consciousness of its time was there segregated from the whole endlessly varied sphere of art that which conveys the sensations that realize in life the religious consciousness of a given time. And such art has always been highly esteemed and encouraged ; but the art which conveys sensations which result from the religious consciousness of a former time, which is obsolete and outlived, has always been condemned and despised. All other art, which conveys the most varied sensations, by means of which men commune with one another, has not been condemned and has been admitted, so long as it has not conveyed any sensations which are contrary to the religious consciousness. Thus, for example, the Greeks evolved, approved, and encouraged the art which conveyed the sensations of beauty, strength, valour (Hesiod, Homer, Phidias), and condemned and despised the art which conveyed the sensations of gross sensuality, dejection, effeminacy. The Jews evolved and encouraged the art which conveyed the sensations of loyalty and obedience to the God of the Jews, to His commandments (some parts of the Book of Genesis, the prophets, the psalms), and condemned and despised the art which conveyed the sensations of idolatry (the golden calf) ; all other art, — stories, songs, dances, the adornment of the houses, of the utensils, of the wearing apparel, — which was not contrary to the religious consciousness, was not thought of or condemned at all. Thus has art always and everywhere been esteemed according to its contents, and so it ought to be esteemed, because such a relation to art results from the properties of human nature, and these properties do not change.

I know that, according to the opinion which is current in our time, religion is a superstition which humanity has outlived, and that, therefore, it is assumed that in our time there is no religious consciousness common to all men, by which art may be valued. I know that such is the opinion which is diffused among the so-called cultured classes of our time. Men who do not recognize Christianity in its true sense and so invent for themselves all kinds of philosophical and æsthetical theories, which conceal from them the meaninglessness and sinfulness of their lives, cannot help but think thus. These men intentionally, and at times unintentionally, by confusing the concept of the religious cult with the concept of the religious consciousness, think that, by denying the cult, they thereby deny the religious consciousness. But all these attacks on religion and the attempts at establishing a world conception which is contrary to the religious consciousness of our time, prove more obviously than anything else the presence of this religious consciousness, which arraigns the lives of men who do not conform to it.

If in humanity there is such a thing as progress, that is, a forward movement, there must inevitably exist an indicator of the direction of this movement. Religion has always been such an indicator. The whole of history proves that the progress of humanity has taken place only under the guidance of religion, not the religion of the cult, the Catholic, the Protestant, and so forth, but the religious consciousness. And if the progress of humanity cannot take place without the guidance of religion, — the progress is taking place all the time, consequently also at present,— there must also exist a religion of our time. Thus, whether the so-called cultured people of our time like it or not, they must recognize the existence of religion as a necessary guidance to progress even in our time. But if there is among us a religious consciousness, our art must be valued on the basis of this religious consciousness ; and just as always and at all times, there was segregated from all indifferent art, cognized, highly esteemed, and encouraged that art which conveys sensations that arise from the religious consciousness of our time, and the art which is contrary to this consciousness was condemned and despised, and all other indifferent art was not segregated and not encouraged.

The religious consciousness of our time, in its most general, practical application, is the consciousness of the fact that our good, the material and the spiritual, the individual and the general, the temporal and the eternal, is contained in the fraternal life of all men, in our love-union among ourselves. This consciousness was not only expressed by Christ and all the best men of the past, and is not only repeated in the most varied forms and from the most varied sides by the best men of our time, but has also served as a guiding thread in the whole complex work of humanity, which, on the one hand, consists in the destruction of the physical and moral barriers, which interfere with the union of men, and, on the other, in the establishment of those principles, common to all men, which can and must unite all men into one universal brotherhood. On the basis of this consciousness we must estimate the value of all the phenomena of our life, among them also our art, segregating from its whole sphere that which conveys sensations arising from this religious consciousness, esteeming highly and encouraging this art, rejecting what is contrary to this consciousness, and refraining from ascribing to other art that meaning which is not proper to it.

The chief mistake made by the men of the highest classes of the so-called Renascence,— a mistake which we are continuing at the present time, did not consist in their having ceased to value religious art and to ascribe any meaning to it (the men of that time could not have ascribed any meaning to it, because, like the men of the higher classes of our time, they could not believe in what was given out as religion), but in this, that in place of this absent religious art they put an insignificant art which had for its aim nothing but man’s enjoyment, that is, in that they began to eliminate, value, and encourage as religious art what in no case deserved that valuation and encouragement.

A father of the church said that men’s chief trouble is not their not knowing God, but their having placed what is not God in the place of God. The same is true of art. The chief trouble of the men of the highest classes of our time is not so much that they have no religious art, as that in place of the highest religious art, separated from all the rest, as especially important and valuable, they have separated the most insignificant, for the most part harmful, art, which has for its aim enjoyment on the part of the few, which from the very fact of its exclusiveness is contrary to that Christian principle of a universal union, which forms the religious consciousness of our time. In the place of religious art has been put a trifling, frequently corrupt art, and thus was concealed from men that necessity of a true, religious art, which has to be in life, in order to improve it.

It is true, the art which satisfies the demands of the religious consciousness of our time does not resemble the former art, but, in spite of this dissimilarity, that which forms the religious art of our time is very clear and well defined to a man who does not intentionally conceal the truth from himself. In former times, when the highest religious consciousness united only a certain society of men which, no matter how large it was, was one among others, — the Jewish, Athenian, and Roman citizens, — the sensations conveyed by the art of those times sprang from the desire for the power, grandeur, glory, and welfare of these societies, and the men who contributed to this welfare by means of force, cunning, cruelty (Ulysses, Jacob, David, Samson, Hercules, and all the bogatyrs) could be the heroes of art. But the religious consciousness of our time does not segregate any one society of men, — on the contrary, it demands the union of all, absolutely all men without exception, and places brotherly love for all men higher than all other virtues, and so the sensations which are conveyed by the art of our time not only cannot coincide with the sensations which were conveyed by the older art, but must even be contrary to them.

Christian, true Christian art could not establish itself for a long time, and has not yet established itself, because the Christian religious consciousness was not one of those small steps by which humanity moves forward, but an enormous upheaval, which, if it has not yet changed, must finally change the whole life-conception of men and the whole inner structure of their lives. It is true, the life of humanity, as well as that of the individual man, moves evenly ; but in this even motion there are, as it were, turning-points, which sharply separate the previous life from the following. Such a turning-point for humanity was found in Christianity, — at least it must appear as such to us, who are living by the Christian consciousness. The Christian consciousness gave another new direction to all the sentiments of men, and thus completely changed the contents and the significance of art. The Greeks could make use of the art of the Persians, and the Romans of the art of the Greeks, and the Jews of the art of the Egyptians, — the fundamental ideals were one and the same. The grandeur and the good of the Persians, or the grandeur and the good of the Greeks, or of the Romans, were such an ideal. One and the same art was transferred to other conditions and was good for newer nations. But the Christian ideal so changed and upturned everything that, as the Gospel says, what was great before man became an abomination before God. The ideal was no longer the grandeur of a Pharaoh or a Roman emperor, not the beauty of the Greek, nor the wealth of Phoenicia, but meekness, chastity, compassion, love. Not the rich man, but the beggar Lazarus became the hero ; Mary of Egypt, not in the time of her beauty, but in the time of her repentance ; not the acquirers of wealth, but those who distributed it ; not those who lived in palaces, but those who lived in catacombs and huts ; not those who held power over others, but those who recognized no power but God’s. And the highest production of art was not a temple of victory with the statues of the victors, but the representation of the human soul, so transformed by love that the man who is being tortured and killed pities and loves his tormentors.

And so the men of the Christian world find it hard to arrest the inertia of the pagan art, with which their life has grown up. The contents of the Christian religious art are so new to them, so different from the contents of the older art, that it seems to them that the Christian art is a negation of art, and so they desperately hold on to the old art. But this old art, which in our time no longer has any source in religious consciousness, has lost all its meaning, and we are willy-nilly compelled to renounce it.

The essence of the Christian consciousness consists in every man’s recognition of his filial relation to God and the resulting union of men with God and among themselves, as it says in the Gospel (John xvii. 21), and so the contents of the Christian art are sentiments which contribute to the union of men with God and with one another.

The expression, ” the union of men with God and with one another,” may seem obscure to people who are accustomed to hear the frequent misuse of these words, and yet these words have a very clear meaning. These words signify that the Christian union of men, in contradistinction to the partial, exclusive union of only a few men, is that which unites all men without exception.

Art, every art in itself, has the property of uniting men. Every art has this effect, that the men who receive the sensation which the artist conveys unite their souls, in the first place, with the artist, and, in the second, with all men who have received the same impression. But non-Christian art, in uniting some men among themselves, by this very union separates them from other men, so that this partial union frequently serves as a source, not only of disunion, but also of enmity toward other men. Such is all patriotic art, with its hymns, poems, monuments ; such is all ecclesiastic art, that is, the art of certain cults, with their images, statues, processions, services, temples ; such is the military art ; such is all refined, in reality corrupt art, which is accessible only to men who oppress others, — the art of the idle rich. Such art is obsolete, non-Christian art, which unites some men for no other reason than that it may more sharply separate them from others, and even place them in an inimical relation to them. Christian art is only that which unites all men without exception, in that it evokes in men the consciousness of the oneness of their position in regard to God and to their neighbours, or in that it evokes in them one and the same sentiment, be it the simplest, so long as it is not contrary to Christianity, a sentiment which is natural to all men without exception.

The Christian good art of our time may not be understood by men in consequence of the insufficiency of its form or in consequence of the inattention of men toward it, but it must be such that all men may experience the sensations which are conveyed by it. It has to be the art not of some one circle of men, not of one class, not of one nationality, not of one religious cult, that is, it is not to convey sensations which are only in a certain way comprehensible to an educated man, or only to a nobleman, a merchant, or only a Russian, a Japanese, or a Catholic, a Buddhist, and so forth, but to convey sensations that are accessible to every man. Only such art may in our time be recognized as good art and segregated from all other art and encouraged.

Christian art, that is, the art of our time, must be catholic in the direct sense of the word, that is, universal, and so must unite all men. But there are but two kinds of sensations which unite all men, the sensations which arise from the recognition of one’s filial relation to God and of the brotherhood of men, and the simplest, vital sensations, which are accessible to all men without exception, such as the sensations of joy, meekness of spirit, alacrity, calm, etc. It is only these two kinds of sensations that form the subject of the art of our time which is good according to its contents.

The action produced by these two apparently so different kinds of art is one and the same. The sensations arising from the consciousness of a filial relation to God and of a brotherhood of men, like the sensations of firmness in truth, loyalty to God’s will, self-renunciation, respect for men and love of them, which arise from the Christian religious consciousness, and the simplest sensations, — a meek or a happy mood resulting from a song, or from an amusing and all-comprehensible joke, or from a touching story, or from a drawing, or from a doll, produce one and the same effect,— a love-union of men. It happens that men are together who, if not hostile, are strangers to one another as the result of their moods or feelings, and suddenly a story, or a performance, or a picture, even a building, and most frequently music, unites all these men as though by means of an electric spark, and all these men feel union and love of one another, in place of the former disunion, frequently even enmity. Everybody rejoices at the fact that another man experiences the same as he, — rejoices at the communion established, not only between him and all the persons present, but even with all the men who live at the same time with him and who will receive the same impression ; more than this : everybody feels the mysterious joy of an intercourse after the grave with all the men of the past, who have experienced the same feeling, and with the men of the future, who will experience it. This action is produced alike by the art which conveys the sentiment of love of God and one’s neighbour, and by the vital art, which conveys the simplest sensations, common to all men.

The difference between the valuation of the art of our time and that of the past consists mainly in this, that the art of our time, that is, Christian art, being based on the religious consciousness which demands the union of men, excludes from the sphere of good art, as far as its contents are concerned, everything which conveys exclusive sentiments, which do not unite, but disunite, men, classifying such art as bad in contents, and, on the contrary, includes in the sphere of good art, as far as its contents are concerned, the division of universal art, which formerly was not considered worthy of segregation and respect, and which conveys the most insignificant and simple sensations, but such as are accessible to all men without exception, and which, therefore, unite them.

Such art cannot help but be considered good in our time, because it attains the same aim which the religious Christian consciousness of our time sets before humanity.

The Christian art either evokes in men those sensations which through love of God and our neighbour draw them to a greater and ever greater union and make them ready and capable of such a union ; or it evokes in them those sensations which show them that they are already united in the unity of the joys and sorrows of life. And so the Christian art of our time can be, and actually is, of two sorts: (1) the art which conveys sentiments which arise from the religious consciousness of man’s position in the world, in relation to God and to our neighbour, — religious art, and (2) the art which conveys the simplest sensations of life, such as are accessible to all men of the whole world, — vital, national, universal art. It is only these two kinds of art that in our time may be regarded as good art.

The first kind of religious art, which conveys both the positive sentiments of love of God and of our neighbour as also the negative indignations, the terrors in violating love, is manifested chiefly in the form of literature and partly in painting and sculpture ; the second that of universal art, which conveys sensations that are accessible to all, is manifested in literature, and in painting, and in sculpture, and in dances, and in architecture, and chiefly in music.

If I were required to point out in modem art the models of each of these kinds of art, I should point, as to models of a higher art, which arises from the love of God and of our neighbour, in the sphere of literature, to Schiller’s Robbers; from the moderns, to Hugo’s Les Pauvres Gens and to his Les Misérables ; to Dickens’s stories and novels, Tale of Two Cities, Chimes, and others, to Uncle Tom’s Cabin, to Dostoévski, especially his Dead House, to George Eliot’s Adam Bede.

In the painting of modern times there are, however strange this may seem, hardly any productions of the kind which directly convey the Christian sentiments of love of God and of our neighbour ; this is especially true among famous painters. There are gospel pictures, and of these there is a great quantity ; they all illustrate historical events with a great wealth of details, but do not convey, and cannot convey, that religious sentiment, which the authors do not possess. There are many pictures which represent the personal sentiments of various people, but there are very few pictures which reproduce acts of self-renunciation and Christian love, and these are only among little known painters and in unfinished pictures, but mainly in drawings. Such is Kramski’s painting, which is worth many of his pictures, and which represents a drawing-room with a balcony, past which solemnly march the regiments returning home. On the balcony is standing a nurse with a babe, and a boy. They are taking in the procession of the soldiers ; but the mother, covering her face with a handkerchief, falls sobbing with her face against the back of the sofa. Such is also Langley’s picture, which I have mentioned ; such is also the picture which represents a rescue boat hurrying in a heavy storm to save a drowning ship, by the French painter Morion. There are also some other pictures which approach this kind, and which express the labourer with love and respect. Such are Millet’s pictures, especially his drawing, ” The Digger Resting ; ” of the same character the pictures by Jules Breton, L’Hermite, Defregger, and others. As samples of productions evoking indignation and terror at the violation of love of God and of our neighbour, may serve Gay’s picture, ” The Judgment,” and Liezen Mayer’s picture, ” The Signing of the Sentence of Death.” There are few pictures even of this category. The cares about the technique and beauty for the most part overshadow the feeling. Thus, for example, Gérôme’s picture, ” Pollice Verso,” does not so much express horror at what is taking place, as infatuation with the beauty of the spectacle.

It is even more difficult in the new art of the higher classes to point out models of the second kind, of good, universal, vital art, especially in literature and in music. Even if there are productions which by their inner contents, like Don Quixote, Molière’s comedies, Dickens’s Copperfield and Pickwick Club, Gogol’s and Pushkin’s stories, and a few things by Maupassant, may be referred to this kind, these things on account of the exclusiveness of the sensations conveyed and on account of the special details of time and place, and, chiefly, on account of their poverty of contents, as compared with the models of ancient universal art, as, for example, the history of Joseph the Fair, are for the most part accessible only to people of their own nation and even of their own circle. The incidents about Joseph’s brothers, who, being jealous of him in respect to their father, sold him to merchantmen ; about Potiphar’s wife wishing to tempt the young man ; about the youth’s attaining a high position and pitying his brothers ; about the favourite Benjamin, and all the rest, — all those are sentiments which are accessible to a Russian peasant, and a Chinaman, and an African, and a child, and an old man, to an educated man, and to an illiterate person ; and all that is written with so much reserve, without superfluous details, that the story may be transferred to any surroundings, and it will be just as comprehensible and just as touching. But not such are the sentiments of Don Quixote or of Molière’s heroes (though Molière is almost the most universal and so the most beautiful artist of modern art) and even less so are the sentiments of Pickwick and his friends. These sentiments are very exclusive, not universally human, and so, to make them infectious, the authors surrounded them with copious details of time and place. The copiousness of the details, however, makes these stories more exclusive still and incomprehensible for those men who live outside the surroundings which the author describes.

In the story of Joseph there was no need of giving a detailed description, as they now do, of Joseph’s bloody shirt and of Jacob’s house and garment, and of the attitude and attire of Potiphar’s wife, how she, adjusting the bracelet of her left hand, said, ” Come into my room,” and so forth, because the contents of the sentiment in this story are so strong that all the details, — excluding those which are most necessary, such as, for example, that Joseph went into another room, in order to weep, — are superfluous and would only interfere with the transmission of the sensations, — and so this story is accessible to all men, moves the men of all nations, conditions, and ages, has reached us, and will live another thousand years. But take the details away from the best novels of our time, and what will be left ?

Thus it is impossible in modern literary art to point out any productions which completely satisfy the demands of universality. Even those that exist are for the most part spoiled by what is called realism, which may more correctly be called provincialism in art.

In music the same happens as in literary art, and from the same reasons. On account of the poverty of their contents, the tunes of the modern musicians are strikingly barren. And so, to strengthen the impression produced by a barren tune, the modern musicians burden every most insignificant melody with the most complex modulations of their own national tunes, or only of such as are proper to a certain circle, a certain musical school. Melody — every melody—is free, and may be understood by all ; but the moment it is tied to a certain harmony and is obstructed by it, it becomes comprehensible only to men who are familiar with that harmony, and becomes completely foreign, not only to other nationalities, but also to all men who do not belong to the circle in which men have trained themselves in certain forms of harmony. Thus music turns in the same vicious circle as poetry. Insignificant, exclusive tunes, to be made attractive, are obstructed with harmonic, rhythmical, and orchestric complications, and so become more exclusive still and fail to be universal and even national, that is, they are accessible to but a few men, and not to the whole nation.

In music, outside of the marches and dances of composers, which approach the demands of universal art, there may be pointed out the popular songs of the various nations, from the Russian to the Chinese ; but in the learned music there are but a very few productions, the famous violin aria by Bach, Chopin’s Es dur nocturne, and, perhaps, a dozen things, not entire pieces, but passages selected from the productions of Haydn, Mozart, Schubert, Beethoven, Chopin.1

1 In presenting models of art which I regard as the best, I do not ascribe any especial weight to my selection, because I, besides being little versed in all the kinds of art, belong to the class of men with a taste which is corrupted by a false education. And so I may, from an old inherent habit, be mistaken when I ascribe an absolute worth to the impression produced on me by a thing in my youth. I call them models of this or that kind only for the purpose of more clearly elucidating my idea and showing how I, with my present view, understand the value of art from its contents. I must remark with this that I count my artistic productions as belonging to the sphere of bad art, with the exception of the story, God Sees the Truth, which belongs to the first kind, and The Prisoner of the Caucasus, which belongs to the second.

Though the same is repeated in painting as in poetry and music, that is, that productions weak in conception, to be made more entertaining, are surrounded by minutely studied accessories of time and place, which give to these productions a temporary and local interest, but make them less universal, it is possible in painting, more than in any other kinds of art, to point out productions which satisfy the demands of a universal Christian art, that is, such as express sentiments which are comprehensible to all men.

Such productions of the arts of painting and sculpture, universal as regards their contents, are all the pictures and statues of the so-called genre, the representations of animals, then landscapes, caricatures of comprehensible contents, and all kinds of ornaments. There are very many such productions in painting and in art (porcelain dolls), but the majority of such objects, as, for example, all kinds of ornaments, are not considered art, or if they are, are considered art of a lower order. In reality all such objects, if only they convey the artist’s sincere sentiment (no matter how insignificant it may appear to us), and if they are comprehensible to all men, are the productions of true and good Christian art.

I am afraid that here I shall be reproached because, having denied that the concept of beauty forms a subject of art, I here again acknowledge beauty as a subject of art. This reproach is unjust, because the contents of the art of all kinds of ornamentation does not consist in beauty, but in the sensation of delight, enjoyment of the combinations of lines and colours, which the artist experiences and with which he infects the spectator. Art is, as it has been, and can be, nothing but the infection by one man of another or others with the sensation which the infecting person has experienced. Among these sensations is also that of enjoying what pleases the eye. Objects which please the eye can be such as please a small or a greater number of men, and such as please all men. And such are chiefly all ornaments. The landscape of a very exclusive locality, a very special genre may not please all men ; but ornaments, whether Yakut or Greek, are accessible to all and evoke enjoyment in all men, and so this neglected kind of art in Christian society ought to be esteemed much higher than the exclusive, pretentious pictures and sculptures. Thus there are but two kinds of good Christian art; everything else, which does not come under these two kinds, must be considered bad art, which must not only not be encouraged, but ought to be expelled, rejected, and despised, as an art which does not unite, but disunites men. Such in the literary art are all the dramas, novels, and poems which convey exclusive sensations, such as are inherent only in the one class of the idle rich, — the sensations of aristocratic honour, satiety, melancholy, pessimism, and the refined and corrupt sensations which arise from sexual love and which are completely incomprehensible to the vast majority of men.

In painting, as such productions of bad art must be similarly regarded all pictures, false, religious, patriotic, and exclusive, in short, all pictures which represent amusements and delights of a wealthy and idle life, all so-called symbolical pictures, in which the meaning of the symbol itself is accessible only to people of a certain circle, and, above all else, all pictures with lascivious subjects, all that horrible feminine nakedness, which fills all the exhibitions and galleries. To the same category belongs all chamber and opera music of our time, beginning in particular with Beethoven, — Schumann, Berlioz, Liszt, Wagner,— which by its contents is devoted to the expression of sensations which are accessible only to men who have nurtured in themselves a morbid nervous irritability, excited by this exclusive and complicated music.

” What, the ninth symphony belongs to the bad kind of art ? ” do I hear voices of indignation.

” Unquestionably,” do I answer. Everything I have written, I have written for the purpose of finding a clear, rational criterion, by which to judge the values of the productions of art. This criterion, coinciding with simple common sense, shows to me indubitably that Beethoven’s symphony is not a good production of art. Of course, the recognition of such a famous work as bad must be strange and startling to men who are educated in the adoration of certain productions and their authors, to men with a distorted taste, in consequence of an education which is based on this adoration. But what is to be done with the indications of reason and with common sense ?

Beethoven’s ninth symphony is regarded as a great production of art. To verify this assertion, I first of all put the question to myself : If this production does not belong to the highest order of religious art, has it any other property of good art of our time, — the property of uniting all men in one feeling ? Does it not belong to the Christian worldly universal art? I cannot answer affirmatively, because I not only fail to see that the sensations conveyed in this production are able to unite people who are not specially educated to submit to this complex hypnotisation, but I cannot even imagine a crowd of normal men that could make anything out of this long and confused artificial production, but some short passages drowned in a sea of the incomprehensible. And so I am involuntarily obliged to conclude that this production belongs to bad art. What is remarkable is that to the end of the symphony there is attached Schiller’s poem which expresses the idea, though not clearly, that sensation (Schiller speaks only of the sensation of joy) unites people and evokes love in them. Although this song is sung at the end of the symphony, the music does not correspond to the thought of the poem, since this music is exclusive and does not unite all men, but only a few, separating them from the rest of men.

In precisely the same manner one would have to judge many, very many productions of art of every description, which among the higher classes of our society are considered to be great. By the same, the only firm criterion one would have to judge the famous Divine, Comedy and Jerusalem Delivered, and the greater part of the productions of Shakespeare and Gothe, and in painting all the representations of miracles and Raphael’s ” Transfiguration,” and so forth. No matter what the subject may be which is given out as a production of art, and no matter how it may be lauded by men, to find out its value, it is necessary to apply to it the question whether the subject belongs to real art or to its adulterations. Having on the basis of the sign of infectiousness of even a small circle of men recognized a certain object as belonging to the sphere of art, it is necessary on the basis of the sign of universal accessibility to decide the following question : whether this production belongs to the bad exclusive art, which is contrary to the religious consciousness of our time, or to the Christian art, which unites men. Having recognized a subject as belonging to the real Christian art, it is necessary on the basis of this, whether the production conveys sensations which arise from the love of God and of our neighbour, or only simple sensations which unite all men, to refer it to one class or another, to religious art or to profane universal art.

Only on the basis of this verification shall we be able to segregate in the whole mass of what in our society is given out as art those subjects which form real, important, necessary spiritual food from every harmful and useless art and its imitation, by which we are surrounded. Only on the basis of this verification shall we be able to free ourselves from the deleterious consequences of harmful art and to make use of the beneficent influence, so necessary for the spiritual life of man and of humanity, of true and good art, which forms humanity’s destination.

XVII.

Art is one of the two organs of humanity’s progress. Through words man shares his thoughts, through the images of art he shares his feelings with all men, not only of the present, but also of the past and the future. It is proper for man to make use of both these organs of communication, and so the distortion of even one of them cannot help but exert bad influences on that society in which this distortion has taken place. The consequences of this influence must be twofold : in the first place, an absence in society of that activity which ought to be performed by that organ, and, in the second place, the harmful activity of the distorted organ ; and it is these consequences which have appeared in our society. The organ of art was distorted, and so the society of the higher classes was in a large measure deprived of that activity which this organ ought to perform. On the one side, the enormously widespread adulterations of art in our society, which serve only for the amusement and corruption of men, and, on the other, the productions of an insignificant, exclusive art, which is esteemed as the highest, have in the majority of the men of our time distorted the ability of being infected by the true productions of art, and have thus deprived them of the possibility of knowing those higher sentiments which humanity has attained and which can be transmitted to men only through art.

All the best which is done in art by humanity remains foreign for the men who have become devoid of the ability of being infected by art, and gives way to false adulterations of art or to insignificant art, which is taken for the real. The men of our time take delight in a Baudelaire, Verlaine, Moréas, Ibsen, Maeterlinck in poetry ; in a Monet, Manet, Puvis de Chavannes, Burne-Jones, Stuck, Bocklin in painting ; in a Wagner, Liszt, Richard Strauss in music, and so forth, and are unable to understand either the highest or the simplest art.

In the midst of the highest classes, in consequence of the loss of the ability of being infected by the productions of art, men grow, are educated, and live without the mitigating, beneficent influence of art, and so not only do not move toward perfection, do not become better, but, on the contrary, with a high development of external means become more savage, coarser, and more cruel.

Such is the consequence of the absence of the activity of the necessary organ of art in our society. The consequences of the distorted activity of this organ are more harmful still, and there are many of them.

The first startling consequence is an enormous waste of the labours of working men for a work which is not only useless, but for the most part, even harmful, and, besides, an unrewarded waste of human lives for this useless and bad work. It is terrible to think with what tension, with what privations, millions of men, who have no time and no chance to do for themselves and for their families what is necessary, work for ten, twelve, and fourteen hours at night in order to set up so-called artistic books, which carry debauchery among men, or to work for theatres, concerts, expositions, galleries, which serve mainly the same debauchery ; but most terrible of all it is to think that live, good children, who are capable of everything good, devote themselves from their earliest years, some for ten or fifteen years, to playing the gamuts for six, eight, and ten hours each day ; others, to contorting their limbs, walking on tiptoe, and raising their legs above their heads ; others again, to singing solfeggios ; others, to making all kinds of grimaces in declaiming verses ; others, to drawing from busts, from naked nature, to painting studies ; others, to writing compositions according to the rules of certain periods, — and in these occupations, which are unworthy of a man, and which are frequently continued after full maturity, lose every physical and mental force and all comprehension of life. They say that it is terrible and pitiful to look at the young acrobats, who throw their legs over their shoulders ; but it is not less pitiful to look at ten-year-old children who give concerts, and still more so at ten-year-old gymnasiasts who know by heart the exceptions of Latin grammar.

By this men are not only deformed physically and mentally, — they are also deformed morally and become incapable of doing anything which is really needful to men. Occupying in society the rôle of amusers of the rich, they lose the feeling of their human dignity, and to such an extent develop in themselves the passion for public laudations that they always suffer from unsatisfied ambition, which is in them developed to morbid dimensions, and use all their spiritual forces for nothing but the gratification of this passion. And what is most tragical of all is this, that these men, who for the sake of art are lost to life, not only are of no use to art, but even do it the greatest harm. In the academies, gymnasia, conservatories, they teach how to adulterate art, and, learning this, the men are so corrupted that they completely lose the ability of producing real art and become purveyors of that adulterated, or insignificant, or corrupt art which fills our world. In this does the first startling consequence of the distortion of the organ of art lie.

The second consequence is this, that the productions of art are amusements which are produced by an army of professional artists in stunning quantities, and which give the rich men of our time a chance to live a life which is not only not natural, but is even contrary to the principles of humaneness which these men themselves profess. It would be impossible to live as do the rich, idle people, especially the women, removed from Nature and from animals, in artificial conditions, with atrophied muscles or with muscles deformed by gymnastics and with a weakened energy of life, if there did not exist what is called art, if there were not that distraction, that amusement, which veils these people’s eyes from the senselessness of their lives and saves them from tantalizing ennui. Take away from all these people the theatres, concerts, exhibitions, piano playing, novels, romances, with which they busy themselves, with the assurance that occupation with these subjects is a very refined, Esthetic, and therefore good occupation, take away from the Maecenases of art, who buy pictures, patronize musicians, commune with writers, their rôle of protectors of the important business of art, and they will not be able to continue their lives, and all will perish from ennui, tedium, and the consciousness of the meaninglessness and illegality of their lives. Only occupation with what among them is considered art gives them the possibility of continuing to live, though violating all the natural conditions of life, without noticing the meaninglessness and cruelty of their lives. This support of the false life of the rich is the second and by no means unimportant consequence of the distortion of art.

The third consequence of the distortion of art is that confusion which it produces in the conceptions of the children and of the masses. The people who are not distorted by the false theories of our society, the working people, the children, possess a very definite conception as to what people may be respected and praised for. As a basis for extolling and honouring people, according to the conceptions of the masses and of the children, may serve either physical force, — Hercules, heroes, conquerors, — or moral, spiritual force, — Sakya-Muni, who abandons his beautiful wife and his kingdom, in order to save men, or Christ, who goes to the cross for the human race, and all the martyrs and saints. Either is comprehensible to the masses and to the children. They understand that one cannot avoid respecting physical force, because it compels respect ; nor can an uncorrupted man help respecting the moral force of goodness, because his whole spiritual being draws him toward it. And these people, — the children and the masses, — suddenly see that, besides the men who are praised, respected, and rewarded for their physical and their moral force, there are also people who are praised, respected, and rewarded to an even far greater extent than the heroes of force and of goodness, for no other reason than that they sing well, compose verses, and dance. They see that singers, authors, painters, dancers, make millions, that greater honours are conferred upon them than upon the saints, and the men of the masses and the children are perplexed.

Fifty years after Pushkin’s death, when simultaneously cheap editions of his works were disseminated among the masses, and a monument was reared to his memory in Moscow, I received more than ten letters from various peasants, asking me why Pushkin was honoured so much. The other day I had a visit from a literate burgher from the Government of Saratov, who had apparently gone mad on this question, and was on his way to Moscow to arraign the clergy for having cooperated in the erection of the ” moniment ” to Mr. Pushkin.

Indeed, we may imagine the state of such a man from the masses, when he learns from the newspapers and the rumours which reach him that in Russia the clergy, the authorities, all the best men of the country, with solemnity erect a monument to a great man, a benefactor, the glory of Russia, — to Pushkin, of whom he has not heard anything heretofore. On all sides he reads or hears of this, and he supposes that if such honours are bestowed on a man, he must certainly have done something unusual, either something strong or something good. He tries to find out who Pushkin was, and having learned that Pushkin was not a hero or a general, but a private person and an author, he draws the conclusion that Pushkin must have been a holy man and a teacher of goodness, and hastens to read his works and to hear something about his life. But what must his perplexity be, when he learns that Pushkin was a man of more than light manners, that he died in a duel, that is, during an endeavour to take another man’s life, and that his whole desert consists in nothing but this, that he wrote verses about love, which frequently were quite indecent.

He understands that Alexander of Macedon, Dzhingis Khan, or Napoleon was great, because any of them could have crushed him and thousands like him. He also understands that Buddha, Socrates, and Christ are great ; that Buddha, Socrates, and Christ are great, he also understands, because he knows and feels that he and all men should be such ; but why a man is great for having written verses about feminine love, is something which he cannot understand.

The same must take place in the head of a Breton, a Norman peasant, who learns of the erection of a monument to Baudelaire, ” une statue,” like one to the Virgin Mary, and hears the Fleurs du Mai read, or is told of its contents, or, more markedly still, when he learns of one to Verlaine, and hears of that miserable, dissipated life which this man led, and reads his verses. And what confusion must take place in the heads of the people from the masses, when they learn that a Patti or Taglioni receives one hundred thousand roubles for the season, or an artist receives just as much for a picture, and authors of novels, who describe love-scenes, receive even more.

The same takes place with children. I remember how I experienced that amazement and perplexity, and how I made my peace with these laudations of artists on a par with physical and moral heroes only by lowering in my consciousness the meaning of moral worth and by recognizing a false, unnatural meaning in the productions of art. Precisely the same takes place in the soul of every child and every man from the masses, when he learns of those strange honours and rewards which are bestowed on artists. Such is the third consequence of the false relation of our society to art.

The fourth consequence of such a relation consists in this, that the men of the higher classes, meeting more and more frequently with the contradictions between beauty and goodness, set up as the highest ideal the ideal of beauty, thus freeing themselves from the demands of morality. These men distort the rôles and, instead of recognizing, as they ought to, the art which they serve as obsolete, recognize morality as obsolete and as incapaole of having any meaning for men who stand on that high level of development on which they imagine they are standing.

This consequence of the false relation to art has long ago shown itself in our society, but has of late been expressed with extraordinary boldness by its prophet Nietzsche and his followers and the decadents and the English sesthetes who coincide with them. The decadents and the Esthetes, like Oscar Wilde, choose as the theme of their productions the denial of morality and the laudation of debauchery.

This art has partly begot a similar philosophic teaching, and partly coincided with it. Lately I received from America a book under the title of The Survival of the Fittest, Philosophy of Power, by Ragnar Redbeard, Chicago : 1896. The essence of this book, as expressed in the publisher’s preface, is this, that it is madness to value goodness according to the false philosophy of the Jewish prophets and weeping Messiahs. All the laws, commandments, teachings about not doing to another what you do not wish to have done you, have in themselves no meaning whatsoever and receive a meaning only from the scourge, the prison, and the sword. A truly free man is not obliged to obey any injunctions, — neither human nor divine. Obedience is a sign of degeneration ; disobedience is a sign of a hero. The whole world is a slippery field of battle. Ideal justice consists in this, that the conquered should be exploited, tortured, despised. The free and brave man can conquer the whole world. And so there ought to be an eternal war for life, for land, for love, for women, for power, for gold. (Something similar was a few years ago expressed by the famous and refined French academician, Vogué.) The land with its treasures is “ the prey of him who is bold.”

The author has evidently, independently of Nietzsche, come unconsciously to the same conclusions which the modern artists profess.

These propositions, expounded in the form of a doctrine, startle us. In reality, these propositions are included in the ideal of the art which serves beauty. The art of our higher classes has fostered in men this ideal of the overman, in reality the old ideal of Nero, Sténka Razin, Dzhingis Khan, Robert Macaire, Napoleon, and all their fellows in thought, abettors, and flatterers, and with all its power confirms this ideal in them.

It is in this substitution of the ideal of beauty, that is, of enjoyment, for the ideal of morality, that the fourth, terrible consequence of the distortion of the art of our society is to be found. It is terrible to contemplate what would happen with humanity if such art were disseminated among the masses of the people. It is, indeed, beginning to be disseminated among them.

Finally, the fifth and most important consequence is this, that the art which flourishes in the midst of our higher classes of European society, directly corrupts people by infecting them with the very worst sentiments, most harmful to humanity, of superstition, — patriotism, — and, above all, voluptuousness.

Look attentively at the causes of the ignorance of the popular masses, and you will see that the chief cause is by no means the scarcity of schools and libraries, as we are accustomed to think, but those superstitions, both ecclesiastic and patriotic, with which they are saturated, and which are incessantly produced by all the means of art: the ecclesiastical superstitions by the poetry of the prayers and hymns, by the painting and sculpture of images and statues, by singing, organs, music, and architecture, and even by the dramatic art in the church services ; the patriotic superstitions by the poems and stories which are communicated in schools, by music, singing, festive processions, receptions, military spectacles, monuments.

If it were not for this constant activity of all the branches of art for the support of the ecclesiastic and patriotic obfuscation and deterioration of the people, the masses would have long ago attained true enlightenment. But it is not only the ecclesiastic and patriotic corruption that is achieved by art. Art serves in our time as the chief cause of the corruption of people in the most important question of social life, — in the sexual relations. We all know this in our own case, and parents know from their children what terrible spiritual and physical sufferings, what useless waste of forces, men experience through the mere dissipation of the sexual lust.

Ever since the world has existed, from the time of the Trojan War, which arose from sexual dissipation, up to the suicides and murders of lovers, accounts of which they print in almost any newspaper, the greatest part of the sufferings of the human race have been due to this dissipation.

Well? All art, both the real and the adulterated, is with the rarest exceptions devoted to nothing but the description, representation, excitation of every kind of sexual love, in all its forms. One needs but to recall all those novels with their lust-exciting descriptions of love, both such as are most refined and such as are most gross, with which the literature of our society is filled, — all those pictures and statues which represent the nude female body, and all those abominations which have been introduced in the illustrations and advertisements, — one needs but recall all those lascivious operas, operettas, songs, romances, with which our world teems, in order to think involuntarily that the existing art has but one definite aim, — the widest possible dissemination of debauchery.

Such are, if not all, at least the most certain consequences of that distortion of art which has taken place in our society. Thus, what in our society is called art not only does not contribute to the forward movement of humanity, but almost more certainly than anything else interferes with the realization of the good in our life.

And so to the question which involuntarily presents itself to every man who is free from the activity of art, and who, therefore, has no interested connection with the existing art, — a question which was put by me in the beginning of this writing as to the justice of making sacrifices in human labours, and human lives, and morality, such as are made to what we call art, which forms the possession of but a small portion of society, — to this question we get the natural answer: No, it is not just, and it ought not to be so. Thus answers common sense and the uncorrupted moral sense. Not only ought it not to be, not only ought we make no sacrifices to what among us is acknowledged to be art, but, on the contrary, all the efforts of the men who wish to live well ought to be directed to the destruction of this art, because it is one of the most cruel evils and weighs heavily upon our humanity. Thus, if the question were put as to whether it is better for our Christian world to be deprived of

everything which is now called art together with the false art, and of everything good, as it now exists, I think that every rational and moral man would again solve the question as Plato solved it for his republic and as all the ecclesiastic Christian and Mohammedan teachers of humanity have solved it ; that is, he would say, “ It would be better if there were no art at all, than that the present corrupt art, or its semblance, should be continued.” Fortunately, this question is not put to any man, and no one has an occasion to solve it in one way or another. Everything which a man may do and we can and must do, we, the so-called cultured people, who by our position are enabled to understand the significance of the phenomena of our life, — is to understand that error in which we are, and not to persist in it stubbornly, but to search for a way out from it.

XVIII.

The cause of the lie into which the art of our society has fallen consisted in this, that the men of the higher classes, having lost faith in the truths of the ecclesiastic, so-called Christian, teaching, did not make up their minds to accept the true, Christian teaching in its true and chief significance, as the filial relation to God and the brotherhood of men, but continued to live without any faith, trying to substitute for the absent faith, either hypocrisy, pretending that they still believed in the absurdities of the ecclesiastic faith, or a bold proclamation of their unbelief, or a refined skepticism, or a return to the Greek worship of beauty, a recognition of the legality of egotism, and its elevation to the dignity of a religious teaching.

The cause of the disease was the non-acceptance of Christ’s teaching in its true, that is, in its full, meaning. The cure of this disease consists only in one thing, — in the recognition of this teaching in its full force.- This recognition is in our time not only possible, but also indispensable. It is impossible in our time for a man who stands on the level of the knowledge of our time to say, be he Catholic or Protestant, that he believes in the dogmas of the church, the trinity of God, the divinity of Christ, the redemption; and it is also impossible for him to be satisfied with a proclamation of unbelief, skepticism, or a return to the worship of beauty and to egotism, and, above all else, it is impossible for him to say that we do not know the true significance of Christ’s teaching. The significance of this teaching has not only become accessible to all men of our time, but the whole life of

the men of our time is permeated by the spirit of this teaching and is consciously and unconsciously guided by it.

No matter how differently in form the men of our Christian world may determine man’s destination, whether they understand by this destination the progress of humanity, no matter in what sense, the union of all men in a socialistic government or commune, or whether they recognize a universal union to be this destination, or whether they recognize this destination to consist in the union with a fantastic Christ or the union of humanity under the one leadership of the church, — no matter how varied in form these definitions of the destination of the human life may be, all the men of our time recognize that man’s destination is the good ; now the highest good of life, which is accessible to men, is obtained through the union of men among themselves.

No matter how much the men of the higher classes, feeling that their significance is based on their segregation, — the segregation of the rich and the learned from the labouring men and the poor and the unlearned, — may try to invent new world conceptions, by which they may retain their prerogatives, — now the ideal of a return to antiquity, now mysticism, now Hellenism, now overmanhood,— they are willy-nilly compelled to recognize the truth, which unconsciously and consciously is being established in life, that our good is to be found only in the union and brotherhood of men.

Unconsciously this truth is confirmed by the establishment of roads of communication, telegraphs, telephones, the press, the ever-growing accessibility of all the goods of the world for all men ; and consciously, by the abolition of superstitions which separate men, by the dissemination of the truths of science, by the expression of the ideal of the brotherhood of men in the best productions of the art of our time.

Art is a spiritual organ of human life and cannot be destroyed, and so in spite of all the efforts which are made by the men of the higher classes to conceal that religious ideal by which humanity lives, this ideal is more and more recognized by men and is more and more frequently expressed within our corrupt society partly in art and in science. Beginning with the present century, there have with increasing frequency appeared in literature and in painting such productions of the highest religious art, which are permeated by the true Christian spirit, like the productions of the universal worldly art which is accessible to all men. Thus art itself knows the true ideal of our time, and strives after it. On the one hand, the best productions of the art of our time convey sentiments which draw men toward union and brotherhood (such are the productions of Dickens, Hugo, Dostoevski ; in art — Millet, Bastien Lepage, Jules Breton, L’Hermite, and others); on the other hand, they strive after conveying not only such sentiments as are peculiar to the men of the higher classes, but such as might unite all men without exception. There are at present but few such productions, but the need of them is already recognized. Besides, of late there appear ever more frequently attempts at popular editions, pictures, concerts, theatres. All this is so far, very far from what it ought to be, but we already see the direction along which art itself is moving in order to enter upon its proper path.

The religious consciousness of our time, which consists in recognizing the aim of life, both the common and the individual, in the union of men, has been sufficiently elucidated, and the men of our time need only reject the false theory of beauty, according to which enjoyment is recognized as the aim of art, in order that the religious consciousness may naturally become the guide of the art of our time.

And as soon as the religious consciousness, which is already unconsciously guiding the life of the men of our time, shall be consciously recognized by men, there will immediately of its own accord be destroyed the division of art into that of the lower and that of the higher classes. There will be, instead, a fraternal art ; in the first place, there will naturally be rejected the art which conveys sentiments which are incongruous with the religious consciousness of our time, — sentiments which do not unite, but disunite men, and, in the second place, there will be destroyed that insignificant, exclusive art, which now holds a place which is unbecoming to it.

And as soon as this shall happen, art will cease to be what it has been of late, — a means for dulling and corrupting people, and will become what it has always been and ought to be, — a means for moving humanity toward union and the good.

It is terrible to say so, but what has happened to the art of our time is what happens to a woman who sells her feminine charms, which are intended for motherhood, for the enjoyment of those who are prone to such enjoyments.

The art of our time and of our circle has become a harlot. And this comparison is correct to the minutest details. It is just as unlimited in time, just as painted up, just as venal, just as enticing, and just as pernicious.

The true production of art will but rarely be manifested in the soul of the artist, as a fruit of his previous life, just like the conception of the child by a mother. But adulterated art is uninterruptedly produced by masters and artisans, so long as there are customers for it.

True art, like the wife of a loving husband, does not need any adornments ; but adulterated art, like a prostitute, must always be painted up.

As a cause for the manifestation of true art appears the inner necessity to express the accumulated sentiment, just as love is the cause for a mother’s sexual conception. But greed is the cause of adulterated art, just as it is the cause of prostitution.

The consequence of true art is the introduction of a new sentiment into the routine of life, just as the consequence of a wife’s love is the birth of a new man into the world. The consequence of adulterated art is the corruption of man, the insatiability of enjoyments, the weakening of man’s spiritual forces.

It is this that the men of our time and circle must understand in order that they may free themselves from the dirty stream of this corrupt harlot art, which is overwhelming us.

XIX.

People speak of the art of the future, meaning by it a special, refined, new art, which is supposed to be worked out in time from the art of the one class which is now considered to be the highest. But there can be no such new art of the future, and there will be none. Our exclusive art of the higher classes of the Christian world has come to a blind alley. On the path on which it has travelled it can go no farther. Having once departed from the chief demand of art (which is, that it should be guided by the religious consciousness), becoming more and more exclusive and so more and more corrupt, this art has reached the impossible point. The art of the future — the one which will actually exist — will not be a continuation of the present art, but will be reared on entirely different, new foundations, which have nothing in common with those by which our present art of the highest classes is guided.

The art of the future, that is, that part of art which will be segregated from the whole art disseminated among men, will not consist in the transmission of sensations accessible only to a few people of the wealthy classes, as is the case at present, but will be only that art which realizes the highest religious consciousness of the people of our time. Only such productions will be considered art as will convey sentiments which draw men toward brotherly union, or such universal sentiments as will be able to unite all men. Only such art will be segregated, admitted, approved of, disseminated. But the art which conveys sentiments which result from the obsolete religious teaching that men have outlived, — the ecclesiastic, patriotic, amorous arts, which convey sensations of superstitious awe, pride, vanity, worship of heroes, arts which evoke exclusive love for one’s nation or sensuality, will be considered bad, harmful arts, and will be condemned and despised by public opinion. All other art, which conveys sensations accessible to but a few men, will not be considered important, and will neither be condemned nor approved of. And not a separate class of wealthy men, as is now the case, but the whole nation, will be the appraisers of art, so that, for a production to be recognized as good, to be approved of, and disseminated, it will have to satisfy the demands, not of a few men, who live under similar and frequently under unnatural conditions, but of all men, of the great masses of men, who live under natural conditions of labour.

And the artists, the producers of art, will not, as at present, be those exceptional few, selected from a small part of the people, the men of the wealthy classes or those who are near to them, but all those talented men of the whole people who will prove capable and inclined toward an artistic activity.

Then the artistic activity will be accessible to all men. And this activity will become accessible to all men, because, in the first place, in the art of the future there will be demanded not only no complicated technique which disfigures the productions of art of our time and demands great tension and great loss of time, but, on the contrary, clearness, simplicity, and brevity, — those conditions which are not acquired by means of mechanical exercises, but by the education of the taste. In the second place, the artistic activity will become accessible to all men of the masses, because instead of the present professional schools, which are accessible to but a few men, all will in primary popular schools study music and painting (singing and drawing) on a par with reading and writing, so that every man, having received his first foundations of painting and of musical science, and feeling in himself the ability and the calling for any one art, would be able to perfect himself in it ; and, in the third place, all the forces which now are wasted on false art will be used for the dissemination of true art among the masses.

People think that if there shall be no special schools of art, the technique of art will be weakened. It certainly will, if by technique is meant those complications of art which now are considered to be its distinguishing features ; but if by technique is meant lucidity, beauty, and simplicity, — a conciseness of the productions of art, — the technique will not only not be weakened, as is proved by all popular art, but will be improved a hundred times, even if there shall be no professional schools, and even if they did not teach drawing and music in the public schools. It will be made perfect, because all the talented artists, who now are concealed among the masses, will become participants in art and will give, having no need, as at present, of the complex technical instruction, and having models of true art before them, new models of true art, which, as always, will be the best school of technique for the artists. Every true artist even now does not study at school, but in life, from the models of the great masters ; but when the most gifted of the whole people shall be participants in art, and there shall be more such models, and the models shall be more accessible, the instruction in school, of which the future artist will be deprived, will be made up for a hundred times over by that instruction winch the artist will receive from the numerous models of the good art which will be disseminated in society.

Such will be one of the distinctions between the future and the present art. Another distinction will be this, that the art of the future will not be produced by professional artists, who receive rewards for their art and do not busy themselves with anything else but their own art. The art of the future will be produced by all the people from the masses, who will busy themselves with it when they feel a need for this activity.

In our society people think that an artist will work better if his material existence is made secure. This opinion would again prove with complete obviousness, if there were still any need of such a proof, that what among us is regarded as art is not art, but only its semblance. It is quite true that for the production of boots or rolls the division of labour is very advantageous, — that the bootmaker or baker who is not compelled to prepare his own dinner and firewood will be able to produce more boots or rolls than if he himself had to care for his dinners and his wood. But art is not an artisanship ; it is the conveyance of a sensation experienced by the artist. Now a sensation can be born in a man only when he lives with all sides of his natural life as is proper to all men. And so the provision for all the material needs of the artists is a most pernicious condition for their productiveness, since it frees them from the conditions of struggling with Nature, for the purpose of providing for their own fives and for those of others, conditions common to all men, and so deprives them of the possibility and of the opportunity of experiencing the most important sensations which are proper to all men. There is no more pernicious position for the productiveness of an artist than the position of complete security and luxury in which the artist generally lives in our society.

The artist of the future will live the usual life of men, earning his living by some labour. The fruits of that highest spiritual force which passes through him he will strive to give to the greatest number of men, because in this transmission of the sensations arising in him to the greatest number of men is his joy and his reward. The artist of the future will not even understand how an artist, whose chief joy consists in the greatest dissémina-tion of his work, can give his productions only at a certain price.

So long as the merchants are not sent out of the temple, the temple of art will not be a temple. The art of the future will drive them out.

And so the contents of the art of the future, as I imagine it, will be absolutely different from what it is now. The contents of the art of the future will not form the expression of exclusive sensations, such as ambition, dejection, satiety, and amorousness in all its possible forms, which are accessible and interesting to only such people as have freed themselves by force from the labour which is proper to men ; it will form the expression of sensations experienced by a man who lives the habitual life of all men, and resulting from the religious consciousness of our time, or of sensations which are common to all men without exception.

To the men of our circle, who do not know and who cannot or will not know those sensations which must form the contents of the art of the future, it seems that such are very poor contents in comparison with those finesses of the exclusive art with which they are busying themselves. ” What new thing can we express in the sphere of the Christian sentiments of love of our neighbour ? The sentiments which are common to all men are so insignificant and monotonous,” they think. But in reality it is only the religious, Christian sentiments and those which are accessible to all that in our time can be truly new sentiments. Sentiments which arise from the religious consciousness of our time, the Christian sentiments, are infinitely new and varied; only not in the sense in which many imagine it, which is, to represent Christ and Gospel episodes, or in a new form to repeat the Christian truths of union, brotherhood, equality, love, but in the sense that the very oldest habitual, thoroughly known phenomena of life evoke the newest, most unexpected, and most touching sentiments, the moment a man looks upon these phenomena from the Christian point of view.

What can be older than the relations of husband and wife, of parents to their children, of children to their parents, of men to their countrymen, to foreigners, to attack, to defence, to property, to the land, to the animals ? But the moment one looks upon these phenomena from the Christian point of view, there immediately arise infinitely varied, extremely new, most complicated, and most touching sentiments.

Even so there is no narrowing, but a widening of the sphere of the contents of that art of the future which conveys the simplest, most accessible worldly sensations. In our former art only the expression of such sensations as are proper to men of a certain exclusive condition was considered worthy of transmission, and that only under the condition of transmitting them in the most refined manner, which is not accessible to the majority of men ; but that whole immense sphere of the national child’s art, jokes, proverbs, riddles, songs, dances, children’s games, imitations, was not considered to be worthy of being a subject of art.

The artist of the future will understand that it is infinitely more important and more fruitful to compose a little fairy tale, a song, which touches people, a saw, a riddle, which amuses them, a joke, which makes them laugh, and to draw a picture which will give pleasure to dozens of generations or to millions of children and adults, than to compose a novel, a symphony, or to draw a picture, which for a short time will divert a few of wealthy classes and will be for ever forgotten. Now the sphere of this art of simple sensations, accessible to all men, is immense and almost untouched.

Thus the art of the future will not only not be poorer, but, on the contrary, will be infinitely richer in contents. Just so the form of the art of the future will not be lower than the present form of art, but will be incomparably higher, — not higher in the sense of a refined and complicated technique, but in the sense of being able briefly, simply, and clearly to convey, without superfluity, the sensation which the artist has experienced and wishes to communicate to others.

I remember that once when speaking with a famous astronomer who was giving public lectures on the spectrum analysis of the stars of the Milky Way, I said to him how nice it would be if he with his knowledge and his ability to lecture would deliver a public lecture on cosmography about the most important motions of the earth, since amidst the hearers of his lectures on the spectrum analysis of the stars of the Milky Way there were very many people, especially women, who did not exactly know what produces day and night, winter and summer. The clever astronomer smiled, and said to me, “Yes, it would be nice, but that is very hard. It is much easier to lecture on the spectrum analysis of the Milky Way.”

The same is true of art : it is much easier to write a poem in verse about the times of Cleopatra, or to paint a picture of Nero burning Rome, or to compose a symphony in the sense of Brahms and Richard Strauss, or an opera in the spirit of Wagner, than to tell a simple story without anything superfluous and yet in such a way that it may convey the sentiment of the narrator, or to draw with pencil a picture which would touch and amuse the spectator, or to write four measures of a simple and clear tune, without any accompaniment, which may convey a mood and may be remembered by the hearers.

” It is impossible for us now, with our development, to return to primitive conditions,” say the artists of our time. ” It is impossible for us now to write such stories as the story of Joseph the Fair, as the Odyssey ; to sculpture such statues as the Venus of Melos; to compose such music as the national songs.”

And, indeed, this is impossible for the artists of our time, but not for the artist of the future, who will not know all the debauch of technical perfections that conceal the absence of contents, and who, not being a professional artist, and receiving no reward for his activity, will reproduce art only when he feels an irrepressible inner necessity for it.

So entirely different from what now is considered art will be the art of the future, both in contents and in form. As contents for the art of the future will serve only such sentiments as draw men toward union or already unite them in the present ; and the form of the art will be such as will be accessible to all men. And so the ideal of the future perfection will not be in the exclusiveness of the sentiment which is accessible to but a few, but, on the contrary, in its universality : and not in the bulk, obscurity, and complexity of form, as it is considered at present, but, on the contrary, in the brevity, lucidity, and simplicity of expression. And only when art shall be such, will it not amuse and corrupt people, as is the case at present, demanding for this a waste of their best forces, but be what it ought to be, — a tool for the transference of the religious Christian consciousness from the sphere of reason and intellect into that of feeling, thus bringing people actually in life itself, nearer to that perfection and union which the religious consciousness indicates to them.

XX.

CONCLUSION

I have performed my task in regard to a subject which is near to me, — art, — and which has interested me for fifteen years, as well as I could. When I say that this subject has interested me for fifteen years, I do not mean to say that I have been fifteen years writing this work, but only that about fifteen years ago I began to write about art, thinking, when I took hold of this work, that I should end it at once without interruption ; but it turned out that my ideas respecting this subject at that time were yet so little clear that I was unable satisfactorily to myself to expound them. Since then I have uninterruptedly thought about this subject and have six or seven times started to write on it, but every time, after I had written quite a little, I felt unable to finish the work and so abandoned it. Now I have finished it, and, no matter how badly I may have done it, I hope that my fundamental idea about the false path on which the art of our time is standing and proceeding, and about its cause, and about what the true mission of art consists in, is correct, and that, therefore, my labour, though far from being complete, and demanding, many, many elucidations and additions, will not be spent in vain, and that art sooner or later will abandon that false path on which it now stands. But that this may happen and that art may take the new direction, it is necessary that another, a just as important spiritual activity, — science, — on which art has always been closely dependent, should, like art, leave the false path on which it now is.

Science and art are as closely related as the lungs and the heart, so that if one organ is distorted, the other cannot perform its regular functions.

True science studies and introduces into the conscience of men that knowledge which by the men of a certain time and society is considered most important. But art transfers these truths from the sphere of knowledge into the sphere of feeling. And so, if the path on which science is proceeding is false, the path of art will be equally false. Science and art are like those barges with two anchors, so-called machines, which used to navigate the rivers. Science, like those boats which carry the anchors forward and moor them, prepares the motion whose direction is given by religion; and art, like the capstan which works on the barge, drawing it nearer to the anchor, performs the motion itself. And so the false activity of science draws after it a similarly false activity of art.

Just as art in general is the conveyance of all kinds of sensations, while by art in the narrower sense of the word we mean that which conveys sensations which we consider important, so science in general is a conveyance of every kind of knowledge, while by science in the narrower sense of the word we mean only that which conveys knowledge that is recognized by us to be important.

What determines for people the degree of the importance, both of the sensations conveyed by art and of the knowledge conveyed by science, is the religious consciousness of a certain time and society, that is, the common comprehension by the men of that time and society as to what the destination of their lives is.

What more than anything else cooperates with the accomplishment of this destination is considered the chief science ; what cooperates less, is less important ; what does not at all cooperate with the accomplishment of the destination of man’s life is not studied at all, or if it is studied at all, it is not considered to be a science. Thus it has always been, thus it ought to be now, because such is the property of human knowledge and of human life. But the science of the higher classes of our time, by failing to recognize any religion and even considering every religion nothing but a superstition, has not been able to accomplish this.

And so the men of science of our time assert that they indifferently study everything, but as there is too much of everything (everything is the infinite number of objects) and it is impossible to study everything indifferently, this assertion is made only in theory ; in reality they do not study everything and by no means all indifferently, but only what, on the one hand, is most important and, on the other, most agreeable to those men who busy themselves with science. What is most important of all to the men of science, who belong to the higher classes, is to retain the order under which these classes enjoy their prerogatives; and most agreeable is that which gratifies idle curiosity, does not demand great mental efforts, and cannot be practically applied.

And so one division of the sciences, which includes philosophy that is adapted to the existing order, and a similar history and political economy, busies itself chiefly with proving that the existing order of life is such as it ought to be, such as has originated and continues to exist according to unchangeable laws, which are not subject to the human will, and that, therefore, every attempt at violating it is illegal and useless. Another division, that of experimental science, which includes mathematics, astronomy, chemistry, physics, botany, and all the natural sciences, busies itself only with what has no direct relation to human life, what is curious, and what admits of applications convenient to the life of the higher classes. For the justification of that choice of subjects of study which the men of science of our time have made in conformity with their position, they have invented, precisely like the theory of art for art’s sake, a theory of science for science’s sake.

As it follows from the theory of art for art’s sake that occupation with all those subjects which please us is art, so it follows from the theory of science for science’s sake that the study of subjects which interest us is science.

Thus one part of science, instead of studying how men should live in order to fulfil their destination, proves the legality and the unchangeability of the bad and false existing order of life; and another part, experimental science, busies itself with questions of simple curiosity or with technical improvements.

The first division of the sciences is harmful, not only in that it confuses the concepts of men and gives them false solutions, but also in that it exists and occupies a place which ought to be occupied by true science. It is harmful, because every man, to take up the study of the most important questions of life, must, before solving them, overthrow those structures of falsehood in every most essential question of life, accumulated through ages and supported with every inventiveness of the mind.

The second division, the one on which modem science prides itself so much and which by many is considered to be the one true science, is harmful in that it distracts the attention of men from actually important subjects and leads them to such as are insignificant; besides, it is harmful in that, with the false order of things which is justified and supported by the first division of the sciences, a great part of the technical acquisitions of this division of science is not directed toward the use, but toward the harm of humanity.

It is only to the men who have devoted their lives to this study that it seems that all the discoveries which are made in the sphere of the natural sciences are very important and useful matters. This seems so to them, only because they do not look about themselves and do not see what is really important. They need only tear themselves away from that psychological microscope under which they observe the subjects of their study, and look about in order to see how insignificant all the science is which affords them such naïve pride, — I do not speak of imaginary geometry, the spectrum analysis of the Milky Way, the form of the atoms, the dimension of the crania of the men of the stone period, and similar trifles, — but even the science of the micro-organisms, X-rays, and so forth, in comparison with that knowledge which we have rejected and have turned over to be corrupted by professors of theology, jurisprudence, political economy, the science of finances, and others. We need only look about in order to see that the activity which is proper to true science is not the study of what has accidentally interested us, but of how the human life is to be arranged, — those questions of religion, morality, social life, without solving which all our knowledge of Nature is harmful and insignificant.

We rejoice very much and pride ourselves on this, that our science gives us the possibility of utilizing the energy of the waterfall and of compelling this force to do work in factories, or that we have cut tunnels through mountains, and so forth. But the trouble is that we do not cause this force of the waterfall to work for the good of humanity, but for the enrichment of capitalists, who produce articles of luxury or instruments for the destruction of men. The same dynamite with which we tear down mountains in order to dig tunnels through them is used by us in war, which we not only do not wish to renounce, but even consider indispensable, and for which we prepare ourselves uninterruptedly.

Even though we are now able to inoculate preventive diphtheria, with the aid of X-rays to find a needle in the body, to straighten out a curved spine, to cure syphilis, to perform marvellous operations, and so forth, we should not pride ourselves on these acquisitions, supposing them to be incontestable, if we fully understood the actual significance of true science. If only one-tenth of those forces which are now wasted on articles of mere curiosity and practical application were spent on true science, which establishes men’s lives, the greater half of the people who now are sick would have none of the diseases a tiny part of which is being cured in clinics and hospitals ; there would not be brought up in factories anæmic, hunchbacked children ; there would not be, as there is now, a mortality of fifty per cent, of the children ; there would not be any degeneration of whole generations ; there would be no prostitution; there would be no syphilis; there would be no slaughter of hundreds of thousands at war ; there would not be those terrors of madness and suffering which modern science now considers to be an indispensable condition of human life.

We have so distorted the concept of science that it seems strange to the men of our time to hear mentioned sciences which would abolish the mortality of children, prostitution, syphilis, the degeneration of whole generations, and the mass murder of men. It seems to us that science is science only when a man in the laboratory pours liquids from one glass into another, decomposes a spectrum, cuts up frogs and guinea-pigs, in a peculiar scientific jargon spins out dim, barely comprehensible even to him, theological, philosophical, historical, juridical, economical laces of conventional phrases, the purpose of which it is to prove that what is ought to be.

But science, true science, — a science which would really command the respect which the men of the one, least important part of science now demand, — does not at all consist in this ; true science consists in finding out what we should believe, and what not, — in finding out how the aggregate life of men ought to be arranged, and how not: how to regulate the sexual relations, how to educate the children, how to make use of the land, how to work it without oppressing other men, how to act toward foreigners, how to treat animals, and many other things which are of importance in the life of men.

Such has true science always been, and such it ought to be. And such science is germinating in our time ; but, on the one hand, such true science is denied and rejected by all those learned men who defend the existing order of things ; on the other hand, it is considered to be an empty, unnecessary, unscientific science by those who busy themselves with the experimental sciences.

There have appeared, for example, works and sermons which prove the obsoleteness and insipidity of the religious fanaticism, the necessity for establishing a rational religious world conception in conformity with the times, and many theologians are busy overthrowing these works and ever anew sharpening their wits for the support and justification of long outlived superstitions. Or there appears a sermon which preaches that one of the chief causes of the calamities of the masses is thé landlessness of the proletariat, as it is found in the West. One would think that science, true science, would acclaim such a sermon and would work out the farther deductions from this proposition. But the science of our time does not do anything of the kind ; on the contrary, political economy proves the reverse, namely, that the ownership of land, like any other ownership, ought more and more to be concentrated in the hands of a small number of landowners, as is, for example, asserted by the modern Marxists. Even so, it would seem, it is the business of true science to prove the irrationality and profitlessness of war, of capital punishment, or the inhumanity and perniciousness of prostitution, or the senselessness, harm, and immorality of the use of narcotics and of animal food, or the irrationality, harmfulness, and obsoleteness of the patriotic fanaticism. There are such works, but they are all considered unscientific. Scientific are considered those which prove that all these phenomena ought to be, or those which busy themselves with questions of idle curiosity, which have no relation to human life.

Most striking is the deviation of the science of our time from its true mission, when we view the ideals which some men of science set up for themselves and which are not denied and are acknowledged by the majority of the learned.

These ideals are not only expressed in foolish fashionable books, which describe the world one thousand or three thousand years hence, but also by sociologists who consider themselves to be serious scholars. These ideals consist in this, that the food, instead of being obtained by agriculture and cattle-raising from the land, will be prepared chemically in laboratories, and that human labour will nearly all give way to the utilized forces of Nature.

A man will not, as now, eat an egg laid by a hen which he has raised, or bread which has grown in his field, or an apple from a tree which he has for years cared for and which has blossomed and matured in his sight; he will eat savoury, nourishing food which will be prepared in laboratories by the combined labours of many men, in which he will take a small part.

There will hardly be any need of work, so that all men will be able to devote themselves to that very idleness to which the highest, ruling classes abandon themselves now.

Nothing shows more obviously than these ideals to what extent the science of our time has departed from its true path.

The men of our time, an enormous majority of men, have no good or sufficient nourishment (precisely the same refers to the habitation, the attire, and all the prime necessities). Besides, this same enormous majority of men is compelled without cessation to work above its strength at the cost of its well-being. And either calamity is very easily set aside by the abolition of the mutual struggle with luxury, with the irregular distribution of wealth, in general, by the abolition of the false, harmful order of things and the establishment of the rational life of men. But science takes the existing order of things to be as variable as the motion of the luminaries, and considers that, therefore, the problem of science is not the elucidation of the falseness of this order and the establishment of a new rational order of life, but how under the existing order to feed all men and give them a chance to be as idle as are now the ruling classes of those who live a debauched life.

With this they forget that feeding on bread, vegetables, fruit, raised by one’s own labour on the land, is an exceedingly agreeable and wholesome, easy and natural manner of alimentation, and that the work of exercising one’s muscles is just as indispensable a condition of life as the oxidation of the blood by means of breathing.

To invent means for people, with that false distribution of property and labour, to be able to feed well on chemically prepared foods and at the same time to compel the forces of Nature to work for them, is the same as inventing means for pumping oxygen into the lungs of a man who is in a closed apartment with foul air, when all that is necessary is not to keep this man in the closed apartment.

The laboratory for the production of food is established in the world of plants and animals, and is such that no professors will ever build any better ones, and in order to enjoy the fruits of this laboratory and to take part in it, a man has only to abandon himself to the ever joyous necessity of labour, without which life is agonizing. And now the men of science of our century, instead of using all their forces for the removal of everything which keeps man from utilizing these benefactions which are established for him, recognize the condition in which man is deprived of these benefactions as invariable, and, instead of arranging the lives of men in such a way that they may work with joy and live on the products of the earth, they invent means for making artificial monstrosities of them. It is the same as though, instead of bringing a man out from confinement into the fresh air, they were to invent means for pumping into him as much oxygen as possible, and make it possible for him to live in a close basement, instead of living in a house.

There could not exist such false ideals, if science were not following a false path.

And yet the sensations which are conveyed by art are conceived on the basis of the data of science.

What sensations can such a science, which is following a false path, evoke ? One division of this science evokes obsolete sensations, which humanity has outlived, and which are bad and exclusive for our time. The other division, which busies itself with subjects that have no relation to human life, can by its very essence not serve as a foundation for art.

Thus the art of our time, to be art, must itself, in spite of science, lay out a path for itself, or make use of indications by the unsanctioned science which is denied by the orthodox part of science. It is precisely this that art does, when it even partially performs its mission.

It is to be hoped that the work which I have attempted concerning art, will also be done in respect to science ; that the incorrectness of the theory of science for science’s sake will be indicated to men ; that the necessity of recognizing the Christian teaching in its true significance will be clearly indicated ; and that on the basis of this teaching a new valuation will be made of the science which we possess and on which we pride ourselves ; that the secondary importance and insignificance of the experimental sciences, and the prime importance and significance of the religious, moral, and social sciences will be shown, and that these sciences will not, as at present, be left to the guidance of the higher classes alone, but will form the chief object of all those free and truth-loving men who, not always at one with the higher classes, but diametrically opposed to them, have promoted the true science of life.

But the mathematical, astronomic, physical, chemical, and biological sciences, just like the technical and medical sciences, will be studied only in that proportion in which they contribute to the liberation of men from religious, juridical, and social deceptions, or will serve for the good of all men, and not of one class.

Only then will science cease to be what it is now, — on the one hand, a system of sophisms, necessary for the support of the obsolete order of life, on the other, a formless heap of all kinds of sciences, for the most part little or not at all necessary, — and be a harmonious organic whole, which has a definite, comprehensible and rational destination, which is, to introduce into the consciousness of men those truths which result from the religious consciousness of our time.

Only then will art, which is always dependent on science, be what it can and should be, — just as important an organ of life and of the progress of humanity as is science.

Art is not an enjoyment, a diversion ; art is a great thing. Art is an organ of the life of humanity, which transfers the rational consciousness of men into feeling. In our time the common religious consciousness of men is the recognition of the brotherhood of men and of their good in their mutual union. True art must indicate the different manners of applying this consciousness to life. Art must transfer this consciousness into feeling.

The problem of art is enormous ; true art, which by means of science is guided by religion, ought to have this effect, that the peaceable cohabitation of men, which now is sustained by external means, by courts, the police, charitable institutions, inspection of labour, and so forth, might be attained through the free and joyous activity of men. Art should remove violence.

And it is only art which can do it.

Everything which now, independently of the terror of violence and punishment, makes possible the common life of men (and in our time a very large portion of the order of life is already based upon it), has been accomplished by art. If art has transmitted the custom of treating religious subjects in this way, and parents, children, wives, relatives, strangers, foreigners, elders, superiors, sufferers, enemies, animals, — and this custom has been observed by generations of millions of men, not only without the least sign of violence, but also in such a way that it cannot in any way be shaken, except by art, — then the same art may be able to evoke other customs, which are more in keeping with the religious consciousness of our time. If art could transmit to us the sentiment of awe before an image before communion, before the person of the king, shame before treason to friendship, loyalty to the flag, the necessity of vengeance for an offence, the demand for the sacrifice of one’s labours for the erection and adornment of temples, the obligation of defending one’s honour or the glory of one’s country, — the same art is able to evoke a feeling of awe before the dignity of every man, before the life of every animal, shame in the presence of luxury, of violence, of vengeance, of the use for one’s pleasure of such articles as are indispensable to other men ; it is able to make people freely and joyously, without noticing it, sacrifice themselves for the service of men.

Art must effect this, that the sentiments of the brotherhood and the love of one’s neighbour, which now are accessible only to the best men of society, should become habitual sentiments, instincts of all men. Evoking in men, under imaginary conditions, sentiments of brotherhood and love, religious art will teach people in reality, under the same conditions, to experience the same sentiments, to lay in the souls of men those rails on which naturally will proceed the acts of the lives of men who are educated by that art. By uniting all the most varied men in one feeling and destroying the disunion, the universal art will educate men for union, and will show them, not through reflection, but through life itself, the joy of the universal union outside the obstacles placed by life.

The mission of art in our time consists in transferring from the sphere of reason into the sphere of feeling the truth that the good of men is in their union among themselves, and in establishing in place of the now existing violence that kingdom of God, that is, of love, which to all of us appears as the highest aim of the life of humanity.

Maybe, in the future, science will open up to art other new, higher ideals, and art will realize them ; but in our time the mission of art is clear and definite. The problem of Christian art is the realization of the brotherly union of men.

APPENDIX I.

L ACCUEIL

Si tu veux que ce soir, à Pâtre je t’accueille Jette d’abord la fleur, qui de ta main s’effeuille; Son cher parfum ferait ma tristesse trop sombre ;

Et ne regarde pas derrière toi vers l’ombre, Car je te veux, ayant oublié la forêt Et le vent, et l’écho et ce qui parlerait Voix à ta solitude ou pleurs à ton silence ! Et debout, avec ton ombre qui te devance, Et hautaine sur mon seuil, et pâle, et vénue Comme si j’étais mort ou que tu fusses nue !

— Henri de Régnier : Les jeux rustiques et divins

, V.

“ Oiseau bleu couleur du temps.”

Sais-tu l’oubli Sais-tu le chant

D’un vain doux rêve De sa parole Oiseau moqueur Et de sa voix,

De la forêt ? Toi qui redis

Le jour pâlit, Dans le couchant

La nuit se lève, Ton air frivole

Et dans mon cœur Comme autrefois L’ombre a pleuré ; Sous les midis ? O, chante moi O, chante alors

Ta folle gamine, La mélodie

Car j’ai dormi De son amour,

Ce jour durant; Mon fol espoir,

Le lâche émoi Parmi les ors

Où fut mon âme Et l’incendie Sanglote emmî Du vain doux jour.

Le jour mourant. Qui meurt ce soir.

— Francis Vielé -Griffin : Poèmes et Poe’sies.

BERCEUSE D’OMBRE

Des formes, des formes, des formes Blanche, bleue, et rose, et d’or Descendront du haut des ormes Sur l’enfant qui se rendort. Des formes !

Des plumes, des plumes, des plumes Pour composer un doux nid. Midi sonne : les enclumes Cessent; la rumeur finit… .

Des plumes!

Des roses, des roses, des roses Pour embaumer son sommeil Vos pétales sont moroses Près du sourire vermeil.

O roses!

Des ailes, des ailes, des ailes

Pour bourdonner à son front. Abeilles et demoiselles, Des rythmes qui berceront.

Des ailes 1

Des branches, des branches, des branches Pour tresser un pavillon Par où des clartés moins franches Descendront sur l’oisillon.

Des branches!

Des songes, des songes, des songes.

Dans ses pensera entr’ouverts Glissez un peu de mensonges A voir la vie au travers.

Des songes !

Des fées, des fées, des fées

Pour filer leurs écheveaux De mirages, de bouffées Dans tous ces petits cerveaux.

Des fées !

Des anges, des anges, des anges Pour emporter dans l’éther Les petits enfants étranges Qui ne veulent pas rester

Non anges… .

APPENDIX II.

Here are the contents of the Ring of the Nibelung.

In the first part we are told that the nymphs, the daughters of the Rhine, are for some reason guarding some kind of gold in the Rhine, and singing, “Weia Waga, Woge du Welle, Welle zur Wiege, Wage zur Wiege, Wage la Weia, Wala la Weele, Weia,” and so forth. The nymphs who are singing in this manner are persecuted by the dwarf Nibelung, who wants to get possession of them. The dwarf is unable to catch even one of them. Then the nymphs who are guarding the gold tell the dwarf what they ought to conceal, namely, that he who declines the love can steal the gold which they are guarding. And the dwarf declines their love and seizes the gold. This is the first scene.

In the second scene, in a field, in the sight of a city, lie a god and a goddess ; then they awake and admire the city which giants have built for them, and they discuss about giving Goddess Freia to the giants for their work. The giants come to get their pay; but God Wotan does not want to give up Goddess Freia. The giants are angry. The gods learn that the dwarf has stolen the gold, and they promise to take this gold back and to give it to the giants for their work. But the giants do not believe them and seize Goddess Freia, whom they hold as a pledge.

The third scene takes place underground. Dwarf Alberich, who has stolen the gold, for some reason beats the dwarf Mime and takes away his helmet, which has the property of making man invisible and changing him into other beings. There arrive the gods, Wotan and others, and they scold one another and the dwarfs ; they want to take away the gold, but Alberich does not give it to them, and, as all of them are doing all the time, acts in such a way as to bring ruin on himself : he puts on the helmet, and is changed into a dragon, and later into a frog. The gods catch the frog, take the helmet down from it, and carry Alberich off with them.

The fourth scene consists in this, that the gods have Alberich brought in, ordering him to command his dwarfs to bring all the gold to them. The dwarfs bring it. Alberich gives up all the gold, but keeps for himself a magic ring. The gods take the ring away, too. For this Alberich curses the ring and says that it will bring misfortune to all who shall own it. There arrive the giants, bringing with them Goddess Freia and demanding a ransom. Stakes, of the size of Freia’s stature, are put up and covered with gold, — that is the ransom. There is not enough gold ; the helmet is thrown on the heap ; the ring is demanded. Wotan does not give it, but there appears Goddess Erda, who commands that the ring be given up, because misfortune comes from it. Wotan gives it. Freia is liberated, but the giants, having received the ring, quarrel, and one of them kills another. This is the end of the Vorspiel, — there begins the first day.

A tree is placed in the middle of the stage. Siegmund comes running in ; he is tired, and he lies down. Enter Sieglinde, the hostess, Hunding’s wife ; she gives him a love-potion, and they fall in love with one another. Enter Sieglinde’s husband ; he learns that Siegmund belongs to an unfriendly race, and intends to fight him the next day ; but Sieglinde gives her husband an intoxicating potion and goes to Siegmund. Siegmund learns that Sieglinde is his sister and that his father struck a sword into a tree, so that no one is able to take it out. Siegmund pulls out the sword and commits incest with his sister.

In the second action Siegmund is to fight with Hunding. The gods discuss to whom to give the victory. Wotan wants to take care of Siegmund, approving of the act of incest with his sister, but, under the influence of his wife Fricka, he orders the Valkyrie Briinnhilde to kill Siegmund. Siegmund proceeds to fight. Sieglinde faints. Briinnhilde arrives ; she wants to starve him ; Siegmund wants to kill Sieglinde, but Briinnhilde commands him not to do so, and he fights with Hunding. Briinnhilde defends Siegmund, but Wotan defends Hunding, and Siegmund’s sword is broken and Siegmund is killed. Sieglinde runs away.

Third act. The Valkyries on the Stage. They are heroines. Valkyrie Briinnhilde on horseback arrives with Siegmund. She runs away from Wotan, who is angry with her on account of her disobedience. Wotan catches up with her and to punish her for her disobedience discharges her from her Valkyrie-ship. He puts a charm on her, so that she has to fall asleep and remain asleep until a man wakes her. When she is on the point of waking, she will fall in love with a man. Wotan kisses her, and she falls asleep. He discharges fire, and the fire surrounds her.

The contents of the second day consist in this, that the dwarf Mime is forging a sword in the forest. Enter Siegfried. He is the son who was born from the incest of the brother Siegmund and the sister Sieglinde, and who was brought up in the forest by a dwarf. Siegfried learns of his origin and that the broken sword is his father’s sword, and orders Mime to forge it, and himself goes away. Enter Wotan in the form of a pilgrim; he says that he who has not learned to be afraid will forge a sword and will conquer all. The dwarf guesses that this is Siegfried, and wants to poison him. Siegfried returns, forges his father’s sword, and runs away.

The second action of the second act consists in this, that Alberich sits and watches the giant, who, in the form of a dragon, watches the gold which he has received. Enter Wotan, who for some unknown reason tells that Siegfried will come and will kill the dragon. Alberich wakes the dragon and asks the ring of him, promising for this to defend him against Siegfried. The dragon does not give up the ring. Exit Alberich. Enter Mime and Siegfried. Mime hopes that the dragon will teach Siegfried fear ; but Siegfried is not afraid, drives away Mime, and kills the dragon ; after that he puts to his lips his finger, on which is the blood of the dragon, and from this he learns the secret thoughts of men and the language of the birds. The birds tell him where the treasure and the ring are, and that Mime wants to kill him. Enter Mime, who says aloud that he wants to poison Siegfried. These words are to mean that Siegfried, having tasted the dragon’s blood, understands the secret thoughts of men. Siegfried finds out his thoughts, and kills him. The birds tell him where Briinnhilde is, and Siegfried goes to her.

In the third act Wotan sends for Erda. Erda prophesies to Wotan, and gives him advice. Enter Siegfried, who exchanges words with Wotan and fights. Suddenly it appears that Siegfried’s sword breaks that spear of Wotan, which was more powerful than anything. Siegfried goes into the fire where Briinnhilde is ; he kisses Briinnhilde ; she awakens, bids farewell to her divinity, and throws herself into Siegfried’s embrace.

Third day.

Three Nomas are weaving a golden rope and talking of the future. The Nomas go away, — and there appears Siegfried with Briinnhilde. Siegfried bids her goodbye, gives her the ring, and goes away.

First act. On the Rhine a king wants to get married and to get his sister married. Hagen, the king’s bad brother, advises him to take Briinnhilde, and to marry his sister off to Siegfried. Siegfried makes his appearance. He is given a love-potion, as a result of which he forgets the whole past, and falls in love with Guthrun and travels with Gunther to get Briinnhilde for him as a wife. Change of scenery. Briinnhilde is sitting with the ring ; a Valkyrie comes to her; she tells how Wotan’s spear was broken, and advises her to give the ring to the nymphs of the Rhine. Enter Siegfried, who by means of the magic helmet is changed into Gunther ; he demands the ring from Briinnhilde, tears it away from her, and drags her along to sleep with him.

Second act. On the Rhine Alberich and Hagen discuss how to obtain the ring. Enter Siegfried ; he tells of how he obtained a wife for Gunther and of how he had slept with her, but had placed his sword between them. Briinnhilde arrives ; she recognizes the ring on Siegfried’s hand, and accuses him of having been with her, instead of Gunther. Hagen provokes everybody against Siegfried, and decides that he will kill him the next day at the hunt.

Third act. Again the nymphs in the Rhine tell everything that has been ; enter Siegfried, who has lost his way. The nymphs ask the ring of him, but he does not give it. Enter hunters. Siegfried tells his story. Hagen gives him a drink, as a result of which his memory returns to him ; he tells how he awoke and obtained Briinnhilde, and all are surprised. Hagen strikes Siegfried in the back and kills him, and the scenery is changed. Guthrun meets Siegfried’s body ; Gunther and Hagen quarrel about the ring, and Hagen kills Gunther. Briinnhilde weeps. Hagen wants to take the ring off Siegfried’s finger, but the hand raises itself ; Briinnhilde takes the ring off Siegfried’s hand and, as Siegfried s body is being carried to the funeral pyre, she mounts her horse and rushes into the pyre. The Rhine rises and comes to the pyre. In the river are three nymphs. Hagen rushes into the fire, in order to fetch the ring, but the nymphs seize him and draw him along. One of them holds the ring.

The production is finished.

The impression which one gets from my story is naturally not complete. But, no matter how incomplete it is, it is certainly incomparably more advantageous than the one which is received from the reading of the four books in which it is printed.

THE CHRISTIAN TEACHING

by Leo Tolstoy

Translated from the Original Russian and edited by Leo Wiener

Assittant Professor of Slavic Languages at Harvard University

1897

FROM A LETTER TO THE RUSSIAN EDITOR

Of course, I consider this writing incomplete, and far from satisfying those demands which 1 myself would have made on it twenty years ago. But now I know that I shall not have the time to finish it, to bring it to a desired degree of lucidity ; at the same time I think that even in this form there will be found something which will be of use to men, and so print and edit it as it is. God willing, and if I shall be free from other work and shall have the strength for it, I shall return to this writing and shall try to make it simpler, clearer, and briefer.

Lev Tolstoy

September 2,1897.

INTRODUCTION

I lived to my fiftieth year, thinking that the life of man which passes from birth to death is all his life, and that, therefore, man’s aim is happiness in this mortal life, and I tried to receive this happiness ; but the longer I lived, the more obvious did it become to me that there is no such happiness, and that there can be none. The happiness which I was looking for did not come to me, and the one which 1 attained immediately stopped being happiness. At the same time my misfortunes grew more and more, and the inevitableness of death became more and more obvious, and 1 understood that after this senseless and unhappy life nothing was awaiting me but suffering, diseases, old age, and annihilation; 1 asked myself what this was for, and I received no answer. And 1 arrived at despair.

What some people told me and what I at times tried to convince myself of, that it was necessary to wish happiness not to oneself alone, but also to others, to friends, and to all men, did not satisfy me, in the first place, because I could not as sincerely desire happiness for other men as for myself, and, in the second place, and chiefly, because other men were like myself doomed to unhappiness and death. And so all my sufferings about their good were in vain.

I began to despair. But I thought that my despair might be due to the fact that I was a peculiar man, and that other men knew why they lived and so did not arrive at despair.

And I began to observe other jieoplc, but the other people knew as little as I why they were living. Some tried to drown this ignorance in the bustle of life ; others persuaded themselves and others that they believed in different religions, which were impressed upon them in childhood ; but it was impossible for me to believe in what they believed, it was so stupid ; and many of them, it seemed to me, only pretended that they believed, whereas in the depth of their hearts they did not believe.

I was no longer able to continue bustling about : no amount of bustling concealed the question which constantly stood before me, and I could not begin anew to believe in the faith which 1 had been taught in my childhood and which, when I grew strong in mind, fell off me by itself. But the more 1 studied, the more did I convince myself that there could be no truth in it, that there was here nothing but hypocrisy and the selfish views of deceivers, and the weak-mindedness, stubbornness, and terror of the deceived.

To say nothing of the inner contradictions of this teaching, of its baseness and cruelty in recognizing God as punishing men with eternal torments,1 the chief thing which did not permit me to believe in this teaching was this, that I knew that side by side with this Orthodox Christian teaching, which asserted that it alone had the truth, there was another, a Catholic Christian, a third, a Lutheran, a fourth, a Reformed teaching, — and all other kinds of Christian teachings, — each of which asserted in regard to itself that it alone possessed the truth ; I knew also this, that side by side with these Christian teachings there existed also non-Christian religious teachings,— Buddhism, Brahmanism, Mohammedanism, Confucianism, and others, — which similarly considered themselves alone in the truth and all other teachings in error.

’ All these contradictions, insipidities, and cruelties I expounded in detail in a book, Critique of Dogmatic Theology, in which all the church dogmas of Orthodox Theology are analyzed, proposition after proposition. — Author’s Sote.

And so I could not return to the faith in which I had been instructed from my childhood, nor believe in any one of those which other nations professed, because in all of them were the same contradictions, insipidities, miracles, which denied all other faiths, and, above all else, the same deception of demanding blind faith in their teaching.

Thus I became convinced that in the existing faiths I should not find a solution to my question and an alleviation of my sufferings. My despair was such that I was near to committing suicide.

But here 1 found salvation. This salvation was due to this, that 1 had from childhood retained the idea that in the Gospel there was an answer to my question In this teaching, in the Gospel, in spite of all the distortions to which it has been subjected in the doctrine of the Christian church, 1 felt there was the truth. And I made a last effort : rejecting all the interpretations of the Gospel teaching, I began to read and study the gospels, and to penetrate their meaning ; and the more 1 penetrated the meaning of this book, the more something new became clear to me, something which did not at all resemble that which the Christian churches teach, but which answered the question of my life. And finally the answer became quite clear.

And this answer was not only clear, but also indubitable, in the first place, in that it completely coincided with the demands of my reason and of my heart ; in the second, in that when I understood it, I saw that this answer was not my exclusive interpretation of the Gospel, as might seem, and not even the exclusive revelation of Christ, but that this same answer to the question of life had more or less clearly been expressed by all the best men of humanity before and after the Gospel, beginning with Moses, Isaiah, Confucius, the ancient Greeks, Buddha, Socrates, and ending with Pascal, Spinoza, Fichte, Feuerbach, and all those often unnoticed and inglorious men who have thought and talked of the meaning of life in a sincere manner, without taking any teachings upon faith. Thus, in the knowledge which I drew from the truth of the gospels, I was not only not alone, but in agreement with all the best men of the past and the present. And I became firm in this truth, and was calmed after that, and have joyfully lived twenty years of my life, and joyfully approach death.

And this answer to the meaning of my life, which gave me complete peace and joy of life, 1 wish to communicate to men.

By my age and the condition of my health I stand with one foot in the grave, and so human considerations have no meaning for me, and if they had, I know that the exposition of my faith not only will not contribute to my well-being, nor to people’s good opinion of me, but, on the contrary, can only agitate and embitter, not only the nonbelievers, who demand of me literary writings, and not discussions of faith, but also the believers who are provoked by all my religious writings and scold me for them. Besides, in all probability this writing will become known to people only after my death. And so I am not incited by personal advantage to do what I am doing, nor by fame, nor by worldly considerations, but only by the fear lest I may not fulfil what is wanted of me by Him who sent me into this world and to whom I expect to return any moment.

And so I beg all those who will read this, to read and understand my writing, by rejecting as I do all worldly considerations and having in view nothing but the eternal principle of truth and the good, by the will of which we came into this world and very soon will disappear as bodily beings, and without haste or irritation to understand and discuss what 1 am giving utterance to, and in case of disagreement to correct me, not with contempt and hatred, but with sympathy and love ; and in case of a disagreement with me to remember that if I speak the truth, this truth is not mine, but God’s, and that only fortuitously a part of it is passing through me, just as it passes through every one of us, when we Lind out the truth and communicate it to others.

THE CHRISTIAN TEACHING

PART THE FIRST

THE ANCIENT RELIGIONS AND THE NEW CONCEPT OF LIFE

I. THE ANCIENT RELIGIONS

1. At all times, since most remote antiquity, people have felt the wretchedness, insecurity, and meaninglessness of their existence and have tried to find a salvation from this wretchedness in the belief in God or gods who might free them from the various evils of this life and might in the future life give them that good which they wished for, and could not receive in this life.

2. And so, since most remote antiquity and among all the nations, there have existed all kinds of preachers who taught men about what God or the gods were who could save men, and about what ought to be done in order to please this God or these gods in order to receive a reward in this or in the future life.

3. Some religious teachings taught that this God is the sun and is personified in various animals; others taught that the gods are the heaven and the earth ; others — that God created the world and chose one favourite people from among all the nations ; others — that there are many gods, and that they take part in the

affairs of men; others — that God, having assumed a human form, came down upon earth.

And all these teachers, mixing truth with the lie, demanded from men, not only the desistance from acts which were considered bad and the performance of such as were considered good, but also sacraments, and sacrifices, and prayers, which more than anything else were to guarantee to people their good in this world and in the world to come.

II. THE INSUFFICIENCY OF THE ANCIENT RELIGIONS

4. But the longer people lived, the less and less did these religions satisfy the souls of men.

5. Men saw that, in the first place, happiness, after which they were striving, was not attained in this world, in spite of satisfying the demands of God or of the gods.

6. In the second place, in consequence of the dissemination of enlightenment, the confidence in what the religious teachers preached about God, about the future life, and about the rewards in it, grew weaker and weaker, since it did not coincide with the more enlightened conceptions of the world.

7. If formerly men could be unhampered in their belief that God created the world six thousand years ago, that the earth is the centre of the universe, that under the earth there is hell, that God came down upon earth and then flew back to heaven, and so forth, they can no longer believe in it, because they know for sure that the world has existed, not six thousand, but hundreds of thousands of years, that the earth is not the centre of the universe, but only a very small planet in comparison with other celestial bodies, and they know that there can be nothing under the earth, since the earth is a globe; they know that it is impossible to ily to heaven, because there is no heaven, but only a seeming vault of heaven.

8. In the third place, and chiefly, the confidence in these various teachings was undermined by this, that men, entering into closer interrelations, learned that in every country the religious teachers preach their particular doctrine, recognizing their own as true, and rejecting all the others.

And men, knowing this, naturally drew the conclusion from it that not one of these doctrines is more true than any other, and that, therefore, none of them can be accepted as an undoubted and infallible truth.

III. THE NEED FOR A NEW RELIGION, TO CORRESPOND WITH THE DEGREE OF HUMANITY’S ENLIGHTENMENT

9. The unattainableness of happiness in this world, the progressing enlightenment of humanity, and the intercourse of people among themselves, in consequence of which they learned of the religions of other nations, had this effect, that the confidence of people in the religions transmitted to them grew weaker and weaker.

10. At the same time, the need of explaining the meaning of life and of solving the contradiction between the striving after happiness and life on the one hand, and the ever growing consciousness of the inevitableness of misery and death on the other, became more and more insistent.

11. Man wishes the good for himself, sees in this the meaning of his life, and, the longer he lives, the more he sees that the good is impossible for him ; man wishes for life, for its continuation, and sees that he and everything existing around him are doomed to inevitable destruction and disappearance ; man possesses reason and seeks for a rational explanation of the phenomena of life, and does not find any rational explanation for his own life or for that of another being.

12. If in antiquity the consciousness of this contradiction between human life, demanding the good and its own continuation, and the inevitableness of death and suffering was accessible to the best minds only, such as Solomon, Buddha, Socrates, Lao-tse, and others, this has of late become a truth which is accessible to all men ; and so the solution of this contradiction has become more necessary than ever.

13. And exactly at a time when the solution of the contradiction between the striving after the good and life and the consciousness of their impossibility became exceedingly vexing and necessary for humanity, it was given to men through the Christian teaching in its true significance.

IV. WHAT THE SOLUTION OF THE CONTRADICTION OF LIFE AND THE EXPLANATION OF ITS MEANING, AS GIVEN BY THE CHRISTIAN RELIGIOUS DOCTRINE IN ITS TRUE SIGNIFICANCE, CONSISTS IN

14. The ancient religions endeavoured, with their assurances about the existence of God the creator, the provider, and the redeemer, to conceal the contradiction of the human life ; but the Christian teaching, on the contrary, shows men this contradiction in all its force ; it shows them what it ought to be, and from the recognition of the contradiction draws the solution of it. The contradiction consists in the following :

15. Indeed, on the one hand man is an animal, so long as he lives in the body, and on the other he is a spiritual being, denying all the animal demands of man.

16. Man lives during the first part of his life without knowing that he lives, so that it is not he who lives, but through him that life force which lives in everything we know.

17. Man begins to live only when he knows that be is living ; and he knows that he is living, when he knows that he wishes the good for himself, and that the other beings wish the same. This knowledge is given to him by his awakened reason.

18. When he learns that he lives and wishes the good for himself, and that the other beings wish the same, he inevitably learns also this, that the good which he wishes for his separate being is inaccessible to him, and that instead of the good which he wishes there await him inevitable suffering and death. The same await all the other beings. There appears the contradiction, for which man seeks a solution with which his life, such as it is, may have a rational meaning. He wants life to continue to be what it was previous to the awakening of his reason, that is, completely animal, or that it may be entirely spiritual.

19. Man wants to be an animal or an angel, but can be neither the one nor the other.

20. And here appears the solution of the contradiction, which is given by the Christian teaching. It tells man that he is neither an animal, nor an angel, but an angel born of an animal, — a spiritual being burn of the animal, — and that our sojourn in this world is nothing but this birth.

V. WHAT DOES THE BIRTH OF THE SPIRITUAL BEING CONSIST IN ?

21. The moment man awakens to rational consciousness, this consciousness tells him that he wishes the good ; and since his rational consciousness has awakened in his separate being, it seems to him that his desire for the good has reference to his separate existence.

22. But the same rational consciousness, which shows him to himself as a separate being wishing his good, shows him also that this separate being does not correspond to that desire for the good and for life which he ascribes to it ; he sees that this separate being can have neither the good nor life.

23. “What, then, has the true life?” he asks himself, and he sees that neither he nor the beings that surround him have the true life, but only that he wishes for the good.

24. Having learned this, man ceases to recognize his bodily and mortal existence as separate from the rest, but recognizes that spiritual and so non-mortal existence, inseparable fiom the rest, which is revealed to him by his rational consciousness.

In this consists the birth of the new spiritual being in man.

VI. WHAT IS THAT BEING WHICH IS BORN IN MAN?

25. The being which is revealed to man by his rational consciousness is the desire for the good, the same desire for the good which even before formed the aim of his life, but with this difference, that the desire for the good of the former being had reference to the separate bodily being alone, and was not conscious of itself, but the present desire for the good is conscious of itself and so does not refer to anything separate, but to everything in existence.

26. During the first period of the awakening of reason it appeared to man that the desire for the good which he recognizes in himself has reference only to the body in which it is enclosed.

27. But the clearer and firmer reason became, the clearer it grew that the true being, man’s true ego, the moment it becomes conscious of itself, is not his body, which has no true life, but the desire for the good in itself, in other words, the desire for the good for everything in existence.

28. But the desire for the good for everything in existence is what gives life to everything in existence, that which we call God.

29. Thus the being which is revealed to man by his consciousness, the being which is being born, is what gives life to everything in existence, — is God.

VII. GOD, ACCORDING TO THE CHRISTIAN TEACHING COGNIZED BY MAN IN HIMSELF

30. According to the former doctrines about the cognition of God, man had to believe what other people told him about God, about how God created the world and men, and then made himself manifest to men ; but according to the Christian teaching, man by means of bis consciousness cognizes God immediately in himself.

31. In himself consciousness shows to man that the essence of his life is the desire for the good for everything in existence, something inexplicable and inexpressible, and at the same time something most near and comprehensible to man.

32. The beginning of the desire for the good appeared in man in the beginning, as the life of his separate animal existence : then as the life of those beings whom he loved ; then, from the time that the rational consciousness awoke in him, it appeared as the desire for the good for everything in existence. But the desire for the good for everything in existence is the beginning of all life, is love, is God, as it says in the Gospel that God is love.

VIII. GOD, ACCORDING TO THE CIIRISTIAN TEACHING COGNIZED BY MAN OUTSIDE HIMSELF

33. But outside of God as recognized, according to the Christian teaching, in oneself, as a desire for the good for everything in existence, as love, man, according to the Christian teaching, recognizes God also outside of himself in everything in existence.

34. While recognizing in his separate body God’s spiritual and indivisible existence, and seeing the presence of the same God in everything living, man cannot help but ask himself why God, a spiritual, one, and indivisible God, has enclosed himself in the separate bodies of the beings and in the body of the separate man.

35. Why has the spiritual and one being, as it were, divided itself up in itself ? Why has the divine essence been imprisoned in conditions of separation and corporeality ? Why is the immortal contained in the mortal ? bound up with it ?

36. There can be but one answer: there is a higher will, whose aims are inaccessible to man. And it is this will which placed man and everything in existence under the conditions in which all is. It is this cause which for some aims, that are incomprehensible to man, enclosed itself,— the desire for the good for everything in existence, — love, — in beings distinct from the rest of the world, that is, that very God whom man recognizes in himself, who is recognized by man without himself.

Thus God, according to the Christian religion, is that essence of life which man recognizes in himself and in everything in the world, as the desire for the good ; and, at the same time, that cause through which this essence is enclosed in conditions of separate and corporeal life.

God, according to the Christian teaching, is that father, as is said in the Gospel, who has sent into the world his son who is like him, in order to fulfil in it his will,— the good of everything in existence.

IX. THE CONFIRMATION OF THE TRUTH OF THE CHRISTIAN CONCEPT OF LIFE BY THE EXTERNAL CONFIRMATION OF GOD.

37. God is manifested in rational man as the desire for the good for everything in existence, and in the world, in separate beings, each of which is striving after its good.

38. Though it is not known, and cannot be known, to man why it was necessary for the one spiritual being, God, to manifest himself in rational man as the desire for the good for everything in existence and in the separate beings as the desire for the good for each one in particular, man cannot help but see that both reduce themselves to one nearest, definite, accessible, and joyous aim for man.

39. This aim is revealed to man through observation, and tradition, and reflection. Observation shows that all motion in the lives of men — in so far as it is known to them — consists only in this, that formerly divided and mutually hostile beings and men are more and more being united and bound with one another in concord and interaction. Tradition shows man that all the sages of the world have taught humanity must from division pass to union, that, as the prophet says, all men are to be taught by God, and that the spears and swords are to be forged into pruning-hooks and ploughshares, and that, as Christ said, all shall be united, as I am one with my Father. Reflection shows man that the greatest good of men, toward which all men strive, can be attained only with the greatest union and concord of men.

40. And so, although the final end of the life of the world is concealed from man, he none the less knows wherein consists the nearest work of the life of the world, in which he is called to take a part : this work is the substitution of union and concord for division and discord.

41. Observation, tradition, reason show man that in this consists God’s work, in which he is called to take part, and the inner striving of the spiritual being which is being born in him draws him toward the same. .

42. The inner striving of the spiritual being which is being born in man is only this : the increase of love in himself. And it is this increase of love which alone cooperates with the work that is being done in the world, — the substitution of union and concord for disunion and struggle, — what in the Christian teaching is called the establishment of the kingdom of God.

43. So, if there could even be any doubt as to the truth of the Christian definition of the meaning of life, the coincidence of man’s inner striving, according to the Christian teaching, with the course of the whole world’s life, would confirm this truth.

X. IN WHAT DOES THE LIFE IN THIS WORLD, AS REVEALED TO MAN BY THE CHRISTIAN TEACHING, CONSIST?

44. Being born into the new life, man is conscious that in his existence, which is separate from all other beings, there is contained the desire for the good, not for himself alone, but also for everything in existence, — love.

45. If this desire for the good for everything in existence, this love, were not found in the separate being, it would not know of itself, and would remain always equal to itself : but being qontained within the limits of the separate being, man, it recognizes itself and its limits, and strives to tear asunder what binds it.

46. From its property, love, the desire for the good, strives to embrace everything in existence. Naturally, it expands its limits through love, — at first to the family, to wife and children, then to friends and countrymen ; but love is not satisfied with this, and strives to embrace everything in existence.

47. In this unceasing expansion of the limits of the sphere of love which forms the essence of the birth of the spiritual being, is contained the essence of man’s true life in this world. Man’s whole sojourn in this world, from birth until death, is nothing but the birth in him of the spiritual being. This unceasing birth is what in the Christian teaching is called the true life.

48. We may imagine that what forms our body, which now presents itself as a separate being, which we love preferably above all other beings, in its former, lower life was only a collection of beloved objects, which love united into one in such a way that in this life we feel it as our own self ; and that similarly our present love for what is accessible to us will in the future life form one indivisible whole, which will be as near to us as now our body is (in your Father’s house are many mansions).

XI. IN WHAT WAY DOES THE TRUE LIFE, AS REVEALED BY THE CHRISTIAN TEACHING, DIFFER FROM THE PREVIOUS LIFE ?

49. The difference between the personal life and the true life consists in this, that the aim of the personal life consists in the increase of the enjoyments of the external life and its continuation, and this aim, in spite of all efforts, will never be attained, because man has no power over external conditions, which interfere with enjoyment, or over all kinds of miseries, which may beset one at any time ; but the aim of the true life, which consists in the expansion of the sphere of love and its increase, cannot be interfered with in any way, since all external causes, such as violence, diseases, sufferings, which interfere with the attainment of the aims of the personal life, contribute to the attainment of the aim of the spiritual life.

50. The difference is the same as between the labourers who, having been sent to the master’s vineyard, as it says in the Gospel parable, decided that the vineyard belonged to them, and those who recognize themselves as labourers, and do what the master has commanded them.

PART THE SECOND

OF SINS

XII. WHAT HINDERS MAN FROM LIVING THE TRUE LIFE ?

51. In order to fulfil his mission man must increase love in himself and manifest it in the world, — and this increase of love and its manifestation in the world is what is needed for the accomplishment of God’s work. But what can man do for the manifestation of love ?

52. The basis of man’s life is the desire for the good for everything in existence. Love in man is contained within the limits of the separate being, and so naturally tends to expand its limits ; consequently man has nothing to do in order to manifest love in himself : il strives itself after its manifestation, and man needs but remove the obstacles to its progress. In what, then, do these obstacles consist ?

53. The obstacles which hinder man from manifesting love are contained in man’s body, in his separation from other beings; in this, that, beginning his life with babyhood, during which time he lives only the animal life of his separate existence, he even later on, when reason is awakened in him, can never fully renounce the striving after the good for his separate existence, and so commits acts which are contrary to love.

XIII. THE SIGNIFICANCE OF THE OBSTACLES TO THE MANIFESTATION OF LOVE

54. The desire for the good for everything in existence, — love, — striving after its manifestation, encounters ob—

stades to this manifestation in this, that man’s reason, which sets love free, dues not awaken in man at his appearance in the world, hut after a certain time, when he has already acquired certain habits of the animal life. Why so ?

55. Mau cannot help asking himself this : Why is the spiritual being, love, enclosed in man’s separate being ? And to this question various teachings have replied variously. Some, the pessimistic, answer by saying that the shutting up of the spiritual being in man’s body is a mistake which has to be corrected by the destruction of the body, by the destruction of the animal life. Other teachings answer by saying that the assumption of the existence of a spiritual being is a mistake which has to be corrected by recognizing only the body and its laws as actually existing. Neither teaching solves the contradiction ; they only fail to recognize, one — the legality of the body, the other — the legality of the spirit. It is only the Christian teaching that solves it.

56. In reply to the advice given by the tempter to Christ to destroy his life, if it is not possible for him according to his will to satisfy all the demands of his animal nature, Christ says that it is not right for us to oppose the will of God, who sent us into the world in the form of separate beings, but that in this life of the separate being we must serve one God only.

57. According to the Christian teaching, it is necessary for the solution of the contradiction of life not to destroy the life of the separate being itself, which would be contrary to the will of God who sent it, and not to submit to the demands of the animal life of each separate being, which would be contrary to the spiritual principle forming man’s true ego, but it is necessary for me to serve the one God in the body in which this true human ego is enclosed.

58. Man’s true ego is the infinite love which forms the basis of his life, and which lives in him and constantly strives to be increased. This love is contained within the limits of the animal life of the separate being, and always strives to be liberated from it.

59. In this liberation of the spiritual being from the animal personality, in this birth of the spiritual being lies the true life of each separate man and of all humanity.

60. Love in each separate man and in humanity is like steam which is compressed in a boiler: the steam, striving to expand, pushes the pistons and produces work.

Just as there have to be the obstacles of the walls, in order that the steam may do its work, so love, to produce its work, must have the obstacle of the limits of the separate being in which it is contained.

XIV. WHAT MUST MAN NOT DO, IN ORDER THAT HE MAY LIVE THE TRUE LIFE?

61. During his infancy, childhood, and sometimes even later, man lives as an animal, doing God’s will, which is cognized by him as the desire for the good for his separate being, and knows no other life.

62. Awakening to the rational consciousness, man, though knowing that his life is in the spiritual existence, continues to feel himself in the separate body, and, from his acquired habit of the animal life, commits acts which have for their aim the good of the separate personality and which are contrary to love.

63. Acting in this way, man deprives himself of the good of the true life and does not attain that aim of the good of the separate existence toward which he is striving, and so, acting thus, he commits sins. In these sins are contained the inherent obstacles to the manifestation of love in man.

64. These obstacles are increased by this, that men who lived before and committed sins transmit the habits and manners of their sins to future generations.

65. Thus every man, both because in his childhood he acquired the habit of the personal life of the separate being, and because these habits of the personal life are transmitted to him by tradition from his ancestors, is always subject to si us which interfere with the manifestation of love.

XV. THREE KINDS OF SIN

66. There are three kinds of sins which impede love : (<i) sins which arise from the ineradicable tendency of man, while he is living in the body, toward the good of his personality, — inborn, natural sins; (Z>) sins which arise from the tradition of human institutions and customs, which are directed to the increase of the good of separate persons, — inherited, social sins ; and (c) sins which arise from the tendency of the separate man toward a greater and greater increase of the good of his separate being, — personal, invented sins.

67. Inborn sins consist in this, that men assume the good to lie in the preservation and increase of the animal good of one’s own personality, bl very activity which is directed to the increase of the animal good of one’s own personality is such an inborn sin.

68. Inherited sins are sins which are committed by people when making use of the existing methods for the increase of the good of the separate personality, as established by men who lived before them. Every use of institutions and customs established for the good of one’s personality is such an inherited sin.

69. Personal invented sins are such as people commit, inventing, besides the inherited methods, new means for the increase of the good of their separate personality. Every newly invented means for the increase of the good of one’s separate being is a personal sin.

XVI. THE DIVISION OF THE SINS

70. There are six sins which impede the manifestation of love in men.

71. The sin of lust, which consists in preparing for oneself pleasures from the gratification of necessities.

72. The sin of idleness, which consists in freeing oneself from labour necessary for the gratification of necessities.

73. The sin of greed, which consists in preparing for oneself the possibility of the gratification of one’s necessities in the future.

74. The sin of the love of power, which consists in subjecting one’s like to oneself.

75. The sin of fornication, which consists in preparing for oneself enjoyments from the gratification of the sexual passion.

76. The sin of intoxication, which consists in producing an artificial excitation of one’s bodily and mental forces.

XVII. THE SIN OF LUST

77. Man has to satisfy his bodily needs, and in the unconscious state he, like any animal, fully satisfies them without restraining or intensifying them, and in this gratification of his need he finds his good.

78. But having awakened to a rational consciousness, it appears to man at first that the good of his separate being is contained in the gratification of his needs, and he invents means for the increase of enjoyment from the gratification of his needs, and tries to maintain the means, invented by men who lived before, for an agreeable gratification of needs, and himself invents new, still more agreeable means for their gratification. In this consists the sin of lust.

79. When a man cats, without being hungry, when he dresses himself, nut in order to defend himself against the cold, or builds a house, not in order to seek shelter in it from bad weather, but in order to increase the pleasure from the gratification of needs, he commits the inborn sin of lust.

80. But when a man is born and brought up in habits of superabundance in drink, food, raiment, habitation, and continues to use his superabundance, maintaining his habits, he commits the inherited sin of lust.

81. And when a man, living in luxury, invents still more new and agreeable means for the gratification of needs, such as are not employed by men around him, and in the place of his former simple food and drink introduces new, more refined ones, and in the place of his former raiment which covered his body provides himself with new, more beautiful garments, and instead of the former small, simple house builds himself a new one, with now adornments, and so forth, — he commits the personal sin of lust.

82. The sin of lust, whether inborn or inherited or personal, consists in this, that, striving after the good of his separate being, by means of the gratification of his needs, man, by intensifying these needs, impedes his birth to the new spiritual life.

83. Besides, the man who acts thus does not attain the aim toward which he is striving, liecause every intensification of his needs makes less probable the possibility of the gratification of lust and weakens the enjoyment from the gratification itself. The more frequently a man quenches his thirst, the more refined the food used by him is, the less enjoyment will he get from his eating. The same is true in relation to the gratification of all other animal needs.

XVIII. THE SIN OF IDLENESS

84. A man, like an animal, must exercise his strength. This strength is naturally directed to the preparation of objects necessary for the gratification of his needs. After the labour directed upon this, man, like any animal, needs rest.

85. In his unconscious state man, like an animal, while preparing for himself objects that are necessary for life, alternates labour with rest, and in this natural rest finds his good.

86. But having awakened to a rational consciousness, man separates the labour from the rest and, finding his rest more agreeable, tries to diminish his labour and to prolong his rest, compelling, through force or cunning, other people to serve his needs. In this consists the sin of idleness.

87. When a man, employing the labours of others, rests when he is still able to work, he commits the inborn sin of idleness.

88. But when a man is born and lives in such a state that he makes use of the labours of other men, without being put to the necessity of working himself, and maintains such an order of things, without working, making use of the labours of others, he commits the inherited sin of idleness.

89. But when a man, having been born and living among men who are accustomed without labour to exploit the work of other men, himself invents means for freeing himself from labours which he formerly performed himself, and imposes this work upon others; when a man, who used to clean his own clothes, makes another person do it, or who used to write letters himself, or kept his own accounts or himself attended to his affairs, makes others do all this, and himself uses his free time for rest or amusement, he commits the personal sin of idleness.

90. The fact that each man cannot do everything for himself, and that the division of labour frequently perfects and lightens labour, cannot serve as a justification of the liberation of oneself from labour in general or from hard labour, by substituting what is easy for it. Every production of labour which man employs demands from him a corresponding labour, and not a lightening of his labour or a complete liberation from it.

91. The sin of idleness, whether inborn, or inherited, or personal, consists in this, that, by stopping his labour and exploiting the labour of others, man does what is contrary to what he is destined to do, since the true good is acquired only through the activity of service.

92. Besides, a man who acts like this does not even attain what he is striving after, since the enjoyment from rest is obtained only after work. And the less work there is, the less there are enjoyments of rest.

XIX. THE SIN OF GREED

93. The position of a man iu the world is such that his bodily existence is made secure by general laws, to which man is subject together with all animals. Surrendering himself to his instinct, man must work, and the natural aim of Iris work is the gratification of needs, and this work always secures his existence with a surplus. Man is a social being, and the fruits of his work accumulate so much in society that, if there were not the sin of greed, every man who cannot work could always have what he needs for the gratification of his needs. And so the Gospel utterance about not taking any thought of the morrow, but living as the fowls of the air, is not a metaphor, but the assertion of an existing law of every animal social life. Even so it says in the Koran that there is not one animal in the world to whom God does not give sustenance.

94. But man, even after his awakening to rational consciousness, continues to imagine that his life consists in the good of his separate being, and since this being lives in time, man cares for the special security of the gratification of his needs in this future for himself and for his family.

95. But the special security in the future of the gratification of needs for himself and for his family is possible only by withholding from other people the objects of the needs, what is called property. And it is to the acquisition, retention, and increase of property that man directs his forces. In this consists the sin of greed.

96. When a man regards the food prepared or received by him for the morrow, or the raiment, or the cow for the winter for himself or for his family as exclusively his own, he commits the inborn crime of greed.

97. But when man with awakened consciousness finds himself under such conditions that he considers certain objects as exclusively his own, although these objects are not needed for the security of his life, and withholds these objects from others, he commits the inherited sin of greed.

98. And when man, who already has the objects which he wants for the security of his needs in his future and in the future of his family, and owns objects which are super!!nous for the support of his life, keeps acquiring new objects, and withholds them from others, he commits the personal sin of greed.

99. The sin of greed, whether inborn, or inherited, or personal, consists in this, that, trying to secure in the future the good of his separate being, and so acquiring objects and withholding them from others, man does what is contrary to what he is destined for; instead of serving men, he takes from them what is needed.

100. Besides, a man who acts thus never attains the aim toward which he is striving, since the future is not in man’s power, and man may die at any moment. But by wasting on the unknown and the possibly unrealizable future, he obviously commits an error.

XX. THE SIN OF LOVE OF POWER

101. Man, like the animal, is placed under such conditions that every gratification of his needs causes him to enter into a struggle with other beings.

102. Man’s animal life is sustained only at the cost of other beings. Struggle is the natural property and law of the animal life. And man, living an animal life previous to the awakening of consciousness in him, finds the good in this struggle.

103. But when in man there awakens the rational consciousness, it appears to him during the first of this awakening that his good is increased if he vanquishes and conquers as many beings as possible, and he uses his strength for the subjugation of men and beings. In this consists the sin of the love of power.

104. When man, in order to defend his personal good, considers it necessary to struggle, and struggles against those people and beings who want to subjugate him, he commits the inborn sin of the love of power.

105. But when man is born and brought up under certain conditions of power, whether he be bora a son of a king, a nobleman, a merchant, or a rich peasant, and, remaining in this position, does not put a stop to this struggle, which is at times imperceptible, but always necessary for the maintenance of one’s position, he commits the inherited sin of the love of power.

106. And when man, finding himself in certain constant conditions of struggle, and wishing to increase his good, does enter also into new conflicts with men and other beings, wishing to increase his power ; when he attacks his neighbour, in order to take possession of his property, his lands, or tries, by obtaining rights, a diploma, a rank, to occupy a higher position than he is occupying, or, wishing to increase his estate, enters into a struggle with his rivals and labourers, or enters into a struggle with other nations, he commits the personal sin of the love of power.

107. The sin of love of power, whether inborn, or inherited, or personal, consists in this, that, using his strength for the attainment of the good of his separate being by means of struggle, man does what is directly opposed to what is proper to the true life. Instead of increasing love in himself, that is, of destroying the barriers which separate him from other beings, he increases them.

108. Besides, by entering into a struggle with men and beings, man obtains the very opposite to what he is striving after. By entering into the struggle, he increases the probability that other beings will attack him, and that, instead of subjugating other beings, he will be vanquished by them. The more a man is successful in the struggle, the more tension is demanded of him in this struggle.

XXI. THE SIN OF FORNICATION

109. In man is implanted the need for preserving the species, — the sexual need, and man in his animal state, in surrendering himself to it, and cohabiting, thus fulfils his destiny, and in this fulfilment of his destiny finds his good.

110. But with the awakening of consciousness, man imagines that the gratification of this need may increase the good of his separate being, and he enters into sexual intercourse, not for the purpose of continuing the race, but of increasing his personal good. In this consists the sin of fornication.

111. The sin of fornication differs from all other sins in this, that while with all other sins a full continence from inborn sin is impossible, and only a diminution of the inborn sin is possible, in the sin of fornication a full continence from sin is possible. This is due to the fact that complete abstinence from the gratification of the needs of personality, from food, raiment, shelter, destroys the personality itself, just as the personality is destroyed by the absence of all rest, of all property, and of all struggle, but the continence from the sexual need — chastity, of one or of several — does not destroy the human race, what the sexual need is to support, since the continence of one, of several, and of many men from sexual intercourse does not destroy the human race. Thus the gratification of the sexual need is not obligatory for all men : to each individual man is given the possibility of continence from this need.

112. Man is, as it were, presented with the choice of two ways of serving God : either, remaining free from the marital life and its consequences, with his life to perform in this world everything man is destined by God to fulfil, or, having recognized his weakness, to transmit part of the fulfilment, or, at least, the possibility of the fulfilment of what is unfulfilled, to his begotten, nurtured, and reared posterity.

113. From this peculiarity of the sexual need, which is distinct from all the rest, there result two different degrees of the sin of fornication, according to which of the two destinations man chooses for himself.

114. With the first destination, when man wants, remaining chaste, to devote all his strength to the service of God, every sexual intercourse will be a sin of fornication, even though it have for its aim the begetting and bringing up of children ; the purest and chastest marriage will be such an inborn sin for the man who has chosen the destination of virginity.

115. An inherited sin for such a man will be every continuation of such sexual relations, even though in marriage, which have for their aim the begetting and bringing up of children ; a liberation from the inherited sin will for such a man be the cessation of sexual intercourse.

116. A personal, invented sin for such a man will be the entrance into sexual relation with another person than the one to whom he is married.

117. In choosing as his destination the service of God through the continuation of the race, man’s inborn sin will consist in every sexual intercourse which has not the continuation of the race for its aim, as is the case in prostitution, accidental unions, and in marriages contracted from calculation, connections, and love.

118. An inherited sin for a man who has chosen as his destination the continuation of the race will be a sexual intercourse from which no children can be born, or in cases where the parents cannot or do not wish to bring up the children who are born from their union.

119. But when a person, having chosen the second destination of serving the continuation of the race, be it a man or a woman, who is already in sexual intercourse with one person, enters into such an intercourse with other persons, not for the production of a family, but for the increase of enjoyment from sexual intercourse, or tries to prevent childbirth/or abandons himself to unnatural vices, he commits the personal sin of fornication.

120. Sin, that is, the error of fornication, for a man who has chosen the destination of virginity, consists in this, that man, who might have chosen a higher destination and used all his forces in the service of God, and consequently for the continuation of love and the attainment of the highest good, descends to a lower stage of life and is deprived of this good.

121. And for a man who has chosen the destination of the continuation of the race, the sin, the error, of fornication consists in this, that, depriving themselves of the begetting of children, or, at least, of domestic communion, people deprive themselves of the highest good of the sexual life.

122. Besides, people who try to increase the good from the sexual intercourse, as in all the gratifications of needs, diminish the natural enjoyment in proportion as they abandon themselves to this lust.

XXII. THE SIN OF INTOXICATION

123. In his natural state it is proper for man, as for any animal, to arrive through external causes at a condition of excitation, and this temporary excitation gives the good to a man who is in this animal condition.

124. But having awakened to consciousness, man notices the causes that lead him to this condition of excitation, and tries to reproduce and intensify these causes, for the purpose of evoking this condition in himself ; and for this purpose he prepares for himself and takes into his stomach or inhales substances which produce this excitation, or creates for himself the surroundings, or makes those peculiar intensified motions, which bring him into that state. In this does the sin of intoxication consist.

125. The peculiarity of this sin consists in this, that while all those sins only distract the-man born to the new life from the activity which is proper to him, by increasing in him his tendency to prolong his animal life, and do not weaken or impair the activity of reason, the sin of intoxication not only weakens the activity of the mind, but for a time, and often for all times, destroys it ? so that a man who gets himself into an excited state through smoking, wine, certain solemn surroundings, or intensified motions, as the dervishes and other religious fanatics do, under these conditions frequently not only performs acts which are proper to animals, but even such as, by their madness and cruelty, are not proper to animals.

126. The natural inborn sin of intoxication consists in this, that, having received pleasure from a certain condition of excitation, whether it be produced by food or drink, surroundings which affect vision or hearing, or by certain motions, a man does not abstain from that which produces this intoxication. When a man, without noticing it himself, excites himself without intention, eats sweetmeats, drinks tea, kvas, or mash, adorns himself or his habitation, or dances, or plays, he commits the inborn, natural sin of intoxication.

127. But when a man is born and brought up in certain habits of intoxication, in the habits of the use of tobacco, wine, opium, in habits of solemn spectacles,— public, domestic, ecclesiastic, — or in the habits of certain kinds of motions, gymnastics, dancing, obeisances, leaps, and so forth, and keeps up these habits, he commits the inherited sin of intoxication.

128. And when a man is brought up in certain habits of periodic intoxication, and is used to them, and, by imitation of others or through his own invention, introduces new methods of intoxication, — after tobacco begins to smoke opium, after wine drinks whiskey, introduces new festive celebrations with a new intensified effect of pictures, dances, light, music, or introduces new methods of exciting bodily motions, of gymnastics, of bicycle riding, and so forth, he commits the personal sin of intoxication.

129. The sin of intoxication, whether inborn, or inherited, or personal, consists in this, that a man, instead of using all the power of his attention in removing everything which may bedim his consciousness, that reveals to him the meaning of his true life, tries, on the contrary, to weaken and to shroud this consciousness with external means of excitation.

130. Besides, a man who acts in this manner attains the opposite to what he has been striving after. The excitation which is produced by external means weakens with every new method of excitation and, in spite of the intensification of the methods of excitation, which

destroys health, the ability of the excitation grows weaker and weaker.

XXIII. THE CONSEQUENCES OF SINS

131. Sins serve as an impediment to the manifestation of love.

132. But not only do sins serve as an impediment in the manifestation of love ; they also produce in men the greatest calamities. The calamities produced by sins are of two kinds : one class of calamities are those from which men suffer who are subject to sin ; the others are those from which others suffer. The calamities which befall those who commit sins are: effeminacy, satiety, tedium, despondency, apathy, care, terror, suspicion, malice, envy, fury, jealousy, impotence, and all kinds of agonizing diseases. The calamities from which others suffer are: thieving, robbery, torture, riots, murder.

133. If there were no sins, there would be no poverty, nor satiety, nor dissipation, nor thieving, nor robbery, nor murder, nor executions, nor wars.

134. If there were no sin of hist, there would be no want on the part of the dispossessed, no tedium and no fear on the part of those who live luxuriously, no useless loss of force for the safeguarding of the pleasures of those who live luxuriously, no debasement of the spiritual forces of the needy, no constant, concealed struggle between both, which begets envy and hatred in the one class, and contempt and terror in the other; and this enmity would not from time to time break forth in violence, murders, and revolutions.

135. If there were no sin of idleness, there would not be, on the one side, any men who are exhausted from work, and on the other, men who are distorted through inaction and constant amusements; there would be no division of men into two inimical camps, of men filled to satiety and of the hungry, of the idle and of those who are worn out by work.

136. If there were no sin of ownership, there would not be all those acts of violence which are committed by one class of men on the other for the purpose of acquiring and retaining objects; there would be no thieving, robbery, incarceration, exile, hard labour, and executions.

137. If there were no sin of power, there would be none of those enormous, useless wastes of human force in vanquishing one another and for the support of power ; there would be no pride and no dulling of the victors, and no flattery, deceit, and hatred of the conquered ; there would be no divisions of family, classes, nations, and the disputes, quarrels, murders, and wars, which result from them.

138. If there were no sin of fornication, there would be no slavery of woman, no torture of woman, and, at the same time, no spoiling and no corruption of her; there would be no disputes, quarrels, murders from jealousy, no reduction of woman to the level of an instrument of the gratification of the flesh, no prostitution ; there would be no unnatural vices ; there would be no weakening of bodily and spiritual forces, none of those terrible diseases, from which men suffer now; there would be no waifs and no infanticide.

139. If there were no intoxication by means of tobacco, wine, opium, exciting intensified motions, and festivities, there would be no dissipation of men in sins. There would not be one hundredth part of the disputes, quarrels, robberies, acts of lust, murders, which take place now, especially under the influence of the weakening of men’s spiritual forces ; there would not be that useless waste of energy, not only on unnecessary, but on directly harmful acts: there would not be any dulling and disfigurement of men, often the best, who pass through life without being of any use for others, and a burden to themselves.

PART THE THIRD

OF OFFENCES

XXIV. THE OFFENCES

140. The pernicious consequences of sins for the separate individuals who commit them, as also for the society of men, among whom the sins are committed, are so obvious that from remotest antiquity men have seen the calamities which arise from them, and have issued laws against the sins and have punished them : there was a prohibition against stealing, killing, committing debauch, slandering, getting drunk, but in spite of the prohibition and the punishments, men have continued to sin, ruining their own lives and those of their nearest friends.

141. This is due to the fact that for the justification of the sins there exist false reflections, from which it follows that there are certain exclusive circumstances according to which sins are not only venial, but also necessary. These false justifications are what is called the offences.

142. Offence is in Greek a/cdvSaXov, which means noose, trap. Indeed, an offence is a trap into which a man is enticed by the similitude of the good, and, having fallen into it, he perishes in it. For this reason it says in the Gospel that the offences must enter into the world, but woe to the world from the offences, and woe to him through whom they enter.

143. It is because of these offences of the false justifications of the sins that men do not mend from their sins, but continue to sink in them and, what is worse than anything, educate their young generations in them.

XXV. THE ORIGIN OF THE OFFENCES

144. The birth of man to the new life does not take place at once, but gradually, just like carnal birth : the efforts of birth alternate with arrests and returns to the former condition, and the manifestations of the spiritual life — with the manifestations of the animal life; man now abandons himself to the service of God and in this service sees the good, and now returns to the personal life and seeks the good of his separate being and commits sins.

145. Having committed these sins, man recognizes the non-correspondence of the act with the demands of his conscience. So long as man only wishes to commit a sin, this non-correspondence is not completely clear ; but as soon as the sin is committed, the non-correspondence is made obvious, and man wishes to destroy it.

146. The non-correspondence of the act and the position into which man enters in consequence of sin may be destroyed only by using reason for the justification of the act committed and the position.

147. The contradiction of the sin with the demands of the spiritual life can be justified only by explaining the sin by the demands of the spiritual life. This is precisely what men do, and this mental activity .is that which is called an offence.

148. Ever since there has appeared in men the consciousness of the contradiction between their animal and their spiritual life, ever since men began to commit sins, they began to invent their justification, that is, offences, and so there have established themselves among men traditions of ever the same justifications of sins, that is, of offences, so that a man does not need to invent his own justifications for his sins, — they were invented before him, and he needs only accept ready, established offences.

XXVI. THE DIVISION OF THE OFFENCES

149. There are five offences which ruin men: the personal offence, or the offence of preparation ; the family offence, or the offence of the continuation of the race ; the offence of work, affairs, or of profit ; the offence of companionship, or of loyalty ; the offence of state, or of the common good.

150. The personal offence, or the offence of preparation, consists in this, that a man, committing a sin, justifies himself by saying that he is preparing himself for an activity which in the future is to be useful to men.

151. The family offence, or the offence of the continuation of the race, consists in this, that man, committing sins, justifies them as being for the good of his children.

152. The offence of work, affairs, or of profit, consists in this, that a man justifies his sins by the necessity of conducting and finishing an affair which he has begun and which is useful for men.

153. The offence of companionship, or of loyalty, consists in this, that man justifies his sins as being for the good of those men with whom he has entered into exclusive relations.

154. The offence of state, or of the common good, consists in this, that men justify the sins committed by them as being for the good of many men, of the nation, of humanity. This is the offence which is expressed by Caiaphas, who demanded the killing of Christ in the name of the good of many.

XXVII. THE PERSONAL OFFENCE, OR THE OFFENCE OF PREPARATION

155. ” I know that the meaning of my life is in serving not myself, but Clod or men ; but, in order that my serving of men may be successful,” says the man who has fallen into this offence, “ I can admit some departures from the demands of my conscience, if they are necessary for my perfection, which is preparing me for my future activity that is useful to men ; I must first study, must first serve the term of my office, must first improve my health, must first get married, must first secure the means of my life in the future, and before I attain this, I cannot fully follow the demands of my conscience, and when 1 have finished it, 1 shall begin to live exactly as my conscience demands.”

156. Having recognized the necessity of caring for his personal life for the more real service of men and the consequent manifestation of love, man serves bis personality, committing sins of lust, and of idleness, and of property, and of power, and of debauchery even, and of intoxication, without considering those sins important because he permits them to himself but for a time, for that time when all his forces are directed upon the preparation of himself for the active service of men.

157. Having begun to serve his personality, preserving, intensifying, and perfecting it, man naturally forgets the aim for which he is doing it, and gives his best years, and frequently his whole life, to such a preparation for service, which never arrives.

158. In the meantime the sins which he permits himself for the sake of the beneficent aim, become more and more habitual, and, instead of the proposed useful activity for men, man passes all his life in sins, which ruin his own life and offend others and do them harm. In this lies the offence of preparation.

XXVIII. THE OFFENCE OF FAMILY, OR OF THE CONTINUATION OF THE RACE

159. On entering into a family union, people, especially women, are prone to think that their love to their family, to their children, is precisely that which their rational consciousness asks of them, and that therefore, if in their family life they have to commit sins for the gratification of the needs of their family, these sins are venial.

160. Having come to recognize this, such people consider it possible in the name of the love of their family not only to free themselves from the demands of justice toward other men, but also, with the assurance that they are doing right, to commit the greatest cruelties against others for the good of their children.

161. “If 1 had no wife, no husband, or no child,” say people who have fallen into this offence, ” I should be living quite differently and should not be committing these sins ; but now, in order to bring up my children, I cannot live otherwise. If we did not live thus, if we did not commit any sins, the human race could not be continued.”

162. And, having made such a reflection, the man calmly takes away men’s labour, compels them to labour to the disadvantage of their lives, takes away the land from people, and — the most striking example — takes away the milk from the child, in order that the child’s mother may nurse his babe, and does not see the evil which he is doing. In this consists the offence of family, or of the continuation of the race.

XXIX. THE OFFENCE OF AFFAIRS

163. From the property of his nature, man must exercise his mental and bodily powers, and for their exercise he chooses some work.

164. But every work demands certain acts at a certain time, so that if these acts are not performed at the given time, the work which is useful to men is destroyed, without being of any use to any one.

165. ” I have to finish ploughing the field with the seed sowed in it. If I do not do it, the seed and the work will be lost, without being of any use to any one. I must finish a certain work by a given time ; if 1 do not finish it, the work which might have been useful will be lost for nothing. My factory is running ; it is producing articles which are indispensable to men, and it gives the chance to work to tens of thousands of people ; if I interrupt the work, the articles will not be manufactured, and the people will be deprived of work,” say the men who have fallen into this offence.

166. And having made this reflection, a man not only does not abandon the unfinished ploughing, in order to pull his neighbour’s horse out of the bog, not only does not give up his work which is set for a certain time, in order to sit a day at the bed of a patient, not only does not stop his factory, in which work ruins the health of men, but is ready to take advantage of his neighbour’s misfortune, in order to finish ploughing his field, is ready to take a man away from attending on a patient, in order to be sure to finish his work by a given time, is ready to ruin the health of several generations, in order that he may produce well-manufactured articles.

In this does the offence of affairs, or of profit, consist.

XXX. THE OFFENCE OF ASSOCIATION

167. Placing themselves accidentally or artificially under certain identical conditions, men are prone to segregate themselves with the men who are under the same conditions, from all other men, and to consider themselves obliged, for the purpose of safeguarding the advantages of these men who are placed under the exclusive conditions, to depart from the demands of their reason, and not only to prefer these advantages of their own to those of others, but also to do evil to men, merely so as not to impair their loyalty to their own people.

168. ” Men do obviously a bad deed, but they are our associates, and so we must conceal and justify their bad deed. What is proposed for me to do is bad and senseless, but all my associates have decided to do so, and 1 cannot fall behind them. For strangers this may be suffering, a misfortune, but it will be agreeable for us and for our association, and so we must act thus.”

169. There are all kinds of such associations. Such is the association of two murderers or thieves, who are going out to do their work and consider their loyalty to their associates more obligatory for the performance of the deed which they have undertaken than the loyalty to their conscience, which condemns their undertaking ; such is the association of pupils of educational institutions, workmen’s societies, regiments, scholars, clergymen, kings, nationalities.

170. All these men consider the loyalty to the institution of their association more obligatory than the loyalty to the demands of their conscience in relation to all other men. In this does the offence of association, or loyalty, consist.

171. The peculiarity of this offence consists in this, that in its name are committed the most savage and insensible of acts, such as the masquerading in special, strange garments and ascribing to these garments a special significance, and acts of poisoning oneself by means of wine or beer, and very frequently terribly cruel acts, such as fights, duels, murders, and so forth, in the name of this very offence which provokes the enmity of one class of associations against another.

XXXI. THE OFFENCE OF STATE

172. Men live in a certain social order, and this order, like everything else in the world, changes continually in proportion as the consciousness grows in men.

173. But men, especially those for whom the existing order is more advantageous than for others (and the existing order is always more advantageous to some than to others), think that the existing order is good for all men, and so, in order to maintain this good for all men, not only consider it possible to violate love in respect to some men, but also think it just and good to commit the greatest malefactions in order to maintain this existing order.

174. Men established the right of property, and some own laud and the instruments of labour, while others have neither. This unjust possession of the land and the instruments of labour by certain idle people is regarded as that order which must be protected, and for the sake of which it is considered right and good to lock up and punish people who violate this order. Similarly, in view of the danger that a neighbouring people or potentate may attack our nation and conquer and destroy and change the established order, it is considered right and good, not only to cooperate with the establishment of the army, but also to be ready oneself to murder people of another nation and to proceed against them, in order to kill them.

1 75. The peculiarity of this offence is this, that, while in the name of those four first offences men depart from the demands of their conscience and commit separate bad acts, in the name of this offence of state there are committed the most terrible mass malefactions, such as executions and wars, and there are supported the most cruel crimes against the majority, like slavery in former times, and the present dispossession of the workingman’s land.

Men would not be able to commit these evil deeds, if there were not invented methods by means of which the responsibility for the commission of these crimes is so distributed among men that no one feels its burden.

176. The method of the distribution of this responsibility in such a way that no one may feel the burden consists in this, that men recognize the necessity of power which for the good of subject men must prescribe these malefactions ; but the subjects are obliged to fulfil the prescriptions of the power for the good of all.

177. ” 1 am very sorry to be obliged to prescribe the seizure of the products of labour, incarceration, exile, hard labour, execution, war, that is, mass murder, but I am obliged to do so, because this is demanded of me by the men who have vested me with power,” say the men who are in power. ” If I take away men’s property, detach them from their families, lock them up, send them into exile, have them executed, if 1 kill men of another nation, ruin them, shoot into cities upon women and children, I do not do so upon my own responsibility, but because I am doing the will of the higher power whom I have promised to obey for the common good.”

In this does the offence of state, or of the common good, consist.

XXXII. THE CONSEQUENCES OF THE OFFENCES

178. Sins are consequences of habits (inertia, animal life). Animal life running at full speed cannot stop, even when reason has wakened in man, and he understands the senselessness of the animal life. Man knows that the animal life is senseless and cannot do him any good, but from old habit he seeks a meaning and the good in the joys of the animal life, — the gratification of complex artificial needs, in constant rest, in the increase of property, in dominion, in dissipation, in intoxication, and uses his reason for the purpose of attaining these ends.

179. But the sins punish themselves: very soon a man feels that the good which he is trying to find on this path is not accessible to him, and the sin loses its attractiveness. Thus, if there did not exist any justifications of sins, — offences, — men would not abide in sins, and would not carry them to the limit to which they have been carried.

180. If there were no offences of preparation, no offences of family, no offence of affairs, no offence of state, not a man, not even the most cruel one, would be able among needy men dying in want to make use of that superabundance which now the rich enjoy ; the rich would not be able to arrive at that condition of complete physical idleness, in which, experiencing ennui, they now pass their life, compelling frequently the old, the very young, the sick to perform the labour which they need. If there were no offences which justify property, men could not senselessly and aimlessly waste all the forces of their lives for a greater and ever greater acquisition of property, which cannot be made use of, and people who suffer from struggle would not be able to provoke it in others. If there were no offence of association, there would not be even one-hundredth part of that corruption which now exists : people would not be able so obviously and senselessly to ruin their bodily and their mental forces by means of intoxicating substances, which neither increase nor diminish their energy.

181. From the human sins come the poverty of some and their crushed condition through labour, and the satiety and the idleness of others; from the sins come the inequality of possessions, struggle, quarrels, lawsuits, punishments, wars ; from the sins come the calamities of men’s debauch and brutalization ; but from the offences comes the establishment, the sanctification of all this,— the legalization of poverty and of the crushed condition of some, and of the satiety and the idleness of others, the legalization of violence, of murders, wars, debauch, intoxication, and their expansion to those terrible dimensions which they now have reached.

PART THE FOURTH

THE DECEPTIONS OF FAITH AND THE LIBERATION FROM IT

XXXIII. THE DECEPTIONS OF FAITH

182. If there were no offences, people could not continue to live in sins, since every sin punishes itself : the men of the former generations would show to posterity the perniciousness of sin, and the subsequent generations would be educated without falling into the habit of sin.

183. But man has used the intellect which is given him not for the purpose of finding out sin and freeing himself from it, but of justifying it, and so there appeared the offence, and sin became legitimized and took root.

184. But how could man with awakened reason recognize the lie as truth ? In order that a man may be able not to see the lie and take it for truth, his reason must be distorted, because the uncorrupted reason faultlessly distinguishes the lie from the truth, wherein, indeed, its destination consists.

185. Indeed, men’s reason, as educated in human society, is never free from corruption. Every man who is educated in human society is inevitably subject to corruption, which consists in the deception of faith.

186. The deception of faith consists in this, that the men of former generations by means of all kinds of artificial methods impress upon the subsequent generations the comprehension of the meaning of life, which is not based on reason, but on blind faith.

187. The essence of the deception of faith consists in this, that men intentionally confound the concepts of faith and trust, and substitute one for‘the other: they assert that men cannot live and think without faith, which is quite correct, and in the place of faith, that is, the recognition of the existence of what is cognized, but cannot be defined by reason, such as God, soul, goodness, they put the concept of trust in the existence of God, namely, such and such a one in three persons, who at such and such a time created the world and revealed this or that to men, in such a place and at such a time and through such and such prophets.

XXXIV. THE ORIGIN OF THE DECEPTIONS OF FAITH

188. Humanity moves slowly, but without cessation, onward, that is, toward a greater and ever greater clearness of the consciousness of the truth concerning the meaning and significance of its life, and toward the establishment of life in conformity with this clearer consciousness. And thus men’s comprehension of life and men’s life itself constantly change. Men who are more sensitive for truth understand life in conformity with that higher light that has appeared in them, and arrange their life in conformity with this light ; men who are less sensitive stick to the former comprehension of life and the former structure of life, and try to defend it.

189. Thus there are always in the world, by the side of men who point out the advanced and last expression of the truth and try to live in accordance with this expression of truth, other men who defend the older, obsolete, and now useless comprehension of it and the former orders of life.

XXXV. IN WHAT WAY THE DECEPTIONS OF FAITH ARE COMMITTED

190. Truth does not need any external confirmation and is freely accepted by all those to whom it is communicated, but deception demands special methods, by means of which it may be communicated to men and adopted by them ; and so to practise the deception of faith, one and the same methods are employed among all nations by those who practise them.

191. There are five such methods: (1) the misinterpretation of the truth, (2) the belief in the miraculous, (3) the establishment of a mediation between man and God, (4) the affecting of man’s external sensations, and (5) the impression of a false faith upon children.

192. The essence of the first method of the deception of faith consists not only in recognizing in words the correctness of the truth as revealed to men by the last preachers, but also in recognizing the preacher himself as a holy, supernatural person and in deifying him, by ascribing to him the performance of various miracles, and in concealing the essence itself of the revealed truth in such a way that it may not only not violate the former comprehension of life and the order of life as established according to it, but may also, on the contrary, confirm it.

Such a misinterpretation of truth and deification of the preachers has taken place with all nations, at every appearance of a new religious teaching. Thus was the teaching of Moses and of the Jewish prophets misinterpreted. And it was for this very misinterpretation that Christ rebuked the Pharisees, telling them that they were sitting in the seat of Moses and themselves did not enter the kingdom of God and did not let others in. Similarly were the teachings of Buddha, Lao-tse, and Zarathustra misinterpreted. A similar misinterpretation was introduced into the Christian teaching in the first period of its acceptation by Constantine, when the pagan temples and divinities were changed into Christian ones and there arose Mohammedanism, as a protest against the apparent Christian polytheism. To a similar misinterpretation has Mohammedanism also been subjected.

193. The second method of the deception of faith consists in impressing people with the idea that, in the cognition of the truth, to follow our God-given reason is a sin of pride ; that there exists another, more reliable instrument of cognition, the revelation of the truth, which is communicated by God to men with certain signs and miracles, that is, supernatural events which confirm the correctness of the transmission. Men are impressed with the idea that it is necessary to believe, not in reason, but in miracles, that is, in what is contrary to reason.

194. The third method of the deception of faith consists in assuring men that they cannot have that immediate relation with God which is felt by every man, and which was especially elucidated by Christ when He recognized man as the son of God, and that for man’s communion with God there is needed a mediator or mediators. As such mediators they proclaim prophets, saints, the church, the Scriptures, hermits, dervishes, lamas, Buddhas, anchorites, every clergy. However different all these mediators may be, the essence of the mediation is this, that between man and God no direct connection is admitted, but it is, on the contrary, assumed that the truth is not directly accessible to man, and can be received only through faith in the mediators between him and God.

195. The fourth method of the deception of faith consists in this, that under the pretext of accomplishing certain works persumably demanded by God, — prayers, sacraments, sacrifices, — they collect a large number of men and, subjecting them to various stupefying influences, impress lies upon them, pretending that they are the truth. Men are impressed by the beauty and grandeur of the temples, the magnificence of the adornments, by the utensils, the garments, the brilliancy of the illumination, the sounds of singing, the organs, the incense, the exclamations, the performances, and while men are under this spell, the deception, given out as the truth, is forced upon their souls.

196. The fifth method is the most cruel, since it consists in telling to a child, when he asks his elders who lived before him and had a chance to find out the wisdom of the men who had lived before, as to what this world and its life is and what the relations between the two are, not what these elders think and know, but what the men who lived thousands of years before knew and what none of his elders now believe in, nor are able to believe in. Instead of the spiritual food, which is indispensable to him, and for which he asks, the child is given a poison which ruins his spiritual health, and from which he can be cured only by the greatest efforts and sufferings.

197. Awakening to the conscious life with a clear, unpolluted reason, ready to receive and in the depth of his soul, though only dimly, conscious of the truth of life, that is, of his position and his mission in life (the human soul is by its nature a Christian, says Tertullian, a father of the church), the child asks his older parent what life is, what his relation to the world and his beginning is, — and his father, or teacher, does not tell him that little which he knows unquestionably of the meaning of life, but with assurance tells him what in the depth of his soul he does not regard as true : he tells him, if he is a Jew, that God created the world in six days and revealed all the truth to Moses, writing with his finger on a stone that it is necessary to keep oaths, remember the Sabbath, be circumcized, and so forth ; if he is a Greek-Catholic, a Roman-Catholic, a Protestant Christian, — that Christ, the second person, created the world and came down upon earth, in order to redeem Adam’s sin with his blood, and so forth; if he is a Buddhist, — that Buddha Hew to heaven and taught men to destroy life in themselves ; if he is a Mohammedan, that Mohammed Hew to the seventh heaven and there learned the law according to which the belief in the fivefold prayer and the pilgrimage to Mecca give men paradise in the future life.

198. Knowing that other men impress something else upon their children, parents and teachers communicate each his own special superstition to them, though he knows in the depth of his soul that it is only a superstition, — he communicates it to innocent, trustful children at an age when the impressions are so strong that they are never again eradicated.

XXXVI. THE EVIL DUE TO THE DECEPTION OF FAITH

199. The sins, by causing man at times to commit acts which are contrary to his spiritual nature, contrary to love, retard his birth to the new, true life.

200. The offences lead man into a sinful life, by justifying the sins, so that a man does not commit separate sinful acts, but lives an animal life, without seeing the contradiction of this life with the true life.

201. Such a position on the part of a man is possible only with the distortion of truth, which is achieved by the deception of faith. Only a man with his reason distorted by the deception of faith can fail to see the lie of the offences.

202. And so the deception of faith is the foundation of all the sins and calamities of man.

203. The deceptions of faith are that which in the Gospel is called blasphemy against the Holy Ghost, and of which it says that this action cannot be forgiven, that is, that it cannot help but be disastrous in any life.

XXXVII. WHAT MUST A MAN DO, TO LIVE ACCORDING TO CHRIST’S TEACHING ?

204. To live according to Christ’s teaching, a man must destroy the obstacles which interfere with the true life, that is, with the manifestation of love.

205. The sins form obstacles to them. But the sins cannot be destroyed, so long as a man does not free himself from the offences. And only a man who is free from the deceptions of faith can free himself from the offences.

206. And so, in order to live according to Christ’s teaching, a man must first of all free himself from the deceptions of faith.

207. Only after a man has freed himself from the deceptions of faith, can he free himself from the lie of the offences ; and only after he has found out the lie of the offences, can he free himself from sins.

XXXVIII. THE LIBERATION FROM THE DECEPTIONS OF FAITH\

208. To free himself from the deceptions of faith in general, a man must understand and remember that the only instrument of cognition which he possesses is his reason, and that therefore every sermon which asserts something contrary to reason is a deception, an attempt at removing the only instrument of cognition given him by God.

209. To be free from the deceptions of faith, a man must understand and rememl-er that he has no other instrument of cognition than reason, — that, whether he wants it or not, every man believes only in reason, and that therefore the men who say that they do not believe in reason, but in Moses, Buddha, Christ, Mohammed, the church, the Koran, the Bible, are deceiving themselves, because, no matter what they may believe in, they do not believe in him who transmitted to them those truths in which they believe, — in Moses, Buddha, Christ, the Bible, — but in reason, which tells them that they should believe in Moses, in Christ, in the Bible, and must not believe in Buddha, Mohammed, the Koran, and vice versa.

210. Truth cannot enter man in spite of reason, and so a man who thinks that he cognizes truths through faith, and not through reason, only deceives himself and employs his reason irregularly for what it is not destined for, — for the solution of questions as to who of those who transmit the teachings which are given out as truth is to be believed, and who not. But reason is not destined for the purpose of deciding who is to be believed, and who not, — that it cannot decide, — but for the purpose of verifying the correctness of what is proposed to it. That it always can do, and for that it is destined.

211. The false interpreters of truth generally say that reason cannot l>e believed, because the reason of different people affirms different things, and because for this reason it is better for the union of men to believe in a revelation which is confirmed by miracles. But such an assertion is directly opposed to truth. Beason never asserts different things ; it always and in all men asserts and denies the same.

212. It is only the faiths which assert, — one, that God revealed himself on Sinai, and that He is the God of the Jews; another, that God is Brahma, Vishnu, and Siva; a third, that God is the Trinity, — the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost ; a fourth, that God is heaven and earth ; a fifth, that truth was all revealed by Buddha ; a sixth, that it was all revealed by Mohammed;—only these faiths divide men, but reason, whether it be the reason of a Jew, a Japanese, a Chinaman, an Arab, an Englishman, a Russian, always and in all men tells one and the same thing.

213. When people say that reason may deceive, and in confirmation adduce discordant assertions of various men as to there being a God, and how he ought to be served, those who say this make an intentional or an unintentional mistake, in that they confuse reason with considerations and inventions. Considerations and inventions can actually be and generally are diversified and different, but the decrees of reason are always the same for all men and at all times. Reflections and inventions as to how the world or sin originated, or what will happen after death, may be infinitely varied, but the decrees of reason as to whether it is true that three gods make one, whether a man died and then rose again, whether a man walked on the water or flew bodily into heaven, whether in swallowing bread and wine 1 am eating a body and blood,— the decrees of reason in regard to these questions are always one and the same for all men and in the whole world, and are always indubitable and true. Whether men say that God walked in a pillar of fire, or whether Buddha rose on the sunbeams, or whether Mohammed flew into heaven, or whether Christ walked on the water, and so forth, the reason of all men always and everywhere replies one and the same thing: ” It is not true.” But to the questions as to whether it is right to treat others as you wish to be treated, whether it is good to love men and forgive them their offences and be merciful, the reason of all men at all times has said : ” Yes, it is right, it is good.”

214. And so, not to fall into the deceptions of faith, a man must understand and remember that truth is revealed to him only in his reason, given him by God for the purpose of learning the will of God, and that the discouragement of confidence in reason has for its basis the desire of deceiving, and is the greatest blasphemy.

215. Such is the general means for freeing oneself from the deceptions of faith. But to be free from the deceptions of faith, it is necessary to know all the forms of these deceptions and to beware of them, — to counteract them.

XXXIX. THE LIBERATION FROM THE DECEPTION OF FAITH, INSPIRED FROM CHILDHOOD

216. In order that a man may live according to Christ’s teaching, he must first of all free himself from the deception of the faith in which he was brought up, — no matter whether this is a deception of the Jewish, Buddhistic, Japanese, Confucian, or Christian faith.

217. But in order to be freed from the deceptions of faith, in which a man is brought up from childhood, he must understand and remember that reason is given to him directly from God, and that God alone can unite all men, while human traditions do not unite, but divide men, and so he must not only not be afraid of doubts and questions, which are evoked by reason in the verification of beliefs impressed upon him from childhood, but, on the contrary, must carefully subject to analysis and comparison with other beliefs all those beliefs which were handed down to him from childhood, accepting as correct only what does not contradict reason, no matter how solemnly circumstanced and anciently transmitted the tradition may be.

218. Having subjected the beliefs impressed upon him from childhood to the tribunal of reason, a man who wishes to free himself from the deceptions of faith, impressed upon him from childhood, must boldly and without finding any excuses reject everything which is contrary to reason and cannot be true.

219. Having freed himself from the deception of faith, impressed upon him from childhood, a man who wants to live according to Christ’s teaching must not only by word, example, and reticence keep from aiding in the deception of the children, but also with all his means dispel this deception, according to the words of Christ, who pitied the children on account of the deceptions to which they are subjected.

XL. THE LIBERATION FROM THE DECEPTION OF FAITH, PRODUCED THROUGH THE APPEAL TO THE EXTERNAL SENSES

220. Having freed himself from the deception of faith, impressed upon him from childhood, a man must beware of the deception produced by the deceivers of all nations by means of the appeal to the external senses.

221. In order not to fall into this deception, a man must understand and remember that truth for its dissemination and adoption by men does not need any appliances and adornments ; that it is only the lie and the deception that need special conditions for their transmission, in order to be accepted by men, and that therefore all solemn services, processions, adornments, incense, singing, and so forth, not only do not serve as signs of the fact that the truth is being communicated under these conditions, but, on the contrary, serve as a sure sign that where these means are used, it is not the truth, but a lie, that is being communicated.

222. In order not to fall into the deception of the appeal to the external senses, a man must remember the words of Christ, that God is not to be served in some particular place, but in the spirit and in truth, and that he who wants to pray must not go into a temple, but shut himself up in the privacy of his room, knowing that every magnificence in divine service has for its aim deception, which is the more cruel, the more magnificent the service is, and so he must not only refrain from partaking himself in the stupefying divine services, but also wherever possible must disclose their deception.

XLI. THE LIBERATION FROM THE DECEPTION OF MEDIATION

223. Having freed himself also from the second deception of the appeal to the external senses, a man must also beware of the deception of mediation between man and God, which, if he admits it at all, is sure to conceal the truth from him.

224. In order not to fall into this deception, a man must understand and remember that God is only directly revealed to man’s heart, and that every mediation, be it one person, a collection of persons, a book, or a tradition, not only conceals God from man, but also commits the greatest evil which can befall a man, namely, causes him to regard as God what is not God.

225. The moment a man admits the faith in any mediation, he deprives himself of the one possibility of the certainty of knowledge and opens up the possibility of the reception of any lie instead of the truth.

226. Only thanks to the mediation of men could there be practised, and are there practised, those deceptions in consequence of which sensible and good men pray to God, Christ, the Virgin, Buddha, Mohammed, the saints, the relics, the images.

227. In order not to fall into this deception, a man must understand and remember that truth was revealed to him first of all and more correctly, not in a book, not in tradition, not in any assembly of men, but in his own heart and in reason, even as Moses said, when he informed the people that the law of God was not to be sought beyond the sea, nor in heaven, but in their hearts, and as Christ said to the Jews : ” You do not know the truth, because you believe in the traditions of men, and not in Him whom He sent.” But what God has sent into us is reason, — the one infallible instrument of cognition, which is given us.

228. Not to fall into the deception of mediation, a man must understand and remember that truth can never be revealed altogether, and that it is gradually revealed to men, and only to those who seek it, and not to those who, believing in what the infallible mediators communicate to them, think that they possess it, and so, to keep from subjecting himself to the danger of falling into the most terrible errors, a man must not acknowledge any one as an infallible teacher, but must seek the truth anywhere, in all the human traditions, verifying them with his reason.

XLII. THE LIBERATION FROM THE BELIEF IN MIRACLES

229. But even having freed himself from the deception impressed upon him from childhood, and not surrendering himself to the deception of impressing the lie by means of solemnity, and not recognizing any mediation between himself and God, a man will still not be free from the deception of faith and will be unable to know Christ’s teaching, if he shall not free himself of the belief in the supernatural, the miraculous.

230. They say that miracles, that is, the supernatural, take place for the purpose of uniting men, whereas there is nothing which so disunites men as miracles, because each faith asserts its own miracles and rejects those of all the others. Nor can it be otherwise : miracles, that is, the supernatural, are infinitely varied ; only the natural is always and everywhere the same.

231. And so, to be free from the deceptions of belief in the miraculous, a man must recognize as true only what is natural, that is, in accord with his reason, and must recognize as a lie everything which is unnatural, that is, which contradicts reason, knowing that everything which gives itself out as such is human deception, such as are the deceptions of all modern miracles, cures, resurrections, miracle-working images, relics, transubstantiation of bread and wine, and so forth, as also of the miracles which are mentioned in the Bible, in the gospels, in Buddhist, Mohammedan, Taoist, and other books.

XLIII. LIBERATION FROM THE DECEPTIONS OF THE FAITH IN FALSE INTERPRETATIONS

232. Having freed himself from the deception of mediation, a man must free himself from the deception of the false interpretation of truth.

233. No matter in what faith a man may have been educated, whether in the Mohammedan, Christian, Buddhistic, Jewish, or Confucian, he will in every doctrine of faith find an assertion of indubitable truth, which is recognized by his reason, and side by side with it assertions

. contrary to reason, which are given out as equally deserving faith.

234. In order to free himself from this deception of faith, a man must not be discouraged because the truths which are recognized by his reason and those which are not recognized by it are given out as equally deserving faith on account of their common origin, and as though inseparably connected, but must understand and remember that every revelation of the truth to men (that is, every comprehension of the truth by one of the advanced men) has always so startled people that it has been clothed in a supernatural form, that to every manifestation of truth there have inevitably been added superstitions, and that, therefore, for the knowledge of truth it is not necessary to accept everything, but that, on the contrary, we are obliged in what is transmitted to us to separate the lie and the invention from the truth and reality.

235. Having separated the truth from the superstitions which are admixed, let each man understand and remember that the superstitions which are admixed with truth not only are not as sacred as truth itself, as is preached by the men who find their advantage in these superstitious, but, on the contrary, form a most pernicious and harmful phenomenon, which conceals the truth, and for the destruction of which a man must employ all his forces.

PART THE FIFTH

LIBERATION FROM THE OFFENCES

XLIV. HOW CAN WE AVOID THE OFFENCES ?

236. Having freed himself from the deceptions of faith, a man would be capable of receiving Christ’s teaching, if there were no offences. But even when he is free from the deceptions of faith and understands the meaning of Christ’s teaching, a man always finds himself in danger of falling into the offences.

237. The essence of all the offences consists in this, that a man who has wakened to consciousness, feeling the doubling and suffering from a crime committed, wants to destroy the doubling and the suffering arising from it, not through a struggle with sin, but through its justification.

238. But the justification of a sin can be nothing but a lie.

239. And so, in order not to fall into an offence, a man must first of all not be afraid to recognize the truth, knowing that such an acknowledgment cannot remove him from the good, whereas the opposite, the lie, is the chief source of sin and of a departure from the good.

240. Thus, in order to avoid the offences, a man must, above all else, not lie, and, above all, not lie to himself, and not so much take care lest he lie to others, as lest he lie to himself, concealing from himself the aims of his acts.

241. Not to fall into the offences and the habit of sinning and destroying, which result from these offences, a man must not be afraid to repent of his sins, knowing that repentance is the only means for the liberation from sins and the resulting calamities.

242. Such is the one common means for keeping from falling into the offences in general. To be able to avoid every offence in particular, it is necessary to understand clearly in what their lie and their harm consist.

XLV. THE LIE OF THE OFFENCE OF PREPARATION (THE PERSONAL OFFENCE)

243. The first and most common offence which takes possession of a man is the personal offence, the offence of the preparation for life, instead of life itself. If a man does not invent this justification of his sins, he always finds this justification to have been invented by men who lived before him.

244. ” Now I can for a time depart from what is proper and what my spiritual nature demands of me, because I am not ready,” a man says to himself. ” As soon as I am prepared, there will come a time when I shall begin to live entirely in conformity with my conscience.”

245. The lie of this offence consists in this, that a man departs from the life in the present, from the one actual life, and transfers it into the future, whereas the future does not belong to man.

246. The lie of this offence has this feature, that, if a man foresees the morrow, he must also be able to foresee the day after to-morrow, and what comes later, and later. And if he foresees all this, he also foresees his inevitable death. If he foresees his inevitable death, he cannot prepare himself for the future in this finite life, because death destroys the meaning of all that for which a man prepares himself in this life. Having given full sway to his reason, a man cannot help but see that the life of Ins separate existence has no meaning, and so it is impossible to prepare anything for this existence.

247. On the other hand, the lie of this offence may be seen in this, that a man cannot prepare himself for a future manifestation of love and service of God : a man is not an instrument which another employs. It is possible to grind an axe and not get any time to cut with it, and for another man to make use of it ; but no one can use a man, except he himself, because he himself is an instrument which is always at work and which perfects itself at* work.

248. The harm of this offence is this, that a man who has fallen into it not only fails to live the true life, but even does not live a temporal life in the present, and transfers his life into the future, which never comes. Thinking of perfecting himself for the future, a man omits the one, ever present perfection in love, which can be only in the present.

249. Not to fall into this offence, a man must understand and remember that there is no time for preparation ; that he must live in the best manner possible this very moment, just such as he is ; that the perfection which he needs is no other than the perfection in love, and this perfection is accomplished only in the present.

250. And so he must without delay live each minute with all his strength in the present, for God, that is, for all those who make demands on his life, knowing that he may any moment be deprived of the possibility of this ministration, and that he came into the world for precisely this hourly ministration.

XLVI. THE LIE AND THE HARM OF THE OFFENCE OF AFFAIRS

251. Every man who busies himself with some affair is involuntarily carried away by it, and it appears to him that for the sake of his business he is unable to do what his conscience, that is, God, demands of him.

252. The lie of this offence consists in this, that every human affair may prove useless, be interrupted, and remain unfinished ; but God’s business as accomplished by man, the fulfilment of God’s will, can never be useless and cannot be interrupted by anything.

253. The harm of this offence consists in this, that, by admitting that a certain business — be it the harrowing in of sown seeds or the emancipation of a whole people from slavery — is more important than God’s business, which to human judgment is frequently the most insignificant, that is, more important than immediate aid and ministration to one’s neighbour, there will always be found some matters which must be looked after before complying with the demand of God’s business, and a man will always free himself from serving God, that is, from doing the works of life, by substituting the ministration towhat is dead for the ministration to the living.

254. The harm consists in this, that, by admitting this offence, men will always put off serving God until they are free from all worldly affairs. But men are never free from worldly affairs. Not to fall into this offence, a man must understand and remember that no human affair, which has an end, can be the aim of his true, infinite life, and that such an aim can only be the participation in God’s infinite affairs, which consists in the greatest possible manifestation of love.

255. And so, in order not to fall into this offence, a man must never attend to such affairs of his as impairs God’s affairs, that is, the love of men ; he must be at all times prepared to throw up any business, as soon as the execution of God’s work calls him, — to be like a labourer who is working for his master and can attend to his own affairs only when his master’s work does not demand his strength and his attention.

XLVII. THE LIE AND THE HARM OF THE OFFENCE OF FAMILY

256. This offence more than any other justifies men’s sins. If a man is free from the offence of preparation for life, of the offence of affairs, hardly a man, especially a woman, is free from the offence of family.

257. This offence consists in this, that men, in the name of their exclusive love for the members of their families, consider themselves free from their obligations toward other men, and calmly commit the sins of greed, of struggle, of idleness, of lust, without considering them to be sins.

258. The lie of this offence consists in this, that the animal feeling which incites a man to continue the race and which is legitimate only in that measure in which it does not impair the love of men, is taken to be a virtue which justifies sin.

259. The harm of this offence consists in this, that it, more than any other offence, intensifies the sin of property, embitters the struggle between men, by raising the animal feeling of love for one’s family to a desert and virtue, and leads people away from the possibility of knowing the true meaning of life.

260. Not to fall into this offence, a man must not only refrain from educating in himself love for the members of his family, from considering this love a virtue, and abandoning himself to it, but, on the contrary, knowing the offence, he must always be on guard against it, in order that he may not sacrifice the love of God for the love of family.

261. One may without reserve love one’s enemies, unattractive people, strangers, and fully abandon oneself to this love ; but it is not right to love thus one’s family, because such a love leads to blindness and to the justification of sins.

262. Not to fall into this offence, a man must understand and remember that love is only then true love, giving life and the good, when it does not seek, does not wait, does not hope for rewards, just like any manifestation of life which expects no reward for existing ; but that love for the members of one’s family is an animal feeling which is good only so long as it remains within the limits of instinct and a man does not sacrifice his spiritual demands for it.

263. And so, not to fall into this offence, a man must try and do the same for any stranger that he wishes to do for his family, and for the members of his family he must do nothing which he is not prepared and able to do for any stranger.

XLVIII. THE LIE AND THE HARM OF THE OFFENCE OF ASSOCIATION

264. It seems to people that if they, segregating themselves from other men, and uniting among themselves under exclusive conditions, observe these conditions, they are doing such a good deed that they are freed from the commun demands of their conscience.

265. The lie of this offence consists in this, that, by entering into associations with a small number of men, the people segregate themselves from the natural association with all men and so impair the most important natural obligations in the name of the artificial ones.

266. The harm of this offence consists in this, that men who have placed themselves under conditions of association, being guided in life, not by common laws of reason, but by their exclusive rules, more and more depart from the rational principles of life, which are common to all men, become more intolerant and more cruel to all those who do not belong to their association, and thus deprive themselves and others of the true good.

267. Not to fall into this offence a man must understand and remember that the rules of association as established by men may be infinitely varied, infinitely changeable, and contrary to one another ; that every rule which is artificially established by men must not bind him, if it can be contrary to the law of love ; that every exclusive combination with men limits the circle of communion, and thus deprives him of the chief condition of his good, — the possibility of a communion of love with all the men of the world.

268. And so we must not only refrain from joining such societies, associations, compacts, but, on the contrary, must avoid everything which with the others may exclude all the rest of men.

XLIX. THE LIE AND THE HARM OF THE OFFENCE OF STATE

269. This most cruel offence is conveyed to men just like a false faith, — by means of two methods of deception, of impressing the lie upon children and of appealing to men’s senses by external pomp. Nearly all men who live in states find themselves, as soon as they awaken to consciousness, entangled in the offences of state, and live in the conviction that their nation, their country, their fatherland, is the best, the chosen nation, country, fatherland, for the good and the well-being of which people must blindly obey the existing government, and by the command of this government torture, wound, and kill their neighbours.

270. The lie of this offence consists in this, that a man thinks that in the name of the good of his nation he may renounce the demands of his conscience and of his moral freedom.

271. The harm of this offence consists in this, that as soon as a man admits the possibility of understanding and knowing in what the good of many men consists, there are no limits to the assumption concerning that good of many men, which may result from any act, and so any act may be justified ; and as soon as he admits that for the good of many in the future one may sacrifice the good and the life of one man, there are no limits to the evil which may be committed in the name of such an assumption. On the basis of the first assumption, which is, that men can know the future good of many men, they in former times maintained tortures, inquisitions, slavery, and now maintain courts, prisons, the ownership of land. On the basis of the second assumption Caiaphas in former times had Christ killed, and now millions perish in war and as the result of punishments.

272. Not to fall into this offence, a man must understand and remember that, before belonging to any country or nation, he belongs to God, as a member of the universal kingdom, and that he cannot shift his responsibility for his acts on anybody else, and himself is always responsible for them.

273. And so a man must never, under any conditions, prefer the people of his own nation or country to the people of another nation or country ; he must never commit any evil to his neighbours in view of any considerations about the future good of many ; he must never consider himself obliged to obey any one in preference to his conscience.

PART THE SIXTH

THE STRUGGLE WITH SINS

L. THE STRUGGLE WITH SINS

274. But, having freed himself from the deception of faith and having kept away from the offences, a man none the less falls into sins. A man with an awakened consciousness knows that the meaning of his life is only in the service of God, and yet he from habit commits sins, which interfere with the manifestation of his love and the attainment of his true good.

275. How is a man to struggle with the habit of sinning ?

276. There are two means for the struggle with the habit of sinning : the first is clearly to understand the consequences of the sins, — that the sins do not attain the aim for which they are committed, and do not increase, but rather diminish the animal good for the individual man ; in the second place, to know with what sins one ought to begin to struggle, with what first and with what later.

277. And so it is necessary first of all clearly to understand and remember that a man’s position in the world is such that ever}7 search by him for the personal good, after the rational consciousness has awakened in him, deprives him of the good itself, and that, on the contrary, he receives his good only when he does not think of his personal good, but gives all his strength to the service of God.

278. In the second place, that for success in his struggle with the habits of sinning it is necessary to know to what sin he is first of all to direct his attention ; not to begin the struggle with a sin which has its root in another unconquered sin ; to know the connection and the consecutiveness of the sins.

LI. THE CONSECUTIVENESS OF THE STRUGGLE WITH SINS

279. There is a connection and a consecutiveness of the sins, so that one sin brings forth another or interferes with the liberation from it.

280. It is impossible for a man to free himself from any of the sins, if he surrenders himself to the sin of intoxication ; and it is impossible for him to free himself from the sin of struggle, if he surrenders himself to the sin of property ; and he cannot free himself from the sin of property, if he surrenders himself to the sin of idleness, and he cannot free himself from the sin of struggle and of property, if be surrenders himself to the sin of lust.

281. This does not mean that a man need not struggle with every sin at some time, but that, for a successful struggle with sin, it is necessary to know with which to begin, or, rather, with which not to begin, in order that the struggle may be successful.

282. Only from the lack of consecutiveness in this struggle with sins results the failure of the struggle, which frequently leads the struggling man to despair.

283. Intoxication, no matter of what kind, is the sin, abandonment to which makes struggle with any other sin impossible ; this intoxication may be from intoxicating matters, or from solemnity, or from rapid, intensified motions; the intoxicated person will not struggle with idleness, nor with lust, nor with fornication, nor with the love of power. And so, in order to struggle with the other sins, a man must first of all free himself from the sin of intoxication.

284. The next sin from which a man must free himself in order that he may be able to struggle with lust, profit, love of power, fornication, is the sin of idleness. The freer a man is from the sin of idleness, the easier can he abstain from the sin of lust, profit, fornication, and love of power : a working person is in no need of the complication of means for the gratification of his needs, is in no need of property, is less subject to the temptations of fornication and has no cause and no time for struggle.

285. The next sin is the sin of lust. The more a man is abstinent in food, attire, and dwelling, the easier it is for him to free himself from the sin of profit, love of power, fornication : a man who is satisfied with little needs no property, abstinence helps in the struggle with fornication, and, as he does not need much, he has no causes for struggling.

286. The next sin after this is the sin of profit. The freer a man will be from this sin, the easier it will be for him to abstain from the sin of fornication and the sin of struggling. Nothing encourages the sin of fornication so much as a superabundance of property, and nothing provokes so much struggle among men.

287. The next sin to it and the last sin is the sin of struggling, or of the love of power, which is included in all the other sins and is called forth by all the other sins, and the greatest liberation from which is possible only with the liberation from all the preceding sins.

LIL HOW TO STRUGGLE WITH THE SINS

288. It is possible to struggle with the sins in general only by knowing the consecutiveness of the sins, so that one can first begin the struggle with those, without the liberation from which it is impossible to struggle with the rest.

289. Hut even in the struggle with each separate sin one ought to begin with those manifestations of the sins, the abstinence from which is in the power of a man, of which he has not yet made a habit.

290. Such sins in all the varieties of sins, — in intoxication, idleness, lust, prolit, power, and fornication, — are the personal sins, those which a man commits for the first time, when he has not yet formed any habit of them. And so it is from these that a man must free himself first of all.

291. Only after having freed himself from these sins, that is, after having stopped inventing new means for the increase of his personal good, must a man begin the struggle with the habits, the tradition, established among the sins.

292. And only after having vanquished these sins can a man begin the struggle with the inborn sins.

LIIT. THE STRUGGLE WITH THE SIN OF INTOXICATION

293. Man’s destination consists in the manifestation and increase of love. This increase takes place only in consequence of man’s recognition of his true divine ego. The more a man becomes conscious of his true ego, the greater is his good. And so everything which counteracts this consciousness (and each excitation does counteract it), the intensified false consciousness of the individual life and the weakened consciousness of the true ego (as is the case in every intoxication), impedes man’s true good.

294. But not only does every intoxication impede the true good of the man who has awakened to consciousness : it also deceives a man, and not only fails to increase the man’s own individual good, which he seeks, when he abandons himself to some stimulus, but always deprives him also of that animal good which he had.

295. A man who is still in the stage of the animal life, or a babe with unawakened consciousness, in abandoning himself to some stimulus, to smoking, drinking, solemnity, dance, receives a full gratification from the stimulus produced and is in no need of a repetition of this stimulus. But a man with an awakened consciousness notices that every stimulus drowns in him the activity of his reason and destroys the morbidity of the contradiction between the demand of his animal and that of his spiritual nature, and so demands a repetition and intensification of the intoxication, and keeps demanding it more and more, until the awakened reason will be completely drowned in him, which can be done only by completely or at least partially destroying the bodily life. Thus a rational life, having begun to abandon himself to this sin, not only does not receive the expected good, but also falls into the most varied and most cruel of calamities.

296. A man who is free from intoxication makes use for his worldly life of all those forces of the mind which are given to him, and can rationally choose the best for the good of his animal existence ; but a man who abandons himself to intoxication deprives liimself even of those mental forces which are characteristic of the animal for the avoidance of harm and the attainment of pleasure.

297. Such are the consequences of the sin of intoxication for the sinner ; but for those who surround him they are particularly harmful, in the first place, because an enormous waste of forces is necessary for the production of the act of intoxication, so that the major part of humanity’s labour is wasted on the production of intoxicating substances and the preparation and building up of intoxicating solemn acts, processions, ministrations, monuments, temples, and all kinds of celebrations ; in the second place, because smoking, wine, intensified motions, and especially solemnities, cause unthinking people, while they are under the influence of these actions, to commit the most insipid, coarse, pernicious, and cruel acts. It is this that a man must always have in view when he surrenders himself to the temptation of some intoxication.

298. No man, so long as he lives in the body, is able to destroy in himself completely the ability to receive a temporary stimulus of intoxication from the consumption of food or drink, or from external conditions, or from intensified motions, and an intensification of his animal consciousness in consequence of it and a weakening of the consciousness of his spiritual ego. But although a man is not able completely to destroy in himself this inclination toward being stimulated, lie is capable of reducing it to the smallest degree. And in this consists the struggle with the sin of intoxication, which is imminent to every man.

299. To free himself from the sin of intoxication, a man must understand and remember that a certain degree of stimulation at certain times and under certain conditions is proper to man, as an animal, but that, with the awakened consciousness in him, he must not only avoid seeking these stimuli, but must also get out of their way and seek a quieter state, in which the activity of his mind may be manifested in its full force, that activity which, when followed up, makes it possible for him to attain the greatest good, both his own and that of men and beings that are connected with him.

300. In order to attain this state, a man must begin by not increasing for himself that sin of intoxication to which he has become accustomed and which is the habit of his life. If certain habits of intoxication, which repeat themselves at certain times and are considered necessary by those who surround him, have entered into the routine of his life, let him continue these habits, but let him not introduce new ones, imitating others or inventing them himself : if he is accustomed to smoke cigarettes, let him not train himself to smoke cigars or opium ; if he is used to beer or wine, let him not train himself to something more intoxicating ; if he is accustomed to obeisances at prayers, at home or in church, or to jumping and leaping at services, let him not learn new observances ; if he is accustomed to celebrate certain holidays, let him not celebrate new ones. Let him not increase those means for stimulation to which he is accustomed, and he will do very much for the liberation of himself and of others from the sin of intoxication. If people would not introduce new methods of sinning, sin would be destroyed, because sin begins when there is not yet^ny habit formed of it, and it is possible to vanquish it, and there have always been and always will be men who liberate themselves from sin.

301. If a man has firmly recognized the madness of the sin of intoxication, and has firmly resolved not to increase those habits of intoxication which have become customary to him, let him stop smoking and drinking, if he already has these habits ; let him stop taking part in solemnities and celebrations, in which he used to take part before ; let him stop making stimulating motions, if he was in the habit of making them.

302. But if a man has freed himself from those artificial habits of intoxication in which he is living already, let him free himself from those conditions of excitation which are produced in him by certain food, drink, motions, and surroundings, to which every man is subject.

303. Although a man, so long as he is in the body, will never fully be freed from excitation and intoxication, produced by food, drink, motions, surroundings,— the degree of these conditions may be diminished to a minimum. The more a man who has awakened to consciousness will free himself from the condition of intoxication, the clearer will his mind be, the easier will it be for him to struggle with all the other sins, the more true good will he receive, the more will there be added to him of worldly good, and the more will he contribute to the good of other men.

LIV. THE STRUGGLE WITH THE SIN OF IDLENESS

304. A man with an awakened consciousness is not a self-existing, selfsatisfied being that can have its own independent good, but a messenger of God, to whom the good is possible only in the measure in which he does God’s will. And so it is as irrational for a man to serve his own separate personality as it is irrational for a labourer to serve his instrument of labour, take care of his spade or scythe, and not waste it on his predetermined work ; as it says in the Gospel, he who keeps his carnal life, loses the true life ; and only by losing the carnal life is it possible to receive the true life.

305. To make other persons work for the gratification of one’s needs is as irrational as it would be for a labourer to destroy or spoil his companion’s instruments of labour, in order to save or improve the instrument with which he, wasting it, must produce the work for which he and his companions are delegated.

306. But besides that true good, of which a man deprives himself when he frees himself from labour and imposes it upon others, such a man at the same time deprives himself also of that worldly animal good which is set aside for man with his natural bodily labour demanded of him for the gratification of his needs.

307. A man will receive the greatest good of his separate being from the exercise of his forces and from rest, when he shall live instinctively like an animal, labouring and resting precisely as much as his animal life demands. But the moment a man artificially transfers his labours to others, arranging an artificial rest for himself, he will not derive any enjoyment from his rest.

308. A working man derives true enjoyment from rest ; but an idle man, in place of the rest which he is trying to arrange for himself, experiences constant unrest, and, besides, by means of this artificial idleness destroys the very source of enjoyment, — his health, — so that by weakening his body, he deprives himself of the possibility of work, and so also of the consequences of work, of true rest, and begets in himself grave diseases.

309. Such are the consequences of idleness for the sinner ; for those about him the consequences of this sin are pernicious, in the first place, because, as a Chinese proverb runs, if there is one idle man there is also one who is starving ; in the second place, because unthinking men, who do not know that dissatisfaction which is experienced by idle men, try to imitate them, and instead of good sensations experience bad sentiments toward this dissatisfaction.

310. To free himself from the sin of idleness, a man must clearly understand and remember that every liberation of himself from the work which he has been performing does not increase, but diminishes the good of his separate personality and produces an unnecessary evil to other men.

311. It is impossible in the separate animal existence of man to diminish the striving after rest and the dislike of work (according to the Bible idleness was bliss and work a punishment), but the diminution of this sin and its reduction to the lowest degree is that toward which a man must strive in order to free himself from this sin.

312. To free himself from the habit of sinning, a man must begin by not freeing himself from any work that he may have been doing before ; if he brushed his own clothes and washed his linen, he must not cause another to do that ; if he got along without the productions of other people’s labour, he should not buy them ; if he used to walk, he should not mount a horse ; if he carried his own satchel, he should not give it to a porter, and so forth. All this seems so insignificant, but if men would do so they would be freeing themselves from a great number of their sins and the sufferings arising therefrom.

313. Only when a man is already able to abstain from freeing himself from the labour which he used to perform before, and from transferring it to others, can he successfully begin his struggle with the inherited sin of idleness. If he is a peasant, let him not make his weak wife do what he has the leisure to do himself, nor hire a labourer whom he used to hire before, nor purchase an article of the production of labour which he used to buy formerly, but without which others are getting along ; if he is rich, let him send away his valet and put away his own things, and stop buying, as formerly, expensive garments, if he is used to doing so.

314. But if a man has been able to vanquish that idleness to which he has been accustomed from childhood, and has descended to that level of work on which the men who surround him live, he is able successfully to begin the struggle with the inborn sin of idleness, that is, to labour for the good of other men and when others rest themselves.

315. The fact that human life has become so complicated in consequence of the division of labour that a man is unable himself to satisfy his own needs and those of his family, and that it is impossible in our world to get along without using the labours of others, cannot keep a man from striving after a state in which he would give to people more than he receives from them.

316. To be convinced of this, a man must in the first place do for himself and his family what he can find the time to do, and, in the second, in his serving other men must not choose such matters as please him, and for which there are many volunteers, as is the case with all matters of the government of men, of their instruction, of their amusement, but such as are pressing 1 y indispensable, which are not attractive, and which all men reject, as is the case with coarse and dirty work.

LV. THE STRUGGLE WITH THE SIN OF LUST

317. It is man’s destination to serve God by the increase of love in himself. The fewer the needs are which a man may have, the easier will it be for him to serve God and men, and so the greater will the true good be which he will receive through the increase of love in himself.

318. But besides that good of the true life, of which the more a Man receives the freer he will be from the sin of lust, a man’s position in the world is such that if he abandons himself to his needs only to the extent to which they demand their gratification, and does not direct his mind upon the increase of enjoyment from their gratification, this gratification gives him the greatest accessible good in this respect. With every increase of his needs, no matter whether they are gratified or not, the good of the worldly life is inevitably diminished.

319. The greatest good from the gratification of his needs of eating, drinking, sleeping, raiment, and house, a man receives only when he gratifies them like an animal, instinctively and not in order to receive enjoyment, but in order to destroy incipient suffering; the greatest enjoyment from food a man will receive, not when he has refined food, but when he is hungry ; and from raiment, not when it is beautiful, but when he is frozen ; and from the house, not when it is luxurious, but when he takes refuge in it from ill weather.

320. A man who enjoys a rich dinner, garments, a house, without any necessity, derives less pleasure than a man who uses the poorest kind of food, raiment, and house after he lias been starving, freezing, and feeling wet, so that the complication of the means for gratifying the needs and their abundance do not increase the good of the personal life, but diminish it.

321. A superabundance in the gratification of the needs deprives a man of the very source of enjoyment in connection with the gratification of needs; it destroys the health of the organism, —no food affords pleasure to the sick, weakened stomach, and no garment and no houses warm the anæmic bodies.

322. Such are the consequences of the sin of lust for the sinner ; but for the men who surround him its consequences are these, that, in the first place, needy persons are deprived of those objects which are used by those who live in luxury; in the second place, all those mean-spirited men who see the abundance of him who lives in luxury, but do not see his sufferings, are tempted by his condition and are drawn into the same sin, and, instead of the natural, universal, joyous fraternal feelings, experience painful envy and ill-will toward those who live in luxury. This a man must know in order to be able successfully to struggle with the sin of lust.

323. It is impossible in the separate being of a man to destroy the striving after the increase of enjoyment from the gratification of needs, so long as a man lives in the body, but he may reduce this striving in himself to a minimum, and in this does the struggle with this sin consist.

324. For the greatest liberation of oneself from this sin of lust, a man must first of all understand clearly and remember that every complication of the gratification of one’s needs does not increase, but diminishes his good, and produces unnecessary evil in other men.

325. To free himsetf from the habit of sinning, a man must begin by not increasing his needs, by not changing what he is used to, by not accepting ui …–—

thing new ; he must not begin to drink tea, if he lived and was well without it; he must not build a new castle, if he lived in an old one. It seems such a little thing not to do this, but if men did not do this, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousandths of human sins and sufferings would be destroyed.

326. Only by abstaining firmly from introducing new luxury into his life can a man begin the struggle with the sins of heredity, can a man, who is accustomed to drinking tea and eating meat, or who is used to champagne and trotters, give up the habit of what is superfluous, and pass from more luxurious habits to such as are more modest.

327. Only by giving up the habits of luxurious people and descending to the level of the poorest can a man begin to struggle with the natural sins of lust, that is, diminish his needs in comparison with the poorest and most abstinent of men.

LVI. THE STRUGGLE WITH THE SIN OF PROFIT

328. Man’s true good consists in the manifestation of love, and with this a man is placed in such a situation that he never knows when he is going to die, and every hour of his life may be the last, so that a rational man can by no means violate the love iu the present for the sake of his care to secure the one in the future. But it is this that a man does when he tries to acquire property and to hold it against other people for the safeguarding of his own future and that of his family.

329. Not only do men, by acting thus, deprive themselves of the true good ; they do not even attain that good of the separate personality which is always safeguarded for each man.

330. It is proper for man to gratify his needs by means of his labour, and even to prepare the objects of his needs, as some animals do, and, acting in this manner, a man attains the highest accessible good of his separate existence.

331. But the moment a man begins to claim exclusive rights to these prepared and otherwise acquired objects, the good of his separate existence is not only diminished, but even changes to suffering for tins existence.

332. A man who, in the safeguarding of his future, relies upon his work, upon men’s mutual aid, and, above all, upon such an order of the world in which men are as well provided for in life as the birds of the air and the flowers of the field, can calmly surrender himself to all the joys of life; but a man who has himself begun to make his future possessions secure cannot have a minute’s rest.

333. In the first place, he never knows to what extent he must make himself secure, whether for a month, a year, ten years, or the next generation. In the second place, property cares draw a man more and more away from the simple joys of life ; in the third place, he is always afraid of seizures by other people, always struggles for the preservation and increase of what he has acquired, and, giving up his life to the care of the future, he now loses the present life.

334. Such are the consequences of the sin of property for the sinner; but for those who surround him the consequences are privations as the result of the seizures.

335. It is almost impossible to destroy in oneself the striving after keeping exclusively for oneself raiment, instruments, a piece of bread for the morrow, but it is possible to reduce this striving to a minimum, and in this reduction of the sin of property to a minimum does the struggle with this sin consist.

336. And so, to free himself from the sin of property, a man must clearly understand ami remember that every provision for the future by means of acquiring and retaining property will not increase the good of the separate existence, but will diminish it and will produce a large and unnecessary evil for those men among whom property is acquired and retained.

337. To struggle with the habit of the sin, it is necessary to begin by not increasing that property which one has and which provides for the future,— whether that be millions or dozens of sacks of rye for food for the whole year. If men only understood that their good and their life, even their animal life, are not made secure by property, and if only they did not increase at the expense of another what each considers to be his own, there would disappear the greatest part of the calamities from which people suffer.

338. Only when a man can refrain from increasing his property, can he successfully begin the liberation of himself from what he has, and only by having freed himself from everything hereditary, can he begin to struggle with the inborn sins, that is, to give to others what is considered necessary for the support of life itself.

LVII. THE STRUGGLE WITH THE SIN OF LOVE OF POWER

339. ” Kings rule over the nations and are honoured, but let it not be thus among you, — he who wants to be first, let him be a servant to all,” says the Christian teaching. According to the Christian teaching a man is sent into the world in order to serve God ; now the service of God is achieved through the manifestation of love. Love can be manifested only through serving men, and so every struggle of a man who has awakened to rational consciousness with other beings, that is, violence and the desire to cause another man to commit an act which is contrary to his will, is contrary to man’s destination and interferes with his true good.

340. But a man who has awakened to the rational consciousness and who enters into a struggle with other beings iu this way not only deprives himself of the good of the true life, but even does not attain that good of the separate being, after which he is striving.

341. A man who is still living the animal life alone, like a child or an animal, struggles with other beings only so long as his animal instincts demand this struggle : he takes a piece away from another, so long as he is hungry, and drives another man away from his place, only so long as he himself has no place ; he employs nothing but physical force for this struggle, and, having conquered or being vanquished in the struggle, he makes an end of it. And, in acting thus, he receives the greatest good which is accessible to him as a separate being.

342. But not the same happens with a man with an awakened reason, who enters into the struggle : a man with an awakened reason, on entering into the struggle, uses for this his whole reason and sets his aim in the struggle, and so never knows when to stop it ; and, having conquered, he is carried away by the desire for further victories, evoking in the conquered hatred, which poisons his life, if he is a victor, — and if he is worsted, he suffers himself from humiliation and hatred. Thus a rational man who enters into a struggle with beings not only does not increase the good of his separate being, but even diminishes it and puts in its place sufferings which he himself has produced.

343. A man who avoids struggling, who is meek, is, in the first place, free and can give his forces to what attracts him ; in the second place, as he loves others and humbles himself before them, he evokes love in them, and so can make use of those goods of the worldly life which fall to his share, while a rational man who enters into the struggle inevitably gives up all his life to the efforts of the struggle and, in the second place, by provoking resistance and hatred in other people through the struggle, cannot calmly make use of those goods which he has obtained through the struggle, because he must without cessation defend them.

344. Such are the consequences of the sin of the struggle for the sinner; but for those around him the consequences of the sin are in all kinds of suffering and privations, which the conquered suffer, but chiefly in those sentiments of hatred which they provoke in people in place of the natural or amicable brotherly feeling.

345. Although a man, so long as he is in this life, will never free himself from the conditions of the struggle, yet, the more he will free himself from them in accordance with his strength, the more will he attain the true good, the more of the worldly good will be added to him, and the more will he contribute to the good of the world.

346. And so, to free himself from the sin of the struggle, a man must clearly understand and remember that both his true spiritual and his temporal animal good will be greater the smaller his struggle will be with men and all other beings, and the greater his humility and meekness will be, and the more he will learn to submit his other cheek to him who will strike him, and to give his cloak to him who takes away his coat.

347. In order not to fall into the habit of the sin, a man must begin by not increasing in himself that sin of the struggle in which he is : if a man is already in the struggle with animals or men, so that his whole carnal life is sustained by this struggle, let him continue this struggle, without intensifying it, and let him not enter into a struggle with other beings, — and he will do much for his liberation from the sin of the struggle. If only men did not increase the struggle, the struggle would be abolished more and more, since there are always men who more and more renounce the struggle.

348. But if a man has reached the point where he lives without increasing the struggle with the surrounding be-mgs, let him labour to diminish and weaken that state of the hereditary struggle in which every man is, when he enters into life.

349. But if a man succeeds in freeing himself from this struggle in which lie is brought up, let him try to free himself from those natural conditions of the struggle in which every man finds himself.

LVIII. THE STRUGGLE WITH THE SIN OF FORNICATION

350. Man’s destiny is to serve God, which consists in the manifestation of love toward all beings and men ; but the man who abandons himself to the lust of love weakens his forces and takes them away from the service of God, and so, by abandoning himself to sexual lust, deprives himself of the good of the true life.

351. But a man who abandons himself to sexual lust, in whatever form it be, not only deprives himself of the true good, but also does not attain the good which he is seeking.

352. If a man lives in regular wedlock, entering into sexual intercourse only when there can be children, and educates his children, there inevitably follow sufferings and cares for the mother, for the father cares about the mother and the child, mutual alienations and frequent quarrels between the married pair and between the parents and the children.

353. But if a man enters into sexual intercourse without the purpose of begetting and bringing up children, tries not to have them, and, having them, pays no attention to them, and changes the objects of his love, the good of the separate being becomes even less possible, and he invariably subjects himself to sufferings, which are the more violent the more lie abandons himself to the sexual passion : there appear a weakening of the physical and spiritual forces, quarrels, diseases, and there is not that consolation which those who live in regular wedlock have,— the family and all its assistance and joys.

354. Such are the consequences of the sin of fornication for the sinner; but for other people they consist in this, that, in the first place, the person with whom the sin is committed bears all the consequences of the sin : the privation of the true and the temporal good, and the same sufferings and diseases ; and for those who surround him : the destruction of the children in the fœtus, infanticide, the abandoning of children without proper care and without any education, and the horrible evil, which ruins the human souls, prostitution.

355. Not one living being is able to destroy this tendency in its own body, nor can man, if we do not consider the exceptions. Nor can it be otherwise, since this lust secures the existence of the human race, and so, as long as the higher will needs the existence of the human race, there will be fornication in it.

356. But this fornication maybe reduced to a minimum, and by some people may be carried to complete chastity. And in this diminution and reduction of the sin to a minimum and even to chastity in the case of some, as it says in the Gospel, does the struggle with the sin of fornication consist.

357. And so, to free himself from the sin of fornication, a man must understand and remember that fornication is a necessary condition of every animal and every man, as an animal, but that the awakened rational consciousness in man demands of him the opposite, that is, complete chastity, and that the more he will surrender himself to fornication, the less will he receive, not only of the true good, but even of the temporal animal good, and the more suffering will he cause to himself and to other men.

358. To counteract the habit of this sin, a man must begin by not increasing in himself that sin of fornication, in which he finds himself. If a man is chaste, let him not impair his chastity ; if he is married, let him remain true to his mate ; if he has intercourse with many, let him continue to live so, without inventing unnatural methods of debauchery. Let him not change his position and increase his sin of fornication. If men only did so, all their great sufferings would be destroyed.

359. And if a man has come to a point where he does not commit any new sin, let him labour on diminishing that sin of fornication in which he is : let the one who is chaste in fact struggle with the mental sin of fornication ; let the married man try to diminish and regulate his sexual intercourse. Let him who knows many women, and her who knows many men, become true to the chosen mate.

360. And if a man shall be able to free himself from those habits of fornication, in which he happens to be, let him strive to free himself from those inborn conditions of fornication, in which every man is born.

361. Although but few men can be completely chaste, let every man understand and remember that he can always be chaster than he was before, and can return to the violated chastity, and that the more a man, in accordance with his strength, approaches complete chastity, the more he attains the true good, the more of the worldly good will be added to him, and the more will he contribute to the good of men.

PART THE SEVENTH

OF PRAYER

LIX. SPECIAL MEANS FOR THE STRUGGLE WITH THE SINS

362. Not to fall into deception, it is necessary not to trust any one or anything but one’s own reason ; not to fall into an offence, it is necessary not to justify acts which are contrary to the truth, to life ; not to fall into sin, one must clearly understand that sin is evil and deprives one not only of the true good, but also of the personal good, and produces evil in men, and, besides, one must know that sequence of the sins in which it is necessary to struggle with them.

363. But men know this and none the less fall into sin. This is due to the fact that men either do not know quite clearly who they are, what their ego is, or forget this.

364. In order more and more fully and more and more clearly to know oneself and to remember what man is, there is one powerful means. This means is prayer.

LX. OF PRAYER

365. It has been recognized since antiquity that man has need of prayer.

366. For the men of antiquity prayer was, and it even now remains for the majority of men, an address under certain conditions, in certain places, under certain acts and words, to God, or to the gods, for the purpose of propitiating them.

367. The Christian teaching does not know such prayers, but teaches that prayer is indispensable, not as a means for a liberation from worldly calamities and for the acquisition of worldly goods, but as a means for strengthening man in the struggle with the sins.

368. For the struggle with the sins a man must understand and remember his position in the world, and in the performance of every act he must estimate the value of it, in order that he may not fall into sin. For either, prayer is necessary.

369. And so Christian prayer is of two kinds : one, which elucidates to man his position in the world, — temporary prayer, and the other, which accompanies every act of his, presenting it to God’s judgment and verifying it, — hourly prayer.

LXI. TEMPORARY PRAYER

370. Temporary prayer is a prayer by means of which a man in the best moments of his life, abstracting himself from everything worldly, evokes in himself the clearest possible consciousness of God and his relation to him.

371. It is that prayer of which Christ speaks in the sixth chapter of Matthew, when he opposes it to the wordy and public prayers of the Pharisees, and for which he makes solitude a necessary condition. These words show men how they should pray.

372. And the Lord’s prayer, as well as the prayer uttered by Christ in the garden of Gethsemane, shows us how to pray and in what the true temporary prayer should consist, which, elucidating man’s consciousness about the truth of bis life, about his relation to God, and about his destination in the world, strengthens his spiritual powers.

373. As such a prayer may serve a man’s expression in his own words of his relation to God ; but such a prayer has always consisted for all men in the repetition of the expressions and ideas of men who lived before us and who expressed their relation to God, and a union of souls with these men and with God. Thus Christ prayed, repeating the words of a psalm, and we pray truly, when we repeat Christ’s words, and not only Christ’s, but also those of Socrates, Buddha, Lao-tse, Pascal, and others, if we live over that spiritual condition which these men passed through and expressed in those expressions which have come down to us.

374. And so the true temporary prayer will not be the one which will be performed at definite hours and days, but only the one which is performed in moments of the highest spiritual moods, moments which come over every man, which often are evoked by sufferings or by the proximity of death, and at times come without any external cause, and which a man should value.as his highest treasure and use for the greater and ever greater elucidation of his consciousness, because only at these moments does our forward motion and approximation to God take place.

375. Such a prayer cannot be performed in assemblies, nor with external actions, but by all means in complete solitude and in freedom from every external, distracting influence.

376. This prayer is the one which moves a man from the lower stage of life to the higher, from the animal to man, and from man to God.

377. Only thanks to this prayer does a man recognize himself, his divine nature, and feel those barriers which confine his divine nature, and, feeling them, try to break them, and in this tendency widen them.

378. It is that prayer which, elucidating consciousness, makes impossible for man the sins into which he fell before and presents to him as sin what before had not appeared as sinful to him.

LXII. HOURLY PRAYER

379. In his motion from the animal to the true and spiritual life, in his birth to a new life, in his struggle with sin, every man always finds himself in three different relations to sin : one set of sins is vanquished by man, — they sit like captured animals, bound to their chain, and only now and then by their bellowing remind him that they are alive. These sins are behind. Other sins are such as a man has just come to see, acts which he has committed all his life, without considering them sins, and the sinfulness of which he has just come to see in consequence of the clearing up of his consciousness in temporary prayer. A man sees the sinfulness of his acts, but he is so accustomed to committing them, that he has but lately and indistinctly recognized the sinfulness of these deeds and has not yet attempted to struggle against them. And there is a third kind of acts, the sinfulness of which a man sees clearly, with which he struggles, and which he at times commits, surrendering himself to sin, and at times does not commit, vanquishing sin.

380. For the struggle with these sins hourly prayer is needed. Hourly prayer consists in this, that it reminds a man at all minutes of his life, during all his acts, of what his life and good consist in, and so cooperates with him in those acts of life in which he is still able to vanquish the animal nature by means of his spiritual consciousness.

381. Hourly prayer is a constant recognition of the presence of God, a constant recognition by the ambassador during the time of his embassy of the presence of him who sent him.

382. The birth to new life, the liberation of self from the shackles of the animal nature, the liberation of self from sin, takes place only by slow efforts. Temporary prayer, in enlightening man’s consciousness, reveals to him his sin. The sin at first appears to him unimportant, bearable, but the longer a man lives, the more pressing does the necessity become of freeing himself from sin. And if a man does not fall into an offence which conceals his sin, he inevitably enters into a struggle with sin.

383. But with his first attempts to overcome sin, a man feels his impotence: the sin attracts him by the sweetness of the habit of the sin ; and a man is unable to oppose anything to the sin but the consciousness of the fact that the sin is not good, and, knowing that what he is doing is bad, he continues to do what is bad.

384. There is but one way out of this situation. Some religious teachers see it in this, that there exists a separate force, called grace, which supports man in his struggle with sin, which is obtained through certain actions called sacraments. Other teachers see a way out of this situation in the redemption, which was accomplished by Christ the God in his death for men. Others again see this way out in prayer addressed to God about strengthening man’s power in his struggle with sin.

385. But none of these means makes it easier for a man to struggle with sin ; in spite of the grace of the sacrament, of the faith in the redemption, of suppliant prayer, every man who has sincerely begun to struggle with sin cannot help but feel his whole weakness before the mightiness of sin and the hopelessness of the struggle with it.

386. The hopelessness of the struggle presents itself very forcibly, because, having come to understand the lie of the sin, a man wants to free himself from it at once, in which he is supported by all kinds of false teachings concerning redemption, the sacraments, and so forth, and, feeling the impotence of the liberation, he at once neglects those insignificant efforts which he can make for freeing himself from sin.

387. However, as all the great transformations in the material world do not take place at once, but by slow and gradual falling off and accretion, so also in the spiritual world the liberation from sin and the approach to perfection take place only through the counteraction to sin, — through the successive destruction of its minutest particles.

388. It is not in man’s power to free himself from a sin which has become a habit in the course of many years ; but it is entirely within his power not to commit acts which draw into sin, to diminish the attractiveness of sin, to put himself where it is impossible to commit a sin, to cut off his hand and put out his eye which offend him. And this he should do every day and every minute, and in order to be able to do this, he needs hourly prayer.

PART THE EIGHTH

CONCLUSION

LX III. WHAT MAY A MAN EXPECT WHO LIVES A CHRISTIAN LIFE IN THE PRESENT?

389. There are religious teachings which promise men who follow them a full and complete good in life, not only in the one to come, but also in this. There is even such a comprehension of the Christian teaching. The men who understand the Christian teaching in this manner say that a man needs but follow Christ’s teaching, to renounce himself, to love men, and his life will be one continuous joy. There are other religious teachings which see in human life nothing but unending, necessary suffering, which a man must bear, expecting rewards in the future life. There exists such a comprehension also of the Christian teaching : some see in life constant joy, others — constant suffering.

390. Neither comprehension is correct. Life is not joy, nor suffering. It may present itself as joy or as suffering only to that man who considers his separate existence to be his ego ; only for this ego can there be joy or suffering. Life according to the Christian teaching, in its true sense, is neither joy, nor suffering, but the birth and growth of man’s true spiritual ego, with which there can be no joy and no suffering.

391. According to the Christian teaching, man’s life is a constant growth of his consciousness of love. And since the growth of the human soul, the increase of love, is taking place without cessation, and there is also taking place in the world without cessation that work of God which is accomplished by this growth, a man who understands his life as the Christian teaching teaches him to understand it, namely, as an increase of love for the establishment of the kingdom of God, can never be unhappy or dissatisfied.

392. On the path of his life there may occur joys and sufferings for his animal personality, which he cannot help but feel, which he cannot help but enjoy or bear, but he can never experience complete happiness (and so he cannot wish for it) and can never be unhappy (and so cannot fear sufferings and wish to avoid them, if they are in his way).

393. A man who lives a Christian life does not ascribe any great meaning to his joys, does not look upon them as the realization of his wishes, but looks upon them only as accidental phenomena which one meets on the path of life, as something which is naturally added to him who seeks the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and he does not look upon his sufferings as something that ought not to be, but looks upon them as an indispensable phenomenon of life like friction in work, knowing likewise, that as friction is a sign of work performed, so sufferings are a sign of the performance of the work of God.

394. A man who lives a Christian life is always free, because the same that forms the meaning of his life, — the removal of obstacles which impede love and, in consequence of this removal, the increase of love and the establishment of the kingdom of God, is precisely what he always wants and what is irresistibly accomplished in his life; he is always calm, because nothing can happen to him which he does not wish.

395. We must not think that a man who lives a Christian life always experiences this freedom and peace. always receives joys, without being carried away by them, as something accidental, without wishing to retain them, and sufferings as an indispensable condition of the motion of life. A Christian may temporarily be carried away by joys, trying to produce and retain them, and temporarily be tormented by sufferings, taking them as something unnecessary, which might even not have been ; but at the loss of joys, at the fear and pain of sufferings, a Christian immediately recalls his Christian dignity, his embassy, and his joys and sufferings take up their appropriate place, and he again becomes free and calm.

396. Thus even in a worldly relation the position of a Christian is not worse, but better than the position of a non-Christian. ” Seek the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and the rest shall be added unto you,” means that all the worldly joys of life are not kept away from a Christian, but are fully accessible to him, with this one difference, that while the joys of a non-Christian may be artificial and may pass over into satiety, into sufferings, and so appear to him as unnecessary and hopeless, — for a Christian the joys are more simple and more natural, and so more powerful, never producing satiety or suffering : they can never cause so much pain and seem so senseless as they do to a non-Christian.

Such is the position of a Christian in the life of the present ; but what can a Christian expect in the future ?

LXIV. WHAT MAY A MAN EXPECT IN THE FUTURE?

397. Living in this world in his bodily integument, a man cannot represent life to himself otherwise than in space and time, and so he naturally asks himself, where. he will be after death.

398. But this question is faulty : The divine essence of our soul is spiritual, extratemporal and extraspatial ; being in this life enclosed in the body, the soul, on leaving it, ceases to be in conditions of space and time, and so we cannot say of this essence that it xvill be. It is. Even so Christ said, ” Before Abraham was, I am.” Thus we all are. If we are, we have always been and shall always be. We are.

399. Even so it is with the question where we shall be. When we speak of where, we speak of the place in which we shall be. But the idea of place resulted only from that division from everything else, in which we are placed. At death this division is destroyed, and so we shall be everywhere and nowhere, for the people who live in this world. We shall be such that place will not exist for us.

400. There exist many different guesses as to where we shall be after death ; but all these guesses, from the grossest to the most delicate, cannot satisfy a rational man. Bliss, Mohammed’s voluptuousness, is too gross and palpably incompatible with the true concept of man and God. Even so the church representation of paradise and hell is not compatible with the concept of a God of love. The transmigration of the souls is less gross, but it similarly preserves the concept of the individuality of the being : the concept of the Nirvana destroys the whole coarseness of the idea, but violates the demands of reason, — the rationality of existence.

401. Thus no representation of what will be after death gives any answer which could satisfy a rational man.

402. Nor can it be otherwise. The question is falsely put. The human mind, which can reason only in conditions of time and space, wants to give an answer to what will be outside these conditions.- Reason knows but this much, that there is a divine essence, that it grew in this world, and that having reached a certain degree of its growth, it left these conditions.

403. Will this essence continue to act in severalty ? Will this increase of love be the cause of another new division ? All these are guesses, and there may be very many such guesses, but not one of them can give any ascertainable truth.

404. One thing is certain and indubitable, and that is, that Christ has said, “ Into thy hands I commend my spirit,” that is, dying I return whence I came. And if I believe in this, that that from which I have come is rational love (I know these two properties), I joyfully return to him, knowing that I shall fare well. I not only do not grieve, but even rejoice at the transition which awaits me.

HELP!

Postscript to an Appeal to Help the Dukhobors Persecuted in the Caucasus

by Leo Tolstoy

Translated from the Original Russian and edited by Leo Wiener

Assittant Professor of Slavic Languages at Harvard University

1896

The facts related in this appeal, composed by three of my friends, have been many times verified, looked over, and sifted ; this appeal has several times been changed and corrected ; everything which might appear as an exaggeration, though it is true, has been rejected ; thus everything which is now told in this appeal is the real, indubitable truth, to the extent to which the truth is accessible to men who are guided by the one religious sentiment of a desire by the publication of this truth to serve God and one’s neighbours, both the persecuted and the persecutors.

But no matter how startling the facts here related may be, their significance is determined not by the facts themselves, but by how those who will learn of it will look upon them.

” But they are a kind of mutineers, coarse, illiterate peasants, fanatics, who have come under some evil influence. They are a dangerous, anti-governmental sect, which the government cannot tolerate and must obviously suppress, like any other doctrine which may be harmful to the common good. If children, women, and innocent people shall suffer from this, what is to be done ? ” people will say, shrugging their shoulders, without understanding the significance of this event.

In general, to the majority of men this phenomenon will appear interesting, like any phenomenon whose place is firmly and clearly defined : smugglers make their appearance,— they have to be caught; anarchists, terrorists make their appearance,— society has to be made secure against them ; fanatics, the Eunuchs make their appearance, — they have to be locked up and sent into exile; violators of the order of state make their appearance, — they have to be crushed. All that seemed indubitable, simple, decided upon, and, so, uninteresting.

At the same time such a relation to what is told in this appeal is a great error.

As in the life of each individual person, — I know this in my own life, and anybody will find such cases in his own, — so also in the life of the nations and of humanity there appear events which form the turning-point of a whole existence; and these events — like that faint morning breeze, and not storm, in which Elijah saw God — are never loud, nor startling, nor noticeable, and in your personal life you later on are sorry that you did not at that time know or guess the importance of what was taking place. “ If 1 had known that this was such an important moment in my life,” you think later, “ I should have acted differently.” The same is true of the life of humanity. A triumpher, some Roman imperator enters Rome with a rattling and a noise, — how important this seems ! And how insignificant it then seemed when a Galilean preached some new kind of a teaching and was executed for it, together with hundreds of others executed for what seemed to be similar crimes ! Even so now, how important it seems to the refined members of the English, French, and Italian parliaments and the Austrian and German diets, with their aggressive parties, and to all the promoters of the City, and to the bankers of the whole world, and to their organs of the press, to solve the questions as to who will occupy the Bosphorus, who will seize a piece of land in Africa or in Asia, who will come out victorious in the question of bimetallism, and so forth ! And not only how important, but also to what a degree insignificant, so as not to be worth while speaking about, seem the stories of how the Russian government has taken measures somewhere in the Caucasus to suppress some half-savage fanatics, who deny the obligation of submitting to the authorities ! And yet, how insignificant and even comical in reality — by the side of the enormously important phenomenon which is now taking place in the Caucasus — are those strange cares of the cultured adults who are enlightened by Christ’s teaching (at least they know this teaching and might be enlightened by it), as to what country will own this or that particle of the earth, and what words will be pronounced by this or that erring, blundering man, who represents only the product of surrounding conditions.

There was some reason why Pilate and Herod should not have understood the significance of that for which the Galilean, who was disturbing the peace of their district, was brought before them for trial ; they did not even deem it necessary to find out in what his teaching consisted ; if they had found it out it would have been excusable for them to think that it would disappear (as Gamaliel said) ; but we cannot help knowing the teaching itself, and that it has not disappeared for the period of eighteen hundred years, and that it will not disappear until it is realized. And if we know this, we cannot, in spite of the unimportance, the illiteracy, the ingloriousness of the Dukhobors, help seeing the importance of what is taking place among them. Christ’s disciples were just such unimportant, unrefined, unknown people. Christ’s disciples could not be anything else. Amidst the Dukho-hors, or rather, the Christian Universal Brotherhood, as they now call themselves, there is not taking place anything new, but only the germination of the seed which Christ sowed eighteen hundred years ago, — the resurrection of Christ Himself.

This resurrection will certainly take place ; it cannot help but take place, and we cannot shut our eyes to the fact that it is taking place, simply because it is being accomplished without the firing of cannon, without military parades, without fluttering flags, fontaines lumineuses, music, electric light, ringing of bells, solemn addresses, and shouts of people adorned with gold lace and ribbons. It is only savages who judge of the importance of a phenomenon by the external splendour by which it is accompanied.

Whether we wish to see it or not, — now, in the Caucasus, in the life of the Christians of the Universal Brotherhood, especially since the time of their persecution, there has appeared that realization of the Christian life, for which everything good and rational done in the world is taking place. All our structures of state, our parliaments, societies, sciences, arts, — all this exists and lives for the purpose of realizing the life which we all, thinking people, see before us, as the highest ideal of perfection. And there are people who have realized this ideal, in all likelihood in part only, and not in full, but who have realized it in such a way as we did not even dream to materialize with our complicated governmental institutions. How can we help acknowledging the significance of this phenomenon ? What is being realized is what we are all striving after, and what all our complicated activity leads us to.

People generally say : such attempts at realizing the Christian life have existed before: there were the Quakers, the Mennonites, and all of them weakened and degenerated into common people, living the common civil life, consequently the attempts at realizing the Christian life are not important.

But to say this is the same as saying that the labours which have not yet ended in childbirth, and warm rains and sunbeams that have not immediately brought spring, are of no importance.

What is important for the realization of the Christian life ? Certainly not by diplomatic exchanges in regard to Abyssinia and Constantinople, nor by papal encyclicals, nor by socialistic congresses, nor by similar things will men approach that which the world lives for. If there is to be a realization of the kingdom of God, that is, the kingdom of truth and goodness upon earth, it will be only through such endeavours as those which were made by the first disciples of Christ, then by the Paulicians, the Albigenses, Quakers, Moravian brothers, Mennonites, by all the true Christians of the world, and now by the Christians of the Universal Brotherhood. The fact that these labours are lasting long and becoming stronger does not prove that there will be no birth, but, on the contrary, that it is at hand.

They say that this will happen, only not in this way, but in some other way, — through books, newspapers, universities, theatres, speeches, assemblies, congresses. Even if we admit that all these newspapers, and books, and assemblies, and universities are contributing to the realization of the Christian life, the realization will none the less have to be achieved by men, good, Christian men who are prepared for a good, common life ; and so the chief condition for the realization is the existence and assembly of such men as are already realizing what we are striving after.

May be, though I doubt it, even now they will crush the movement of the Christian Universal Brotherhood, especially if society itself fails to comprehend the whole meaning of what is taking place and will not help them with brotherly cooperation ; but what this movement represents, what is expressed in it, will not die, cannot die, and sooner or later will burst into light, will destroy what crushes it, and will take possession of the world. It is only a question of time.

It is true, there are people, and unfortunately there are many of them, who think and say, ” So long as it does not happen in our day,” and so try to arrest the movement. But their efforts are useless, aud they do not retard the movement, but with their efforts only ruin their own life which is given them. Life is life only when it is a ministration to God’s work. In counteracting it men deprive themselves of life, and yet neither for a year, nor for an hour, are able to arrest the accomplishment of God’s work.

We cannot help seeing that with that external union which has now established itself between all the inhabitants of the earth, with that awakening of the Christian spirit, which is now manifesting itself on all the sides of the earth, the accomplishment is near. And that malice and blindness of the Russian government, which directs against the Christians of the Universal Brotherhood persecutions that resemble those of pagan times, and that remarkable meekness and firmness, with which the new Christian martyrs are bearing these persecutions, — all that is a certain sign of the nearness of this accomplishment.

And so, having come to understand the whole importance of the event which is taking place, both in the life of the whole humanity, as also in that of each one of us, and remembering that the occasion for action, which is presenting itself to us now, will never return to us, let us do what the merchant of the gospel parable did when he sold everything in order to acquire a priceless gem: let us discard all petty, greedy considerations, and let each one of us, no matter in what position we may be, do everything in our power, in order, if not to help those through whom God’s work is being done, if not to take part in this matter, at least not to be opponents of God’s work, which is being accomplished for our good.

Moscow, December 14, 1896.

LETTER TO THE CHIEF OF THE IRKUTSK DISCIPLINARY BATTALION

by Leo Tolstoy

Translated from the Original Russian and edited by Leo Wiener

Assittant Professor of Slavic Languages at Harvard University

1896

October 22, 1896.

Dear Sir : — As I do not know your Christian name and patronymic, nor even your family name, I am unable to address you otherwise than in this cold and somewhat unpleasant formula, ” Dear Sir,” which distances people from one another; and yet I am addressing you on a very intimate matter, and I should like to avoid all those external forms which separate men, and wish, on the contrary, if not to evoke in you toward me a fraternal relation, which it is proper for men to have toward one another, at least to destroy every preconception which may be evoked in you by my letter and name. I wish you would act toward me and toward my request as toward a man of whom you know nothing, neither good nor bad, and whose address to you you are ready to hear with benevolent attention.

The matter in which I wish to ask you for something is this :

Into your disciplinary battalion there have entered, or shortly will enter, two men, who by the Brigade Court of Vladivostok were condemned to three years’ imprisonment. One of them is Peasant Peter Olkhdvik, who refused to do military service, because he considers it

contrary to God’s law ; the other is Kirill Sereda, a common soldier, who made Olkhovik’s acquaintance on a boat and, learning from him the cause of his deportation, came to the same conclusions as Olkhdvik, and refused to continue in the service.

I understand very well that the government, not having as yet worked out any law to cover the peculiarities of such cases, cannot act otherwise than it has acted, although I know that of late the highest authorities, whose attention has been directed to the cruelty and injustice of punishing such men on the par with vicious soldiers, is anxious to discover juster and easier means for the counteraction to such refusals. 1 also know full well that you, occupying your position and not sharing Olkhd- • vik’s and Sereda’s convictions, cannot act otherwise than to execute strictly what the law prescribes to you ; none the less I beg you, as a Christian and a goodman, to pity these men who are guilty of nothing but doing what they consider to be God’s law, giving it preference to human laws.

I will not conceal from you that personally I not only believe that these men are doing what is right, but also, that very soon all men will comprehend that these men arc doing a great and holy work.

But it is very likely that such an opinion will appear to you as madness, and that you are convinced of the contrary. I will not permit myself to convince you, knowing that serious people of your age do not arrive at certain convictions through other people’s words, but through the inner work of their own thought. There is one thing I implore you to do, as a Christian, a good man, and a brother, — my brother, Olkhovik’s, and Sereda’s, — as a man walking with us under the protection of the same God and sure to go after death whither we all go, — I implore you not to conceal from yourself the fact that those men (Olkhdvik and Sereda) differ from other criminals ; not to demand of them the execution of what they have once for all refused to do ; not to tempt them, thus leading them into new and ever new crimes and imposing upon them all the time new punishments, as they did with poor Drozhzhin, who was tortured to death in the Voronezh disciplinary battalion, and who evoked universal sympathy even in the highest spheres. Without departing from the law and from a conscientious execution of your duties, you can make the confinement of these men a hell, and ruin them, or considerably lighten their sufferings. It is this I implore you to do, hoping that you will find this request superfluous, and that your inner feeling will even before this have inclined you to do the same.

Judging from the post which you occupy, I assume that your views of life and of man’s duties are the very opposite of mine. I cannot conceal from you the fact that I consider your duty incompatible with Christianity, and I wish you, as I wish any man, a liberation from the participation in such matters. But, knowing all my sins, both in the past and in the present, and all my weaknesses, and the deeds done by me, I not only do not permit myself to condemn you for your duty, but also have nothing but respect and love for you, as for any brother in Christ.

I shall be thankful to you, if you answer me.

HOW TO READ THE GOSPEL AND WHAT IS ITS ESSENCE?

by Leo Tolstoy

Translated from the Original Russian and edited by Leo Wiener

Assittant Professor of Slavic Languages at Harvard University

1896

In what is taught as Christ’s teaching there are so many strange, improbable, incomprehensible, and even contradictory things, that one does not know how to comprehend it.

Besides, this teaching is not understood alike: some say that the whole matter is in the redemption ; others, that the whole matter is in grace which is received through the sacraments ; others again, that the whole matter is in the obedience to the church. But the different churches understand the teaching differently : the Catholic Church recognizes the origin of the Holy Ghost from the Son and the Father and the infallibility of the Pope, and regards salvation as possible, especially through works ; the Lutheran does not recognize this, and regards salvation as possible, especially through faith ; the Greek Orthodox recognizes the origin of the Holy Ghost from the Father, and for salvation considers both works and faith to be necessary.

The Anglican, Episcopal, Presbyterian, and Methodist churches, to say nothing of a hundred other churches, all understand the Christian teaching, each in its own way.

I am frequently approached by young men and by people from the masses, who have lost their faith iu the truth of the church teaching, in which they were educated, asking me what my teaching consists in, how I understand the Christian teaching. Such questions always pain and even offend me.

Christ — God, according to the teaching of the church — came down upon earth, in order to reveal divine truth to men for their guidance in life. A man, — a simple, foolish man, — who wants to convey to people an injunction which is of importance to them, always knows how to convey it in such a way that the people can understand it. Suddenly God came down upon earth only in order to save men, and this God did not know how to say what he had to say, so as to keep people from interpreting it in such a way as to diverge in the comprehension of it.

This is impossible, if Christ was God.

This cannot be, even if Christ was not God, but only a great teacher. A great teacher is great for the very reason that he knows how to tell a truth, that is as clear as daylight, so that it is impossible to conceal or shroud it.

And so, in either case, there must be the truth in the gospels which give us Christ’s teaching. Indeed, the truth is in the gospels to be found by all those who will read them with a sincere desire to know the truth and without any preconceived notion and, above all else, without any idea that in them is to be found some special wisdom, which is not accessible to the human mind.

I read the gospels in this manner, and found in them an absolutely comprehensible truth, which, as it says in the gospels, can be understood by babes. And so, when I am asked wherein my teaching consists, and how I understand the Christian teaching, I answer, ” I have no teaching, and 1 understand the Christian teaching as it is expounded in the gospels. If I have written books on the Christian teaching, T did so only to prove the incorrectness of those explanations which are made by the commentators oi gospels.

In order to understand the Christian teaching as it is in reality, it is necessary, first of all, not to interpret the gospels, but to understand them just as they are written. And so, in reply to the question as to how we are to understand Christ’s teaching, 1 say, ” If you wish to understand Christ’s teaching, read the gospels, — read them after having renounced every preconceived comprehension, with the one desire to understand what is said in the gospels. But for the very reason that the Gospel is a sacred book, it ought to be read with understanding and analysis, and not at haphazard, in succession, ascribing the same meaning to every word found in it.

To understand any book, it is necessary to set aside everything comprehensible from everything incomprehensible and complicated in it, and from this sifted comprehensible material to form an idea of the meaning and the spirit of the whole book, and then on the basis of what is fully comprehensible to explain the passages that are incomprehensible or complicated. Thus we read every kind of a book. So much the more must we thus read the Gospel, a book which has passed through complicated harmonizations, translations, and transcriptions, composed eighteen centuries ago by uneducated and superstitious people.1

1 As is well known to all who study the origin of these books, the Gospel is by no means the infallible expression of divine truth, but the product of numerous human hands and minds, full of errors, and so it can in no way be taken as the production of the Holy Ghost, as the churchmen say it is. If this were so, God Himself would have revealed it, just as it says that He revealed the commandments on Mount Sinai or by some miracle transmitted to men a complete book, as the Mormons maintain about their sacred writings. We now know how these books were written down, collected, corrected, translated, and so we not only cannot accept them as an infallible revelation, but are obliged, if we value truth, to correct the errors which we find in them.— Author’s Note.

Thus, in order to understand the Gospel, it is necessary first of all to sift in it what is fully comprehensible and simple from what is incomprehensible and complicated, and having done so, to read what is clear and comprehensible several times in succession, trying to become familiar with the meaning of this simple, clear teaching, and then only, on the basis of the meaning of the whole teaching, to make out the meaning of those passages which seemed complicated and obscure. Thus I did with the reading of the gospels, and the meaning of Christ’s teaching was revealed to me with such clearness that no doubt could be left. And so I advise every man who wishes to understand the true meaning of Christ’s teaching to do likewise.

Let him who reads the Gospel underline everything which to him appears quite simple, clear, and comprehensible with a blue pencil, marking, besides, with a red pencil, these passages in Christ’s own words as distinct from the words of the evangelists, and let him read these passages, which are underlined red, several times. Only after he understands these passages well, let him again read all the other, incomprehensible, and so previously not underlined passages from Christ’s discourses, and let him underline in red those that have become comprehensible to him. But the passages which contain such of Christ’s words as remain entirely incomprehensible should remain unmarked. The passages which are thus marked in red will give the reader the essence of Christ’s teaching, what all men need, and what, therefore, Christ said in such a way that all might understand it. The passages underlined with blue only will give what the writers of the gospels said in their own name and what is comprehensible.

It is very likely that in marking what is completely comprehensible, and what not, different people will mark different passages, so that what is comprehensible to one will appear obscure to another; but on the main things all men will be sure to agree, and one and the same thing will appear completely comprehensible to alL It is this which is absolutely comprehensible to all that forms the essence of Christ’s teaching.

In my Gospel my marks are made in correspondence with my comprehension.

Yasnaya Polyana, July 22,1896.

THE APPROACH OF THE END

by Leo Tolstoy

Translated from the Original Russian and edited by Leo Wiener

Assittant Professor of Slavic Languages at Harvard University

1896

This year, 1896, a young man, by the name of Van-der-Veer, was summoned in Holland to enter the national guard.

To the summons of the commander, Van-der-Veer replied in the following letter:

“ THOU SHALT NOT KILL

” Mr. Herman Snijders,

” Commander of the National Guard of the Middelburg Circuit.

” Dear Sir : — Last week I received a document in which I was commanded to appear in the magistracy, in order to be enlisted according to the law in the national guard. As you, no doubt, have noticed, I did not appear ; and the present letter has for its purpose to inform you frankly, and without any ambiguities, that I have no intention of appearing before the commission ; I know full well that I subject myself to a heavy responsibility, that you can punish me, and that you will not fail to make use of this your right. But that does not frighten me. The causes which impel me to manifest this passive resistance present to me a sufficiently important counterbalance to this responsibility.

” Better than the majority of Christians, do I, who, if

you so wish, am not a Christian, understand the commandment which is standing at the head of this letter, a commandment inherent in human nature and in reason. When I was still a child, I permitted myself to be instructed in the soldier’s trade, — the art of killing; but now I refuse. More than anything else, do I not wish to kill by command, which appears as murder against my conscience, without any personal impulse or any foundation whatever. Can you name to me anything more degrading for a human being than the commission of similar murders or slaughter ? I cannot kill an animal, nor see it killed, and not to kill animals, I became a vegetarian. In the present case I may be ‘ commanded ‘ to shoot men who have never done me any harm : soldiers certainly do not study the manual of arms, I suppose, in order to shoot at leaves on the branches of trees.

” But you will perhaps tell me that the national guard must also and above everything else cooperate in the maintenance of internal order.

” Mr. Commander, if there really existed any order in our society ; if the social organism were indeed sound ; in other words, if there did not exist such crying misuses in our social relations ; if it were not permitted that one man should starve to death, while another permits himself all the lusts of luxury, — you would see me in the first ranks of the defenders of this order; but I unconditionally refuse to cooperate in the maintenance of the present so-called order. What is the use, Mr. Commander, of pulling the wool over each other’s eyes ? We both of us know full well what is meant by the maintenance of this order: it is the support of the rich against the poor workers who are beginning to become conscious of their right. Did you not see the part which your national guard played during the last strike in Rotterdam ? Without any reason this guard was compelled for whole hours to do service for the purpose of protecting the property of the business firms that were threatened. Can you for a moment suppose that I will surrender myself to take part in the defence of men who, according to my sincere conviction, are supporting the war between capital and labour, — that I will shoot at the working men who are acting entirely within the limits of their rights ? You cannot be so blind as that ! Why complicate matters ? I cannot, indeed, have myself cut out into an obedient national guardsman, such as you wish to have and as you need ‘

“ On the basis of all these causes, but especially because I despise murder by command, I refuse to serve in the capacity of a member of the national guard, and ask you to send me neither uniform, nor weapons, since I have the imperturbable intention of not using them.

” I greet you, Mr. Commander.

” I. K. Van - der - Veer.”

This letter has, in my opinion, a very great importance. Refusals to do military service in Christian countries began as soon as military service made its appearance in them, or, rather, when the countries whose power is based on violence, accepted Christianity, without renouncing violence.

In reality it cannot be otherwise : a Christian, whose teaching prescribes to him meekness, non-resistance to evil, love of all men, even of his neighbour, cannot be martial, that is, cannot belong to a class of men who are destined only to kill their like.

And so true Christians have always refused, and even now refuse, to do military service.

But there have always been few true Christians ; the vast majority of men in Christian countries have only counted among Christians, those who profess the ecclesiastic faith, which has nothing but the name in common with true Christianity. The fact that now and then there appeared, to tens of thousands entering military service, one who refused it, did not in the least disturb those hundreds of thousands, those millions of men who every year entered military service.

” It is impossible that the whole vast majority of men who enter military service should be mistaken, and that the truth should be with the exceptions, who frequently are uneducated men, who refuse to do military service, while archbishops and scholars recognize it to be compatible with Christianity,” said the people of the majority, who, considering themselves Christians, calmly entered into the ranks of murderers.

But here there appears a non-Christian, as he announces himself, and he refuses to do military service, not from religious reasons, but from such as are comprehensible and common to all men, no matter of what faith or what nationality they may be, — whether Catholics, Mohammedans, Buddhists, Confucianists, Spaniards, Arabians, Japanese.

Van-der-Veer refused to do military service, not because he follows the commandment, ” Thou shall not kill,” but because he considers murder to be contrary to human reason. He writes that he simply hates any murder, and hates it to such an extent that he became a vegetarian, only not to take part in the murder of animals; above all, he says, he refuses to do military service, because he considers murder by command, that is, the duty of killing those men whom he is ordered to kill (wherein indeed military service consists), to be incompatible with human dignity. To the customary retort that, if he does not serve, and others, following his example, refuse to serve, the existing order will be violated, he answers by saying that he does not even wish to support the existing order, because it is bad, because in it the rich rule over the poor, which ought not to be, so that even if he had any doubts as to whether he ought to serve in the army or not, the mere thought that, serving in the army, he will by means of weapons and the threat of murder support the oppressing rich against the oppressed poor, would make him refuse to do military service.

If Van-der-Veer had brought forward as the reason of his refusal his belonging to some Christian denomination, men who entered military service could say, ” I am not a sectarian and do not acknowledge Christianity, and so do not consider it necessary to act likewise.” But the causes adduced by Van-der-Veer are so simple, clear, and common to all men that it is impossible not to apply them to oneself. After this to recognize these causes as not binding, a person will have to say, ” I love murder and am prepared to kill, not only enemies, but even my oppressed and unfortunate compatriots, and I do not find anything wrong in promising at the command of the first commander I run across to kill all those whom he commands me to kill.”

The matter is, indeed, very simple.

Here is a young man. No matter in what surroundings, what family, what faith, he may have grown up, he is taught the necessity of being good and that it is bad to kill, not only a man, but even an animal; he is taught to esteem highly his human dignity, and this dignity consists in acting according to one’s conscience. A Chinese Confucianist, a Japanese Shintoist or Buddhist, a Turkish Mohammedan are all of them taught the same. Suddenly, after he has been taught all this, he enters military service, where the very opposite of what he has been taught is demanded of him : he is commanded to be ready to wound and kill, not animals, but men ; he is commanded to renounce his human dignity and in matters of murder to obey unknown strangers. What can a man of our time say to such a demand ? Obviously only this : ” I do not want to, and I won’t.”

This is precisely what Van-der-Veer did. And it is hard to imagine what we can retort to him and to all men who, being in the same position as he, must act in the same way.

It is possible not to see what has not yet attracted attention, and not to understand the meaning of an act so long as it is not explained ; but once it is pointed out and explained, we cannot avoid seeing it, or pretend that we do not see what is quite clear.

Even now there may be found a man who has not thought of what he is doing as he enters military service ; there may be found men who wish for war with other nations, or wish to continue oppressing the working men, or even such as love murder for the sake of murder. Such men may become warriors, but even these men cannot now help but know that there are men, — the best men of the whole world, not only among Christians, but also among Mohammedans, Brahmins, Buddhists, Confucianists, — who look with loathing and disgust upon war and the military, and the number of these men is growing with every hour. No arguments can veil the simple truth that a man who respects himself cannot go into slavery to a strange master, or even to one he knows, who has murderous intentions. In this only does military service with its discipline consist.

” But the responsibility to which the person refusing subjects himself ?” I am told in reply to this. ” It is all very well for you, an old man, who are no longer subject to this temptation and are secure in your position, to preach martyrdom ; but how is it for those to whom you preach and who, believing you, decline to serve and ruin their youthful lives ? “

But what am I to do ? I answer those who tell me this. Must I, because I am an old man, refuse to point out the evil which I see clearly and beyond any doubt, simply because I am an old man and have lived through much and thought much ? Must not a man who is on the other side of a river and thus inaccessible to a murderer, and who sees that this murderer is about to compel one man to kill another, cry out to the man who is to kill not to do so, even if this interference may still more embitter the murderer ? Besides, 1 fail to see why the government, which subjects to persecution those who refuse to do military service, will not inflict punishment upon me, since it recognizes me as the instigator of these refusals. I am not so old as not to be subjected to persecutions and punishments of every kind, and my position does not in the least protect me. In any case, whether they will condemn and persecute me or not, whether they will condemn and persecute those who refuse to do military service, I shall never stop, so long as I live, saying what 1 am saying, because I cannot stop acting in accordance with my conscience.

Christianity, that is, the teaching of truth, is powerful and invincible for the very reason that, in order to act upon people, it cannot be guided by any external considerations. Whether a man be young or old, whether he be subjected to persecutions for it, or not, he, having made the Christian, that is, the true, life-conception his own, cannot depart from the demands of his conscience. In this does the essence and peculiarity of Christianity consist, in contradistinction to all the other religious teachings, and in this does its invincible might lie.

Van-der-Veer says that he is not a Christian, but the motives of his refusal and his act are Christian : he refuses to serve, because he does not wish to kill a brother, he does not obey, because the commands of his conscience are more obligatory to him than the commands of men. It is for this reason that Van-der-Veer’s refusal is especially important. This refusal shows that Christianity is not a sect or a faith, which some men may keep, and others may not keep, but that it is nothing but a following in life of that light of the comprehension which shines upon all men. The meaning of Christianity is not in its having prescribed to men certain acts, but in its having foreseen and pointed out the path on which all humanity had to walk and actually did walk.

Men who now act well and sensibly do not do so because they follow Christ’s injunctions, but because what eighteen hundred years ago was expressed as a direction of an activity has now become the consciousness of men.

This is why I think that Van-der-Veer’s act and letter are of great importance.

Just as a lire started in the prairie or the forest does not subside until it has consumed everything dry and dead, which, therefore, is subject to consumption, so also a truth once expressed in words does not cease acting until it has destroyed the whole lie which is subject to annihilation and which surrounds and conceals the truth on all sides. The fire glimmers for a long time, but the moment it bursts into tlame, it soon consumes everything which burns. Even so a thought for a long time begs for recognition, without finding any expression; it need but find a clear expression in speech, and the lie and the evil are soon destroyed. One of the special manifestations of Christianity, — the idea that humanity can live without slavery, — though included iu the idea of Christianity, was clearly expressed, so far as I know, not earlier than the end of the eighteenth century. Up to that time not only the ancient pagans, I’lato and Aristotle, but even men who were nearer to our time and Christians could not imagine human society without slavery. Thomas Moore could not imagine Utopia even without slavery. Even so the men of the beginning of the present century could not imagine the life of humanity without war. Only after the Napoleonic wars was the thought clearly expressed that humanity can live without slavery. One hundred years have passed since the time when the idea was clearly enunciated that humanity can live without slavery, and among Christians there is no longer any slavery ; and less than a hundred years will pass from the time that the idea has been clearly enunciated that humanity can live without war, and there will be no war. It is very likely that war will not be fully abolished, even as slavery is not fully abolished. It is very likely that military violence will remain, just as hired labour remained after the abolition of slavery, but in any case war and the army will be abolished in that coarse form which is contrary to reason and to the moral sentiment, and in which they now exist.

There are very many signs that this time is near. These signs are to be found in the hopeless condition of the governments, which keep increasing their armies, and in the growing burden of taxes, and in the dissatisfaction of the nations, and in the instruments of war, which are carried to the highest degree of destructiveness, and in the activity of the congresses and the peace societies, but chiefly in the refusal of individual persons to do military service. In these refusals does the key lie to the solution of the question.

” You say that military service is indispensable, that if it did not exist, we should be overcome by terrible calamities. All this may be possible, but with that conception of good and evil which is common to all men of our time and even to you, I cannot kill men by command. Thus if, as you say, military service is very necessary, make it such that it will not be in such contradiction with my conscience and with yours. So long as you have not arranged it so, but demand of me what is directly opposed to my conscience, I am not at all able to obey.”

Thus inevitably must answer, and soon will answer, all the honest and sensible men, not only of our Christian world, but also the Mohammedans and the so-called pagans, — the Brahmins, Buddhists, and Confucianists. Maybe war will from inertia last for some time yet, but the question is already solved in the consciousness of men, and with every day, with every hour, a growing number of men are coming to the same conclusion, and it is now quite impossible to arrest this movement.

Every recognition of a truth by men, or rather, every liberation from some error, — so it was visibly with slavery, — is always obtained through a struggle between men’s clearer consciousness and the inertia of the previous state.

At first the inertia is so strong and the consciousness so feeble that the first attempt at a liberation from error is only met with surprise. The new truth presents itself as madness. ” How can we live without slavery ? Who will work? How can we live without war? Everybody will come and will conquer us.” But the power of consciousness keeps growing, the inertia keeps diminishing, and the surprise gives way to ridicule and contempt. ” Holy Writ recognizes masters and slaves. Such a relation has existed since eternity ; and suddenly wiseacres have appeared who want to change the whole world,” was what people said of slavery. ” All the learned and the sages have recognized the legality and even the sanctity of war, and suddenly we are to believe that we must wage no war ‘ ” people say of war. But the consciousness keeps growing and being clarified ; the number of men who recognize the new truth keeps growing larger, and ridicule and contempt give way to cunning and deception. The men who have been supporting the error make it appear that they understand and recognize the incompatibility and cruelty of the measure which they are defending, but consider its abolition impossible at present, and delay the abolition for an indefinite time.

” Who does not know that slavery is bad ; but men are not yet prepared for freedom, and the emancipation will produce terrible calamities,” they said of slavery forty years ago. ” Who does not know that war is evil?” But the thought does its work, grows, and burns the lie, and the time arrives when the madness, aimlessness, harm, and immorality of the delusion are so clear (so it was within our memory, in the sixties, in Itussia and in America) that it is impossible to defend it. So it is now in the case of war. Just as then they no longer tried to justify slavery, but only maintained it, so they do not try now to justify war and the army, but only keep silent, making use of the inertia, which still holds up war and the army, knowing very well that all this apparently powerful, cruel, and immoral organization of murder may any moment come down with a crash, never to rise again. It is enough for one drop of water to ooze through a dam, or for one brick to fall out of a large building, or for one mesh to come loose in the strongest net, in order that the dam should be broken, the building come to its fall, the net go to pieces. Such a drop, such a brick, such a loosened mesh to me appears to be Van-der-Veer’s refusal, which is explained by causes that are common to all humanity. After Van-der-Veer’s refusal other refusals must follow ever more frequently, and as soon as there shall be many such refusals, the same men who but yesterday said (their name is legion) that it is impossible to live without war, will say that they have for a long time been preaching the madness and immorality of war, will advise you to act like Van-der-Veer, and of war and the army, in the form in which it now exists, there will be left nothing but a recollection.

This time is near at hand.

Ydsnaya Polyana, September 24., 1896.

FAMINE OR NO FAMINE?

by Leo Tolstoy

Translated from the Original Russian and edited by Leo Wiener

Assittant Professor of Slavic Languages at Harvard University

1898

This winter I received a letter from Mrs. Sokolov, describing the want of the peasants in the Government of Voronezh. This letter, with*a note from me,1

1 Tolstdy’s note to the editor of the Russian Gazette runs as follows :

“ Dear Sir — I think that the publication of the enclosed private letter from a person who knows the peasantry well, and correctly describes its condition in her own locality, would be useful. The condition of the peasants in the locality described forms no exception ; precisely the same, as 1 know full well, is the condition of the peasants iu certain localities of Kozlôv, Eléts, Novosi’lsk, Chérnski, Efrémov, Zemlyânski, Nizhnedyevftsk, and other counties of the black earth zone. The person writing the letter did not even think of its being published, and only consented at the request of her friends.

“ It is true, the condition of the majority of our peasantry is such that it is often very hard to draw a line between what may be called a famine and what a normal condition, and that the aid which is particularly needed in the present year might have been needed, even if not to such a degree, last year or at any other time ; it is true, philanthropic aid to the population is a very difficult matter, because it frequently provokes the desire for making use of this aid in those who could get along without this aid ; it is true, what private individuals can do is but a drop in the sea of the peasant distress ; it is also true that aid given in the form of eating-houses, of the lowered price of corn or of its distribution, of the feeding of the cattle, and so forth, is only a palliative and does not remove the fundamental causes of the calamity. All that is true, but it is also true that aid given in time may save the life of an old man, or a child, may change the despair and enmity of a ruined man into faith in the good and in the brotherhood of man. And, what is most important, it is an indubitable truth that every man of our circle, who, instead of thinking of nothin!— but amusements, such as theatres, concerts, subscrintiou dinners, races, exhibitions, and so forth, will think also of that extreme want, as compared with the showy life of the cities, a want in which just now live many, many brothers of ours, will, if he tries, however awkwardly, to sacrifice even a small portion of his pleasures, unquestionably aid himself in the most important matter in the world, — in the rational comprehension of life and in the fulfilment of his human destiny in it.”

I turned over to the Russian Gazette, and since then several persons have begun to send to me contributions for the aid of needy peasants. These small contributions — two hundred roubles— I directed to a good acquaintance of mine in Zemlyanski County ; some monthly contributions of Smolensk physicians and other small contributions 1 sent to Chérnski County of the Government of Tula, to my son and my wife, requesting them to distribute the aid in their locality. But in April I received new and quite considerable contributions : Mrs. Mévius sent four hundred roubles ; three hundred roubles were collected in small sums, and S. T. Morozov sent one thousand roubles, — in all there were about two thousand roubles, and, as 1 did not think 1 had the right to refuse to act as a mediator between the contributors and the needy, I decided to go to the spot, in order to distribute the aid in the best manner possible.

As in the year 1891, I considered the best form of aid to consist in eating-houses, because only with the establishment of eating-houses is it possible to provide good daily food for old men and women and the children of sick people, which, I assume, is the wish of the contributors. This end is not attained with the distribution of provisions, because every good householder, having received some flour, will first of all mix it with the provender of the horse with which he has to plough (and in doing so he will act wisely, because he has to plough the soil on which to raise foodstuffs for his family, not only for this year, but also for next), while the feeble members of the family will not get enough to eat during this year, even as before the distribution, so that the aim of the contributors will not be attained.

Besides, only in the form of eating-houses for the feeble members of the family is there any limit at which one can stop. In the personal distribution the aid goes to the household, but, to satisfy the demands of a ruined peasant household, it is absolutely impossible to decide what is urgently needed, and what is not urgently needed : urgently needed arc a horse, a cow, the release of the pawned fur coat, the taxes, seeds, a house. Thus, in making personal distributions it becomes necessary to give arbitrarily, at haphazard, or the same amount to all alike, without any distinction. For this reason I determined to distribute the aid in the form of eating-houses, as in the years 1891 and 1892.

In determining the most needy families and the number of persons in each, who were to be admitted to the eating-houses, I was guided, as before, by the following considerations : (1) the number of cattle, (2) the number of allotments, (3) the number of the members of the family earning wages, (4) the number of eaters, and (5) the extraordinary misfortunes that had befallen the family, such as fire, sickness in the family, the death of a horse, and so forth.

The first village to which I went was old, familiar Spasskoe, which used to belong to Ivan Sergyéevich Turgenev. Upon talking with the elder and some old men concerning the condition of the peasants of this village, I convinced myself that it was far from being as bad as had been the condition of the peasants among whom we had established eating-houses in 1891.

On every farm there were horses, cows, sheep, and potatoes, and there were no dilapidated houses ; thus, judging from the condition of the Spasskoe peasants, I thought the rumours about the distress of the present year might be exaggerated.

But a visit paid to the next village of Malaya Gubarevka and to other villages, which were pointed out to me as being very poverty-stricken, convinced me that Spasskoe was under exclusively fortunate conditions, through good allotments and through the accidentally good crop of the year before.

Thus, in the first village to which I went, in Malaya Gubarevka, there were four cows and two horses to ten farms, two families were out begging alms, and the distress of all the inhabitants was terrible.

About the same, though a little better, is the condition of the villages of Bolshaya Gubarevka, Matsnevo, Protâ-sovo. Chapkino, Kukuevka, Gushchino, Khmyélinki, Sheldmovo, Lopashchino, Sidorovo, Mikhaylov Brod, Bobrik, the two Kamenkas.

In all these villages the people do not get enough bread to eat, but the bread is pure and not mixed, as was the case in the year 1891. Nor are the people, at least the majority of them, without boiled vegetables,— millet, cabbage, potatoes. Their food consists of herb soup, whitened with milk if they have a cow, and not whitened if they have none, and bread alone. In all these villages the majority have sold or pawned everything that can be sold or pawned.

Thus the dire distress in the surrounding country — in the radius of seven to eight versts — is so great, that, after having established fourteen eating-houses, we have been every day receiving requests for aid from other villages that are in the same plight.

What eating-houses are established are doing well — the cost comes to about one rouble fifty kopeks for each man per month, and, apparently, they satisfy the aim we had in view of supporting the life and health of the feeble members of the most needy families.

Last night I went to the village of Gushchino, which consists of forty-nine farms, twenty-four of which are without horses. It was supper-time. In the yard, under two penthouses, which had been cleaned up, eighty diners sat about five tables : old men, alternating with old women, sat on benches around large tables, and children sat around small tables, on blocks of wood with boards thrown over them. The dinershad just finished their first course (potatoes with kvas), and the second course — cabbage soup — was being brought in. The women with dippers poured the steaming, well-cooked soup into wooden bowls ; the eating-house-keeper, with a round loaf and a knife in his hands, went from table to table and, pressing the loaf against his breast, cut off and handed out slices of fine, fresh, fragrant bread to those who had eaten up theirs.1 The householder’s wife and one of those who dine there tend on the adults, and the householder’s young daughter tends on the children.

The people who were eating their supper were for the most part emaciated, lean, scanty-bearded, gray-haired, and bald-headed old men in threadbare garments, and wizened old women. There was an expression of calm and satisfaction upon all the faces. All these men were apparently in that peaceful and joyous frame of mind, and even in that state of excitement, which is produced by the use of sufficient food after having been deprived of it for a long time. One could hear the sounds of eating, a subdued conversation, and now and then the laughter at the children’s tables. There were present two transient mendicants, and the eating-house-keeper excused himself for having admitted them to supper.

Everything proceeded in an orderly and quiet fashion, as though this order had existed for ages. From Gushchino I went to the village of Gnyévishchevo, from which peasants had come two or three days before to ask for aid.

1 We had succeeded in buying on the southeastern road two carloads of flour at seventy-five kopeks, when it was at ninety kopeks in our place, and the flour turned out to be so unusually good that the women who set the bread cannot say enough in its praise,— it kneads so well, — and the diners say that the bread is just as good as cake. —Author’s Note.

This village, like Gubarevka, consists of ten farms. The ten farms have together four horses and four cows ; there are hardly any sheep ; the houses are all so old and rickety that they barely stand up.

All are poor, and all beg to be aided. ” If we could only satisfy the children,” say the women. ” They ask for pap, and there is nothing to give them, and so they fall asleep without eating anything.”

1 know that there is a grain of exaggeration in this, but what a peasant in a caftan torn at the shoulder says is certainly not any exaggeration, but the truth. ” If we could just shove off two or three of them from the bread,” says he. ” As it is, 1 have sold my last blouse in the city (the fur coat has been there for a long time), and brought home three puds for eight people, — how long will that last ? And I do not know what to take down next.” I asked him to change me three roubles, but not a rouble in money could be found in the whole village.

It is evidently necessary to establish an eating-house even here. The same, apparently, has to be done in the two villages from which peasants came with requests.

We are, besides, informed that in the southern part of Chéruski County, on the border of Efremov County, the distress is very great, and that so far no succour has been offered. It would seem to be obvious that the matter should be continued and expanded, and this is possible, since of late other considerable contributions have been received: five hundred roubles from Princess Kudashev, one thousand roubles from Mrs. Mansurov, two thousand roubles from dramatic people.

But it turns out that it is almost impossible, either to expand, or even to continue the matter. It is impossible to continue it for the following reasons : The governor of Orel does not allow any eating-houses to be opened,— (1) without the consent of the local curatorship, (2) without discussing the question of the opening of each individual eating-house with the County Council chief, and (3) without a previous statement to the governor as to the number of eating-houses that are to be opened in a given locality. So, too, a rural officer has come from the Government of Tula, demanding that no eating-houses be established without the governor’s permission. Besides, all the local inhabitants are forbidden to take part or aid in the establishment of eating-houses without the governor’s permission ; but without the participation of such assistants, who are specially occupied with the complex and troublesome business of the eating-houses, their establishment is impossible. Thus, in spite of the unquestionable distress of the people, in spite of the means furnished by contributors for alleviating the distress, our cause cannot only not be expanded, but is in danger of being completely interrupted.

Consequently the above mentioned sums, received by me of late, amounting to 3,500 roubles, and a few other smaller contributions remain unexpended and will be returned to the contributors, if they do not wish to give them for any other use.

Such is my personal affair ; now I shall try to answer the general questions to which my activity has brought me, — questions which, to judge from the papers, have interested society of late.

These questions are : Is there a famine this year, or not ? What is to be done that the distress be not repeated and may not demand special measures for its alleviation ?

To the first question I will answer as follows :

There exist statistical investigations, from which it may be seen that Russians do not get within thirty per cent, of what a man needs for his normal nutrition ; we have, besides, some information as to this, that the young men of the black earth zone have for the last twenty years less and less satisfied the demands for a good constitution for military service ; and the census has shown that the increment of the population, which twenty years ago was the largest in the agricultural zone, has been steadily diminishing, until at the present time it has reached zero in these Governments. Dut even without studying the statistical data we need only to compare the average shrivelled-up, sallow-faced agricultural peasant of the central zone with the same peasant when he has come to be a janitor, a coachman, — when he gets good food,— and the motions of this janitor or coachman, and the work which he is able to accomplish, with the motions and the work of a peasant who lives at home, to see to what extent the insullicient food weakens the strength of this peasant.

When, as formerly used to be done, and even now is being done by unreasoning farmers, cattle are kept for the sake of the manure, being fed in a cold yard on anything there may be, only to be kept from dying, it happens that of all these animals only those which are in full strength’ endure the strain without danger to their organism ; but the old, the feeble, and the half-grown animals either die off or, if they remain alive, do so at the expense of their young ones and of their health, while the young animals remain alive at the expense of their growth and their constitution.

Tn precisely this condition are the Russian peasants of the black earth zone. So that, if by the word ” famine ” we understand such underfeeding that in consequence of it men are immediately assailed by disease and death, as, to judge from descriptions, was lately the case in India, no such famine existed in the year 1891, or in the present year.

But if by famine we mean such underfeeding as does not lead immediately to death, but keeps men alive, though they live badly, dying before their time, becoming maimed, ceasing to multiply, and degenerating, such a famine has existed for twenty years for the majority of the black earth centre, and is particularly severe this present year.

Such is my answer to the first question. To the second question, as to what is the cause of it, my answer consists in this, that the cause of it is spiritual and not material.

Military people know what is meant by the spirit of the army; they know that this intangible element is the first condition of success and that in the absence of this element all other elements become inactive. Let the soldiers be well dressed, fed, armed ; let the position be as strong as possible, — the battle will be lost if that intangible element called the spirit of the army be lacking. The same is true of a struggle with Nature. The moment the masses lack the spirit of alacrity, assurance, hope of a greater and ever greater amelioration of their condition, and, on the contrary, are possessed by a consciousness of the vanity of their efforts, by despondency,— the masses will not subdue Nature, but will be subdued by it. Precisely such is in our time the condition of all our peasant class, and especially of those in the agricultural centre. They feel that their condition as agriculturists is bad, almost hopeless, and, having adapted themselves to this hopeless condition, they no longer struggle with it, but live on and do only as much as the instinct of self-preservation demands of them. Resides, the very wretchedness of the condition to which they have arrived intensifies their dejection of spirit. The lower the masses descend in their economic well-being, like a weight on a lever, the more difficult it is for them to rise, and the peasants feel this and, as it were, let everything go to the dogs. ” What’s the use ? ” they say. “ We don’t mean to fatten, — we just want to live!”

There are very many symptoms of this dejection of spirit. The first and foremost one is the complete indifference to all spiritual interests. The religious question does not exist at all in the agricultural centre, not at all

because the peasant firmly holds to Orthodoxy (on the contrary, all the reports and all the statements of the priests confirm the fact that the people are getting more and more indifferent to the church), but because they have no interest in spiritual questions.

The second symptom is their inertia, their unwillingness to change their habits and their condition. During all these years, while in other Governments steel ploughs, steel harrows, grass seeding, the planting of costly plants, cattle-raising, and even mineral fertilizers have come into general use, — in the centre everything has remained as of old, with wooden ploughs, three field divisions, cut up by wolds of the width of a harrow, and all the methods and customs from the days of Kurik. There are even the fewest migrations from the black earth centre.

The third symptom is the contempt for agricultural labour, — not indolence, but limp, cheerless, unproductive labour, as an emblem of which may serve a well from which the water is not drawn by a sweep or by a wheel, as used to be done formerly, but simply by means of a rope, with the aid of the hands, and is brought out in a leaky bucket, from which one-third of the water is lost before it reaches the place where needed. Such is almost all the labour of a black earth peasant, who, leaving clods of earth, manages somehow in sixteen hours, with the help of a nag that barely drags along her feet, to plough up a field which, with a good horse, good food, and a good plough, he could do in half a day. With this the desire to forget oneself is natural, and so the use of liquor and tobacco is becoming more and more widespread, and of late mere boys have taken to drinking and smoking.

The fourth symptom of the dejection of spirit is the lack of obedience of sons to their parents, of younger brothers to their elder brothers, the neglect to send money earned elsewhere back to the family, and the tendency of the younger generations to free themselves from the hard, hopeless life in the country and to find something to do in the cities.

As a striking symptom of the dejection of spirit, which has come about during the last seven years, has apj)eared to us the fact that in many villages adult and apparently well-to-do peasants begged to be admitted to the eating-houses, and attended them, if permitted to do so. That was not the case in 1891. Here, for example, is a case which shows all the degree of poverty and lack of confidence in their own powers, at which the peasants have arrived.

In the village of Shushmino of Chérnski County, a landed proprietress has been selling land to the peasants through the bank. She demands of them ten roubles per desyatma, dividing the sum into two payments of five roubles each, giving them the land all sowed in and two chétverts of oats for the summer sowing. And in spite of these strikingly advantageous conditions the peasants hesitate and undertake nothing.

Thus the answer to my second question consists in this, that the condition in which the peasants are now is due to their having lost their alacrity, the confidence in their strength, the hope of bettering their condition, — to their having become dejected.

And the answer to the third question as to how to succour the peasants in their wretched condition results from this second answer. To aid the peasants, one thing is needed, and that is, to raise their spirit, to remove everything which oppresses them.

What oppresses the spirit of the masses is the nonrecognition of their human dignity by those who govern them, the assumption that a peasant is not a man, like any one else, but a coarse, irrational being, who must be protected and guided in every matter, and so, under the guise of caring for him, a complete restriction of his freedom and debasement of his personality.

Thus, in the most important, the religious relation, every peasant feels himself to be, not a free member of his church, who freely chooses or at least recognizes the faith professed by him, but a slave of this church, who is obliged without murmuring to carry out all the demands made upon him by his religious chiefs, who are sent to him and put over him independently of his desire or choice. That this is an important cause of the oppressed condition of the masses is confirmed by the fact that at all times and everywhere the spirit of the peasants, when they free themselves from the despotism of the church and become what is called sectarians, immediately rises, and immediately, without exception, their economic well-being is established.

Another pernicious manifestation of this concern for the masses is the exclusive laws for the peasants, which in reality reduce themselves to the absence of all laws and the full arbitrariness of the officials detailed to rule the peasants.

For the peasants there nominally exist certain special laws, in relation to the ownership of land, the allotments, the inheritance, and all their obligations, but in reality there is an incredible hodge-podge of peasant decrees, illustrations, common law, cassation rulings, and so forth, in consequence of which the peasants quite justly feel themselves to be in absolute dependence on the arbitrariness of their innumerable superiors.

Now the peasants recognize as their superiors, not only the hundred-man, the elder, the township chief, and the scribe, but also the rural judge, and the rural officer, and the rural magistrate, and the insurance agent, and the civil engineer, and the mediator in the allotments, and the veterinary surgeon, and his assistant, and the doctor, and the priest, and the judge, and the investigating magistrate, and every official, and even the landed proprietor,— every gentleman, because he knows from experience that every such gentleman may do with him what he pleases. But what most dejects the spirits of the masses, though this is not visible, is the disgraceful torture with rods,— disgraceful, of course, not to its victims, but to its participants and instigators, — which, like the sword of Damocles, hangs over every peasant.

Thus, in reply to the three questions put in the beginning, as to whether there is any famine or not, what is the cause of the people’s distress, and what ought to be done, in order to succour this distress, my answers are as follows : there is no famine, but a chronic underfeeding of the whole population, which has been lasting for twenty years and is getting worse all the time, and which is particularly noticeable this year, in connection with the poor crops of last year, and which will be even worse than that of last year. There is no famine, but a far worse condition. It is as though a physician, upon being asked whether the patient has the typhus, should answer, “No, he has no typhus, — he has rapidly developing consumption.”

My answer to the second question consists in this, that the cause of the wretchedness of the people’s condition is not of a material, but of a spiritual nature, that the chief cause is their dejection of spirit, so that, so long as the masses will not be uplifted in spirit, they will not be aided by any external measures, nor by the ministry of agriculture and all its inventions, nor by exhibitions, nor by agricultural schools, nor by the change of the tariff, nor by the abolition of the emancipation payments (which ought to have been done long ago, since the peasants have long ago paid more than what they have borrowed, if the present rate of percentage be applied), nor by the removal of duties from iron and machinery, nor by the now favourite, approved remedy for all diseases, — the parish schools, — they will not be aided by anything, if the condition of their mind remains the same. I do not say that all these measures are not useful ; but they become useful only when the spirit of the masses is uplifted and the masses are consciously and freely desirous of using them.

My answer to the third question — as to what to do in order that this distress may not be repeated — consists in this, that it is necessary, I do not say to respect, but to stop despising and insulting the masses by treating them as beasts ; it is necessary to give them freedom of belief ; it is necessary to submit them to general, and and not especial laws, — not to the arbitrariness of County Council chiefs ; it is necessary to give them freedom of study, freedom of reading, freedom of migration, and, above all, to take off that disgraceful brand, which lies upon the past and the present reigns, — the permission to practise that savage torture, the Hogging of adults for no other reason than that they belong to the peasant class.

If I were told, ” You mean the good of the masses, so choose one of these two things,—give all the ruined people three horses, two cows, three manured desyatfnas, and a stone house for every farm, or only the freedom of religious instruction, and migration, and the abolition of all the special laws,” 1 should without hesitancy choose the second, because T am convinced that, no matter what material benefits are conferred on the peasants, while they are left with the same clergy, the same parish schools, the same Crown saloons, the same army of officials, who pretend to be concerned for their well-being, they will in twenty years again have spent everything and will be left as poor as they were. But if the peasants are freed from all trammels and all humiliations which oppress them, they will in twenty years acquire that wealth which is offered them, and much more than that.

The reason ! think so is, in the first place, because I have always found more intelligence and actual knowledge, such as men need, among the peasants than among the officials, and so I think that the peasants will discover more quickly and in a better way what they need most ; in the second place, because the peasants, whose welfare is the subject of concern, know better what it consists in than the officials, who more than anything else are concerned for the payment of their salaries ; and, in the third place, because the experience of fife shows constantly and without fail that the more the peasants arc subjected to the influence of officials, as is the case at the centres, the more do they become impoverished, and, on the contrary, the farther the peasants live away from officials, as, for example, in Siberia, in the Governments of Samara, Orenburg, Vyatka, Vologda, Oldnetsk, the greater, without exception, is their welfare.

Such are the thoughts and sentiments which my familiarity with the distress of the peasants has evoked in me, and I considered it my duty to give expression to them, in order that sincere people, who really want to repay the masses for everything which we have been receiving from them, might not waste their efforts in vain upon an activity of secondary importance, which frequently is false, but might use all their efforts upon that without which no aid can be effective, — upon the abolition of everything which crushes the spirit of the masses and upon the establishment of everything which might arouse it.

May 26,1898.

Before sending off this article, I decided to go down to Efrémov County to visit some of the localities, of whose wretchedness I had heard from people who inspired the fullest confidence.

On my way down I had to cross the whole length of Chérnski County. The crop of rye in the locality in which I lived, that is, in the northern part of Ch er n ski and Mtsénski Counties, has been very poor this year, worse than last, but what I saw on my way to Efrémov County surpassed all my most sombre expectations.

The locality which I traversed, — about thirty-five versts in length, — from Gremyachevo to the borders of Efrémov and Bogoroditsk Counties, and for about twenty versts in width, as I have been told, a terrible calamity awaits the peasants in this year and in next. The rye on the whole extent of this quadrangle, amounting to about one hundred thousand desyatinas, is completely lost. As I travelled a verst, two, ten, twenty versts, 1 saw on both sides of the road nothing but orache on the land of the proprietors, and even no orache on the land of the peasants. Thus the condition of the peasants of this locality during next year (and I have been told that the rye was a complete failure in other localities as well) will be incomparably worse than this year.

I am speaking only of the condition of the peasants, and not of that of the agriculturists in general, because it is only for the peasants, who live directly on the corn, especially on the rye, of their fields, that the failure of the rye crop has a decisive significance, as a question of life and death.

The moment a peasant has an insufficiency of his own corn for the whole house, or for a large part of it, and corn is expensive, as in the present year (at about a rouble), his condition threatens to become desperate, like the condition, let us say, of an official who has lost his place and salary, and who continues to support his family in the city.

To exist, an official without a salary must either spend his provisions or sell his chattels, and every day of his life brings him nearer to complete ruin. Even so a peasant, who is obliged to purchase expensive corn above a certain amount that is secured by a definite income, is doomed, but with this difference, that, while an official, falling lower and lower, is not during his lifetime deprived of the chance of getting another place and improving his condition, a peasant, in losing his horse, his field, his seed, is absolutely deprived of the possibility of bettering his condition.

In such a threatening condition are the majority of the peasants of this locality ; but next year this condition will not merely be threatening, — for the majority nothing but ruin will ensue.

And so aid, both from the government and from private sources, will be indispensable during next year, and yet, just now, the most energetic measures are being taken in the Governments of Orél and Ryazan, and elsewhere, for counteracting all private endeavour in any form whatsoever. It is evident that these measures are meant to be universal and constant. Thus, in Efrémov County, whither I went, no outsiders whatsoever are allowed to furnish aid to the needy. A bakery, which had been opened by a person who arrived with contributions from the Free Economic Society, was closed, and the person himself was sent away, as had been other persons who had come there before him. It is assumed that there is no distress in this county and that no aid is needed. Thus, though I could not for personal reasons carry out my desire and visit Efremov County, my travel thither would have been useless and would have produced unnecessary complications.

In Chérnski County the following took place during my absence, as my son told me : the police authorities, arriving in a village where there were eating-houses, forbade the peasants to go for their dinners and suppers to the eating-houses ; to be sure of the execution of their order, the tables on which people dined were broken up, and the police authorities calmly went away, without giving the hungry people anything in place of the piece of bread which was taken from them, except the command of unconditional obedience. It is hard to make out what is going on in the heads and hearts of others, of those people who consider it necessary to prescribe such measures and to execute them, that is, who verily do not know what they do, — to take the bread of alms out of the mouths of the hungry and sick, of old men and children. I know those considerations which are brought forward in defence of these measures : ” In the first place, it is necessary to prove that the condition of the population entrusted to our care is not so bad as the people of the opposite party wish to represent ; in the second place, every institution (eating-houses and bakeries are institutions) must be subjected to the control of the government, though there was no such control in the years 1891 and 1892; in the third place, the direct and close relations of people who are aiding the masses may evoke in them undesirable thoughts and sentiments.” But all these considerations, even if they were true, — they are all false,— are so trifling and insignificant that they can have no meaning in comparison with what is done by the eating-houses and the bakeries that distribute bread to the needy.

The whole matter stands like this : there are certain people who — we shall not say, are dying, but are in want; there are others, who live in abundance, and who from a kind heart give this abundance to others ; there are still others who wish to be mediators between the two and who give their labour for this purpose.

Can such activities be harmful to any one ? and can it be part of the government’s duty to counteract them ?

1 can understand why the soldier on guard in the Boro-vitski Gate should have kept me from giving anything to a mendicant, and why he paid no attention to my reference to the Gospel, asking me whether I had read the military regulations ; but a governmental institution cannot ignore the Gospel and the demands of the most primitive morality, that is, that men should aid other men. A government exists for no other reason than that it should remove everything which interferes with such aid.

Thus the government has no grounds whatsoever for counteracting such an activity. And if the falsely directed organs of the government should demand submission to such a prohibition, it behooves every private individual not to submit to such a demand.

When the rural judge, who came to us, told me that it would not be much for me to petition the governor for the permission to establish eating-houses, I answered him that I could not do so, because I did not know such a law as would prohibit the establishment of eating-houses : and if there existed such, I could not submit to it, because, in submitting to such a law, I might to-morrow be put to the necessity of submitting to the prohibition of distributing Hour or giving alms without the permission of the government, whereas the right to give alms has been established by the highest authority and could not be put aside by any other authority.

It is possible to close the eating-houses and bakeries, and send away from the county those men who came to succour the population, but it is impossible to keep the men who have been sent away from one county from living in another with their friends or in a peasant hut and serving the people by any other means, still continuing to “ive their means and labours in the service of the people. It is impossible to fence off one class of people from another. Every attempt at such a fencing off produces the same consequences which this fencing off intends to avoid.

It is impossible to break up thq intercourse among people : it is only possible to impair the regular current of this intercourse and to give it a harmful direction, where it might have been beneficent. What can succour the people in the present, as in any other human calamity, is only the spiritual elevation of the people (by the people I do not mean the peasants alone, but all the working people and the wealthy classes as well) ; but the elevation of the people can take place in only one direction, — in a greater and ever greater union of the people, and so, to aid the masses, this union has to be encouraged, and not interfered with. Only in such a greater fraternal union than before will the present and the expected calamity of the next year be overcome, and the well-being of the decaying and ever more decaying peasantry be raised, and the repetition of the distresses of the years 1891 and 1892 and of the present year be averted.

June 4, 1898.

ON THE RELATION TO THE STATE

by Leo Tolstoy

Translated from the Original Russian and edited by Leo Wiener

Assittant Professor of Slavic Languages at Harvard University

1894-1896

THREE LETTERS

I.

LETTER TO EUGEN HEINRICH SCHMITT

You write that people absolutely fail to see that the fulfilment of any service to the state is incompatible with Christianity.

Even so, people failed for a long time to see that the indulgences, the Inquisition, slavery, tortures were incompatible with Christianity ; but the time came when this was evident, as the time will come when it will be plain, at first, that Christianity is incompatible with military service (this is beginning even now), and later, that it is incompatible with any service to the state.

As far back as fifty years ago a little-known, but very remarkable American author, Thoreau, not only clearly enunciated this incompatibility in his beautiful article on the duty of a man not to obey the government, but also in practice showed an example of this disobedience. He refused to pay the taxes demanded of him, as he did not wish to be an abettor and accomplice of a state that legalized slavery, and was put in prison for it.

Thoreau refused to pay the taxes to the state. Naturally a man may on the same ground refuse to serve the state, as you beautifully expressed it in your letter to the minister, when you said that you did not consider it compatible with moral dignity to give your labour to an institution which serves as the representative of legalized murder and rapine.

Thoreau, I think, was the first to say so fifty years ago. At that time no one paid any attention to this his refusal and article, — they seemed so strange. The refusal was explained on the ground of eccentricity. Your refusal already provokes discussion and, as always at the enunciation of new truths, double amazement, — wonderment at hearing a man say such strange things, and, after that, wonderment at this : ” Why did not 1 come to think of what this man speaks,— it is so plain and unquestionable ? “

Truths like these, that a Christian cannot be a military man, that is, a murderer, that he cannot be the servant of an institution which maintains itself by violence and murder, are so unquestionable, simple, and incontestable, that, for people to make them their own, there is no need of reflections, or proof, or eloquence, but only of repetition without cessation, so that the majority of men may hear and understand them.

The truths that a Christian cannot be a participant in murder, or serve and receive a salary, which is forcibly collected from the poor by the leaders in murder, are so simple and so incontestable that any one who hears them cannot help but agree with them ; and if, having heard them, he continues to act contrary to these truths, he does so only because he is in the habit of acting contrary to them, because it is hard for him to break himself of the habit, and because the majority acts just like him, so that a failure to carry out the truth does not deprive him of the respect of the majority of most respected men.

There happens the same as with vegetarianism. ” A man can be well and healthy without killing animals for his food ; consequently, if he eats meat, he contributes to the slaughter of animals only for the gratification of his taste. It is immoral to act thus.” This is so simple and so incontestable that it is impossible not to agree to it. But because the majority still continue to eat meat, people, upon hearing that reflection, recognize it as just, and immediately add, smiling: ” A piece of good beefsteak is a good thing, all the same, and it will give me pleasure to eat it to-day at dinner.”

In precisely the same way the officers and officials bear themselves in relation to the proofs as to the incompatibility of Christianity and humanitarianism with military and civil service. ” Of course, that is true,” such an official will say, ” but it is all the same a pleasure to wear a uniform and epaulets which will give us admission anywhere and will gain respect for us, and it is still more agreeable, independently of any chance, with certainty and precision to get your salary on the first of the month. Your reflection is, indeed, correct, but 1 shall none the less try to get an increase in my salary — and pension.” The reflection is admittedly incontestable ; but, in the first place, a man does not himself have to kill an ox, but it is killed already, and a man does not himself have to collect the taxes and kill people, but the taxes are already collected and there is an army ; and, in the second place, the majority of men have not yet heard this reflection and do not know that it is not right to act thus. And so it is permissible as yet not to refuse a savoury beefsteak and a uniform, and decorations which afford so many pleasant things and, above all, a regular, monthly salary : “As for the rest, we will see.”

The whole matter rests only on this, that men have not yet heard the discussion which shows them the injustice and criminality of their lives. And so we must keep up the cry, ” Carthago dclenda estand Carthage will certainly fall.

I do not say that the state and its power will fall, — that will not happen so soon, for there are in the crowd still too many coarse elements that support it, — but what will be destroyed is the Christian support of the state, that is, the violators will cease to maintain their authority by the sacredness of Christianity. The violators will be violators, and nothing else. And when this shall happen, when they shall not be able to cloak themselves with the pretence of Christianity, the end of violence will be at hand.

Let us try to hasten this end. ” Carthago dclenda est.” The state is violence, Christianity is humility, non-resistance, love, and so the state cannot be Christian, and a man who wants to be a Christian cannot serve the state. The state cannot be Christian. A Christian cannot serve the state, and so on.

Strange to say, just as you wrote me that letter about the incompatibility of the political activity with Christianity, I wrote a long letter to a lady acquaintance on almost the same theme. I send you this letter.1 If you deem it necessary, print it.

October 12, 1896.

1 The next letter.

II.

LETTER -TO THE LIBERALS

I should be very glad with you and your companions, — whose activity I know and esteem highly, — to defend the rights of the Committee of Education and to tight against enemies of popular education ; but I see no way of struggling in the field in which you are working.

I console myself only with this, that I am assiduously at work lighting the same enemies of education, though in a different field.

To judge from the particular question which interests you, I think that in place of the abolished Committee of Education there ought to be established a large number of other educational societies, with the same problems and independently of the government, without asking the government for any permission of the censorship, and allowing the government, if it sees fit, to persecute these educational societies, punish people for them, deport them, and so forth. By doing so the government will only enhance the significance of good books and libraries and will strengthen the movement toward education.

It seems to me that now it is particularly important to do what is good in a quiet and persistent manner, without asking the government, and even consciously evading its participation. The power of the state is based on the ignorance of the people, and the state knows it and so will always fight education. It is time for us to understand this. It is extremely dangerous to give the state a chance, while disseminating darkness, to pretend that it is interested in the education of the masses, as is the case with the so-called educational institutions, which are controlled by it, the public schools, gymnasia, universities, academies, all kinds of committees and associations. The good is good and education is education, only when it is all good and all education, and not when it is adapted to the circulars of the ministers. Above all, I am always sorry to see such precious, unselfish, selfsacrificing forces wasted so unproductively. At times it simply amuses me to see good, clever people waste their strength in fighting the government in the field of those very laws which are arbitrarily written by the government itself.

The matter seems to me to be as follows :

There are some people, to whom we belong, who know that our government is very bad, and who fight it. Ever since the time of liadishchev and the Decembrists, two methods of struggling have been in vogue, — one, that of Stenka Bazin, Pugachdv, the Decembrists, the revolutionists of the sixties, the actors of the first of March, and others : a second, which is preached and applied by you, — the method of the “moderators,” which consists in fighting on a legal basis, without violence, by a gradual acquisition of rights. Both methods have assiduously been applied for more than half a century, so far as my memory goes, and the condition is getting worse and worse ; if the condition is getting better, this is not due to this or that activity, but in spite of the harmfulness of these activities (for different reasons, of which I shall speak later), and the force against which the struggle is carried on, is growing more powerful, more potent, and more insolent. The last flashes of self-government, the County Council, the courts, the committees of education, and everything else, are all being abolished.

Now, since so much time has passed in the vain employment of these means, we can, it seems, see clearly that neither method is any good, and why not. To me at least, who always, had contempt for our government, but never had recourse to either method to fight it with, the mistakes of the two methods are obvious.

The first method is no good, because, even if it should be possible to change the existing order by means of violence, nothing guarantees that the established new order would be permanent, and that the enemies of this new order would not triumph under favourable conditions and with the aid of the same violence, as often happened in France and wherever there were revolutions. And so the new order of things, which is established through violence, would have to be constantly supported by the same violence, that is, by lawlessness, and, in consequence of it, would inevitably and very quickly be ruined, like the one whose place it took. But in case of failure, as has always happened in Bussia, all the cases of revolutionary violence, from Pugachdv to the first of March, have only strengthened the order of things against which they have fought, transferring to the camp of the conservatives and retrogrades the enormous number of indecisive people who stood in the middle and did not belong to either camp. And so I think that, being guided by experience and by reflection, I may say boldly that this method is not only immoral, but also irrational and ineffective.

Still less effective and rational, in my opinion, is the second method. It is ineffective and irrational, because having in hand the whole power (the army, the administration, the church, the schools, the police), and composing those very so-called laws, on the basis of which the liberals want to fight with it, the government knows full well what is dangerous for itself, and will never permit the people who submit to it and who act under its guidance to do anything which might subvert its power. Thus, for example, in the present case, the government, which in Russia (as elsewhere) is based on the ignorance of the people, will never allow the people to get any real education. It gives permission for the establishment of so-called educational institutions, which are controlled by it, — public schools, gymnasia, universities, academies, all kinds of committees and associations, and censored publications, so long as these institutions and publications serve its purposes, that is, stultify the people, or at least do not interfere with their stultification ; but at every attempt made by these institutions or publications to undermine that on which the power of the government is based, that is, the ignorance of the people, the government, without giving any account to any one for doing so and not otherwise, most quietly pronounces its veto, reorganizes and closes the establishments or institutions, and prohibits the publications. And so, as becomes clear from reflection and from experience, such a supposed gradual conquest of rights is only a self-deception, which is very advantageous for the government and so is even encouraged by it.

But this activity is not only irrational and ineffective, but also harmful. It is harmful, in the first place, because enlightened, good, honest men, by entering into the ranks of the government, give it a moral authority, which it did not have without them. If the whole government consisted of nothing but coarse violators, selfish men, and flatterers, who form its pith, it could not exist. Only the participation of enlightened and honest men in the government gives it that moral prestige which it has. In this consists one harm of the activity of the liberals, who take part in the government or compromise with it. In the second place, such an activity is harmful, because, for the possibility of its manifestation, these same enlightened, honest men, by admitting compromises, slowly get used to the idea that for a good purpose it is permissible a little to depart from truth both in words and acts. It is permissible, for example, without acknowledging the existing religion, to execute its rites, to take an oath, to deliver false addresses that are contrary to human dignity, if that is necessary for the success of the cause ; it is right to enter military service, to take part in the County Council, which has no rights, to serve as a teacher, as a professor, teaching, not what one thinks necessary, but what is prescribed by the government, even by the County Council chief ; it is right to submit to the demands and regulations of the government, which are contrary to one’s conscience, and publish newspapers and periodicals, passing over in silence what ought to be said, and printing what one is commanded to print. By making these compromises, the limits of which it is impossible to foresee, enlightened, honourable men, who alone could form a barrier against the government in its encroachment upon men’s liberty, by imperceptibly departing more and more from the demands of their conscience, fall into a condition of complete dependence on the government, before they get a chance to look around : they receive their salaries, their rewards from it, and, by continuing to imagine that they are carrying out liberal ideas, become submissive servants and supporters of the very order against which they have been struggling.

It is true, there are also very good and sincere men in this camp, who do not succumb to the enticements of the government and remain free from bribery, salary, and position. These men generally get caught in the meshes of the net which the government throws about them, and they struggle in this net, as you now do with your committees, whirling about in one spot ; or they get excited and pass over to the camp of the revolutionists ; or they commit suicide, or take to drinking, or in despair throw everything up and, what happens most frequently, betake themselves to literature, where they submit to the demands of the censorship and express only what is permitted, and by this very concealment of what is most important introduce the most perverse ideas, which are most desirable to the government, to the public, imagining all the time that with their writing, which gives them the means of existence, they are serving society.

Thus reflection and experience show me that both methods for struggling against the government, which have been in vogue, are not only not effective, but equally contribute to the strengthening of the power and the arbitrariness of the government.

What, then, is to be done ? Evidently not that which in the course of seventy years has proved to be fruitless and has attained the opposite results. What, then, is to be done ? ‘The same that is done by those thanks to whose activity there has been accomplished all that forward movement toward the light, the good, which has been accomplished since the world has existed. It is this that ought to be done. Now what is it ?

It is the simple, calm, truthful fulfilment of what one considers to be good and proper, quite independently of the government, of whether that pleases the government or not, — in other words, a defence of one’s rights, not as a member of the Committee of Education, or as an aiderman, or landowner, or merchant, or even as a member of parliament, but the defence of one’s rights as a rational and free man, and their defence, not as one defends the rights of County Councils and committees, with concessions and compromises, but without any concessions or compromises, as indeed the moral human dignity cannot be defended in any other way.

In order successfully to defend a fortress, it is necessary to burn all the houses of the suburb and to leave only what is fortified and what we will not surrender under any condition. The same is true here : it is necessary at first to concede what we can surrender, and to keep only what is not to be surrendered. Only by fortifying ourselves on what is unsurrenderable, are we able to conquer everything which we need, il is uuc,

of parliament, or even of the County Council, or of a committee are greater than those of a simple man, and, by making use of these rights, it seems that very much may be accomplished ; but the trouble is, that, to acquire the rights of the County Council, the parliament, the committee, it is necessary to renounce part of one’s own rights as a man. And having renounced a part of one’s own rights as a man, no fulcrum is left, and it is impossible either to gain any new rights or retain those already possessed. To pull others out of the mire, a man must himself stand on dry land, and if he, for greater convenience in the work, goes down into the mire, he does not pull any one else out, and himself sticks fast. It may be very well and useful to pass an eight-hour day in parliament or a liberal programme for school libraries in some committee ; but if a member of parliament, to do this, must raise his hand and lie in public, and lie in pronouncing an oath and expressing in words a respect for what he does not respect ; or if we, to carry into execution the most liberal programmes, are obliged to attend Te Deunis, swear, put on uniforms, write lying and flattering documents, and make similar speeches, and so forth, we, by doing all these things, renounce our human dignity and lose much more than we gain, and, by striving after the attainment of one definite end (as a rule not even this end is attained), deprive ourselves of the possibility of attaining other most important ends. The government can be restrained and counteracted only by men who have something which they will not give up for anything, under any conditions. To have the power for counteraction it is necessary to have a fulcrum, and the government knows this very well, and is particularly concerned about coaxing that which does not yield, — the human dignity, — out of men. When this is coaxed out of them the government calmly does what it needs to, knowing that it will no longer meet with any real opposition. A man who consents to swear in public, pronouncing the unbecoming and false words of the oath, or submissively in his uniform to wait for several hours to be received by a minister, or to inscribe himself in the “guard of protection” during the coronation, or for decency’s sake to go through the ceremony of the communion, or to ask the chiefs of the censorship in advance whether certain ideas may be expressed or not, and so forth, is no longer a danger to the government.

Alexander II. said that the liberals were not dangerous to him, because he knew that they could all be bought with honours, if not with money.

Men who take part in the government or who work under its guidance may, by pretending that they are fighting, deceive themselves and their like ; but those who struggle against them know incontestably from the opposition which they offer that they are not in earnest, but are only pretending. And this our government knows in relation to the liberals, and it is constantly making experiments as to how much real opposition there is, and, upon having ascertained to what extent it is absent for the government’s purposes, it proceeds to do its work with the full assurance that anything may be done with these men.

The government of Alexander III. knew this very well, and, knowing this, calmly abolished everything of which the liberals had been so proud, imagining that they had done it all : it limited the trial by jury ; abolished the office of the justice of the peace ; abolished the university rights; changed the system of instruction in the gymnasia ; renewed the school of cadets, and even the governmental sale of liquor ; established the County Council chiefs ; legalized the use of the rod ; almost abolished the County Council ; gave the governors uncontrolled power ; encouraged public executions ; enforced administrative deportations and confinements in prisons, and the execution of political prisoners ; introduced new religious persecutions; carried the stultification of the masses by means of savage superstitions to the utmost limits; legalized murder in duels ; established anarchy in the form of the guard of protection, with capital punishment, as a normal order of things ; and in the enforcement of all these measures it did not meet with any opposition, except the protest of one honourable woman, who boldly told the government what she considered to be truth. Though the liberals softly said to one another that they did not like it all, they continued to take part in the courts, and in the County Councils, and in the universities, and in the service, and in the press. In the press they threw out hints at what they were allowed to hint at, and passed in silence what they were not allowed to mention; but they continued to print what they were commanded to print. Thus every reader, who received the liberal newspapers and periodicals but was not initiated in what was quietly talked of in the editor’s office, read the uncommented exposition and condemnation of the most cruel and senseless measures, subservient and fulsome addresses meant for the authors of these measures, and frequently even laudations of them. Thus all the sad activity of the government of Alexander III., which destroyed all the good that had begun to enter into life under Alexander II., and which endeavoured to bring Russia back to the barbarism of the times of the beginning of the present century, — all that sad activity of gibbets, rods, persecutions, and the stultification of the masses, — became the subject of a mad eulogy of Alexander HI., which was printed in all the liberal newspapers and periodicals, and of his glorification as a great man, as a model of human dignity.

The same has been continued during the new reign. The young man who took the place of the former Tsar, and who had no idea of life, was assured by the men who stand by the power and who profit by it, that to govern one hundred millions it was necessary to do the same that his father had done, that is, that no one ought to be asked what was to be done, and that he ought to do anything that occurred to him or that he was counselled to do by any of the flatterers near his person. And imagining that the unlimited autocracy is a sacred principle of the life of the Russian nation, this young man begins his reign by this, that, instead of asking the representatives of the Russian nation to help him with their advice in his government, of which he, who was educated in the regiments of the guard, understands nothing and cannot understand anything, he boldly and indecently shouts at the representatives of the Russian nation, who come to congratulate him, and calls the timid expression of the desire of some of them to inform the authorities of their wants ” senseless reveries.”

Well ? Was Russian society provoked, and did the enlightened and honourable men — the liberals — express their indignation and contempt, and at least refrain from extolling such a government and from taking part in it and encouraging it ? Not at all. From that time there began a race to extol the father and the son, who emulates him, and not a single protesting voice is raised, except in one anonymous letter, which cautiously expresses the disapproval of the act of the young Tsar, and on all sides the Tsar is offered base, fulsome addresses, for some reason, all kinds of images, which are of no use to any one and serve only as a subject of idolatry for coarse men. A coronation, horrible in its insipidity and frantic waste of money, is arranged ; from disregard for the masses and from the insolence of the rulers there occur terrible calamities in which thousands lose their lives and upon which the guilty persons look as upon a small overcasting of the solemnity, that need not be interrupted on account of them ; an exhibition is established, on which millions are wasted and which is of no use except to those who arranged it; with unheard-of boldness they invent in the chancery of the Synod new, most stupid means for the stultification of the masses, — the relics of a man, of whom no one had ever heard anything ; the severity of the censorship is increased ; the persecutions for religion’s sake are enforced ; the guard of protection, that is, legalized lawlessness, is continued, and the condition gets worse and worse.

I think that all that would not exist, if those enlightened and honourable men who are now busy with their liberal activity on the basis of legality in the County Councils, committees, censored literature, and so forth, did not direct their energy to deceiving the government in the very forms which are established by the government, and somehow to compelling it to act to its detriment and ruin,1 but directed it to the defence of their personal human rights, under no condition taking part in the government or in any affairs which are connected with it.

” It pleases you to substitute County Council chiefs with rods in the place of justices of the peace, — that is your business, but we will not go to court to your County Council chiefs, nor will we ourselves accept such an office ; it pleases you to make the trial by jury nothing but a formality, — that is your business, but we will not become judges, nor lawyers, nor jurors : it pleases you, under the guise of a guard of protection, to establish lawlessness, — that is your business, but we will not take part in it and will frankly call the guard of protection a species of lawlessness, and capital punishment without trial simple murder; it pleases you to establish classical gymnasia with military exercises and religious instruction, or schools

1 It sometimes amuses me to think how foolishly men busy themselves with such an impossible matter, as though it were possible to cut off an animal’s foot, without the animal’s noticing it. — Author’s Note.

of cadets, — that is your business, but we will not be teachers in them and will not send our children to them, but will educate our children as we think best ; it pleases you to reduce the County Council to nothing, — we will not take part in it ; you forbid the publication of what displeases you, — you may catch and punish the printers and burn down the printing-offices, but you cannot keep us from talking and writing, and that we will do ; you command us to swear allegiance to the Tsar, — we will not do so, because that is stupid, deceitful, and base ; you command us to serve in the army, — we will not do so, because we consider mass murder to be an act which is as contrary to conscience as single murder, and, above all, the promise to kill whomsoever our chief will command us to kill the basest act which a man can commit ; you profess a religion which is a thousand years behind the times, with the Iberian Virgin, with its relics, and with its coronations, — that is your business, but we not only do not recognize it as being a religion, but call it the worst kind of idolatry, and try to free people from it/’

What can the government do against such an activity ? They can deport or imprison a man for preparing a bomb or even printing a proclamation to the labouring people, and they can transfer a committee of education from one ministry to another, or prorogue a parliament ; but what can a government do with a man who will not lie in public, by raising his hand, or does not want to send his children to an institution which he considers to be bad, or does not want to learn how to kill men, or does not want to take part in idolatry, or does not want to take part in coronations, meetings, and addresses, or says and writes what he thinks and feels ? By persecuting such a man, the government causes universal sympathy to be directed toward such a man, makes a martyr of him, and undermines those foundations on which it holds itself, because. by doing so, it violates the human rights, instead of protecting them.

Let all those good, enlightened, and honourable men, whose energy is now wasted to their own detriment and to the detriment of their cause in a revolutionary, socialistic, and liberal activity, begin to act thus, and there would form itself a nucleus of honest, enlightened, and moral men, welded together by one thought and one sentiment, and this nucleus would immediately be joined by the whole wavering mass of average men, and there would appear that one force which vanquishes governments,— that public opinion, which demands the freedom of the word, the freedom of conscience, justice, and humaneness ; as soon as public opinion would be formed, it would not only become impossible to close a committee of education, but all those inhuman institutions, in the form of the guard of protection, the secret police, the censorship, Schliisselburg, the Synod, with which the revolutionists and liberals are struggling now, would naturally be destroyed.

Thus, two methods have been tried in the struggle with the government, both of them failures, and now a third, the last, is left ; it has not yet been tried, but in my opinion it cannot help but be successful. This method, briefly expressed, consists in this, that all the enlightened and honest people should try to be as good as possible, — I do not even mean good in every respect, but only in one, namely, in the observation of one elementary virtue, — to be honest, not to lie, and to act and speak in such a way that the motives which prompt you to act may be comprehensible to your seven-year-old son, who loves you ; act in such a way that your son may not say : “ Why, papa, did you then say so, and now do and say something quite different ?” This method seems to be very weak, and yet I am convinced that it is this one method that has advanced humanity ever since its existence. It was only because there were such straightforward, truthful, manly men, who did not yield to any one in the matter of their human dignity, that all those beneficent changes which men now enjoy — from the abolition of torture and slavery to the freedom of speech and of conscience — were accomplished. And this could not be otherwise, because what is demanded by the conscience, the highest presentiment of the truth which is accessible to man, is always and in all relations at a given moment the most fruitful and the most necessary activity for humanity.

But I must explain myself : the statement that for the attainment of those ends toward which the revolutionists and the liberals alike are striving, the most effective means is an activity which is in conformity with one’s conscience, does not mean that for the attainment of these ends it is possible to begin by living in conformity with one’s conscience. It is impossible to begin on purpose to live in conformity with one’s conscience, in order to attain any external ends.

A man can live in conformity with his conscience only in consequence of some firm and clear religious convictions. When there are such firm and clear religious convictions, the beneficent consequences from them in the external life will inevitably come. And so the essence of what 1 wanted to say consists in this, that it is unprofitable for good, sincere men to waste the forces of their mind and soul on the attainment of trifling, practical ends, as in all kinds of struggles of nationality, parties, liberal programmes, so long as there has not been established any clear and firm religious world-conception, that is, the consciousness of the meaning of their life and its destiny. 1 think that all the efforts of the soul and the reason of good people who wish to serve men, ought to be directed upon this. When this shall be, all the rest will happen.

Pardon me for having written you at such a length : perhaps you do not need this, but 1 have for a long time been wishing to say something in regard to this question. 1 even began a long article on the subject, but 1 doubt whether I shall be able to finish it before my death, and so I wanted to say what 1 could. Forgive me, if I have erred in anything.

August 31,1836.

III.

LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF THE DAILY CHRONICLE

Ever since the «appearance of my book, The Kingdom, of God Is Within You, and of the article, Christianity and Patriotism, 1 frequently have had occasion to read in articles and in letters retorts, 1 shall not say to my thoughts, but to their misinterpretations. This is sometimes done consciously, and sometimes unconsciously, only through a sheer misunderstanding of the spirit of the Christian teaching.

“All that is very well,” I am told ; “despotism, capital punishment, the armament of the whole of Europe, the oppressed condition of the labourers, and the wars are all great calamities, and you are right when you condemn the existing order, but how can we get along without a government ? What right have we, the men with a limited comprehension and intellect, because it seems better to us, to destroy that existing order of things, by means of which our ancestors attained the present high degree of civilization and all its benefits ? While destroying the government we ought to put something else in its place, if not, how can we risk all those terrible calamities, which must inevitably assail us, if the govern ment is destroyed ? ”

But the point is, that the Christian teaching, in its true sense, has never proposed to destroy anything, nor has it proposed any new order, which is to take the place of the older one. The Christian teaching differs from all the other religious and social doctrines in this very thing, that it gives the good to men, not by means of common laws for the lives of all men, but by the elucidation for every individual man of the meaning of his life, by showing him what the evil and what the true good of his life consists in. And this meaning of life, which is revealed to man by the Christian teaching, is so clear, so convincing, and so unquestionable, that as soon as a man has come to understand it and so cognizes what the evil and the good of his life consists in, he can in no way consciously do that in which he sees the evil of his life, and cannot fail to do that in which he sees its true good, just as water cannot help but run down, and a plant tend toward the light.

But the meaning of life, as revealed to man by Christianity, consists in doing the will of Him, from whom we have come into this world and to whom we shall go, when we leave it. Thus the evil of our life lies only in the departure from this will, and the good lies only in the fulfilment of the demands of this will, which are so simple and so clear that it is as impossible to miss understanding them as it is absurd to misinterpret them. If you cannot do unto another what you wish that he should do unto you, at least do not do unto another what you do not wish that another should do unto you : if you do not wish to be compelled to work in a factory or in mines for ten hours at a time; if you do not wish your children to be hungry, cold, ignorant; if you do not wish your land, on which you can support yourself, to be taken from you ; if you do not wish to be locked up in a prison and hanged, because through old age, temptation, or ignorance you have committed an illegal act ; if you do not wish to be wounded and killed in war, — do not do the same to others.

All this is so simple, so clear, so incontestable, that a small child cannot help but understand it, and no sophist can overthrow it.

Let us imagine that a labourer, who is entirely in the power of his master, is put to some comprehensible work, which he likes. Suddenly this labourer, who is in the full power of the master, is approached by men who, he knows, are in the same dependence on the master as he, and who are charged with a similar definite work as he,— and these men, who themselves have not fulfilled the work entrusted to them, demand of the labourer that he shall do the very reverse of what is clearly and unquestionably, without any exception, prescribed to him by his master. What can any sensible labourer reply to such a demand ?

But this comparison is far from expressing what must be the feelings of a Christian, who is approached with the demands that he shall take part in oppression, in the seizure of land, in capital punishments, wars, and so forth, demands which are made upon us by the governmental authorities, because, no matter how impressive the commands of the master may have been for the labourer, they will never compare with that unquestionable knowledge of every man who is uncorrupted by false teachings, that he must not do unto others what he does not wish to have done unto himself, and that he, therefore, must not take part in acts of violence, in levying for the army, in capital punishments, in the murder of his neighbour, which is demanded of him by his government. Thus, the question for a Christian is not, as it is unwittingly and sometimes consciously put by the advocates of the government, whether a man has the right to destroy the existing order and put a new one in its place, — a Christian does not even think of the general order, leaving this to be managed by God, being firmly convinced that God has implanted His law in our minds and hearts, not for disorder, but for order, and that nothing but what is good will come from following the unquestionable law of God, which is revealed to us ; the question for any Christian, or for any man in general, is not, how to arrange matters in an external or new way (no one of us is obliged to solve this question),— what is subject to the solution of every one of us, not at will, but inevitably, is the question as to how I am to act in the choice which presents itself to me all the time : must I, contrary to my conscience, take part in the government, which recognizes the right to the ownership in land in the case of those men who do not work upon it, which collects the taxes from the poor, in order to give them to the rich, which deports and sends to hard labour and hangs erring men, drives soldiers to slaughter, corrupts the masses with opium and whiskey, and so forth ; or must I, in accordance with my conscience, refuse to take part in the government, whose acts are contrary to my conscience? But what will happen, what the government will be as the result of this or that act of mine, 1 do not know ; not that I do not wish to know it, but I cannot know it.

In this does the force of the Christian teaching consist, that it transfers the questions of life from the field of eternal guesses and doubts to the field of undoubted knowledge.

But 1 shall be told : ” We, too, do not deny the necessity of changing the existing order, and also wish to mend it, — not by refusing to take part in the government, in the courts, in the army, not by destroying the government, but on the contrary, by taking part in the government, by acquiring liberty and rights, by choosing as representatives the true friends of the people and the enemies of war and of every violence.”

All that would be very nice, if the contribution to the improvement of the forms of the government coincided with the purpose of human life. Unfortunately it not only fails to coincide with it, but even contradicts it. If human life is limited by this world, its purpose is much nearer than a gradual amelioration of government,— it is in the personal good ; but if life does not end with this world it is much farther, — in the fulfilment of God’s will. If it is in my personal good, and life ends here, what business have 1 with the future slow improved order of the state, which will be accomplished sometime and somewhere, in all probability when I am no longer alive ? But if my life is immortal, the purpose of the improved order of the English, German, Russian, or any other state in the twentieth century is too little for me, and absolutely fails to satisfy the demands of my immortal soul. What may be an adequate purpose for my life is either my immediate good, which by no means coincides with the state activity of taxes, courts, wars, or the eternal salvation of my soul, which is attained only by the fulfilment of God’s will, and this will just as little coincides with the demands of violence, of capital punishments, of wars, of the existing order.

And so I repeat : the question, not only for a Christian, but for every man of our time as well, is not, what social life will be more secure, the one which is defended with rifles, cannon, gibbets, or the one which will not be defended in this manner. There is but one question for each man, and this is such as we cannot get away from : ” Do you, a rational and good being, who have appeared to-day and may disappear to-morrow, wish, if you recognize God, to act contrary to law and to His will, knowing that you may any moment return to Him, or, if you do not recognize God, do you wish to act contrary to those qualities of reason and of love, by which alone you may be guided in life, knowing that if you are mistaken you will never be able to correct your mistake ? “

And the answer to this question for those men for whom it has arisen can only be: “No, I cannot, I will not.”

I am told, “This is the destruction of government and the annihilation of the existing order.” But if the fulfilment of God’s will destroys the existing order, is not that an undoubted proof that the existing order is contrary to God’s will and ought to be destroyed ?

December 1O, 1894

THE END.