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The Forged Coupon and Other Stories by Leo Tolstoy

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And Other Stories





IN an age of materialism like our own the phenomenon of
spiritual power is as significant and inspiring as it is rare.
No longer associated with the "divine right" of kings,
it has survived the downfall of feudal and theocratic systems
as a mystic personal emanation in place of a coercive
weapon of statecraft.

Freed from its ancient shackles of dogma and despotism it eludes analysis.
We know not how to gauge its effect on others, nor even upon ourselves.
Like the wind, it permeates the atmosphere we breathe, and baffles while it
stimulates the mind with its intangible but compelling force.

This psychic power, which the dead weight of materialism is
impotent to suppress, is revealed in the lives and writings
of men of the most diverse creeds and nationalities.
Apart from those who, like Buddha and Mahomet, have been
raised to the height of demi-gods by worshipping millions,
there are names which leap inevitably to the mind--
such names as Savonarola, Luther, Calvin, Rousseau--
which stand for types and exemplars of spiritual aspiration.
To this high priesthood of the quick among the dead, who can
doubt that time will admit Leo Tolstoy--a genius whose greatness
has been obscured from us rather than enhanced by his duality;
a realist who strove to demolish the mysticism of Christianity,
and became himself a mystic in the contemplation of Nature;
a man of ardent temperament and robust physique, keenly susceptible
to human passions and desires, who battled with himself from
early manhood until the spirit, gathering strength with years,
inexorably subdued the flesh.

Tolstoy the realist steps without cavil into the front rank of
modern writers; Tolstoy the idealist has been constantly derided
and scorned by men of like birth and education with himself--
his altruism denounced as impracticable, his preaching compared
with his mode of life to prove him inconsistent, if not insincere.
This is the prevailing attitude of politicians and literary men.

Must one conclude that the mass of mankind has lost touch with idealism?
On the contrary, in spite of modern materialism, or even because of it,
many leaders of spiritual thought have arisen in our times, and have won
the ear of vast audiences. Their message is a call to a simpler life,
to a recognition of the responsibilities of wealth, to the avoidance
of war by arbitration, and sinking of class hatred in a deep sense
of universal brotherhood.

Unhappily, when an idealistic creed is formulated in precise and
dogmatic language, it invariably loses something of its pristine beauty
in the process of transmutation. Hence the Positivist philosophy of Comte,
though embodying noble aspirations, has had but a limited influence.
Again, the poetry of Robert Browning, though less frankly altruistic
than that of Cowper or Wordsworth, is inherently ethical, and reveals
strong sympathy with sinning and suffering humanity, but it is masked
by a manner that is sometimes uncouth and frequently obscure.
Owing to these, and other instances, idealism suggests to the world
at large a vague sentimentality peculiar to the poets, a bloodless
abstraction toyed with by philosophers, which must remain a closed book
to struggling humanity.

Yet Tolstoy found true idealism in the toiling peasant who believed
in God, rather than in his intellectual superior who believed
in himself in the first place, and gave a conventional assent
to the existence of a deity in the second. For the peasant
was still religious at heart with a naive unquestioning faith--
more characteristic of the fourteenth or fifteenth century than
of to-day--and still fervently aspired to God although sunk in
superstition and held down by the despotism of the Greek Church.
It was the cumbrous ritual and dogma of the orthodox state religion
which roused Tolstoy to impassioned protests, and led him step by step
to separate the core of Christianity from its sacerdotal shell,
thus bringing upon himself the ban of excommunication.

The signal mark of the reprobation of "Holy Synod" was slow in coming--
it did not, in fact, become absolute until a couple of years after the
publication of "Resurrection," in 1901, in spite of the attitude of fierce
hostility to Church and State which Tolstoy had maintained for so long.
This hostility, of which the seeds were primarily sown by the closing of his
school and inquisition of his private papers in the summer of 1862, soon grew
to proportions far greater than those arising from a personal wrong.
The dumb and submissive moujik found in Tolstoy a living voice to
express his sufferings.

Tolstoy was well fitted by nature and circumstances to be
the peasant's spokesman. He had been brought into intimate
contact with him in the varying conditions of peace and war,
and he knew him at his worst and best. The old home of the family,
Yasnaya Polyana, where Tolstoy, his brothers and sister,
spent their early years in charge of two guardian aunts,
was not only a halting-place for pilgrims journeying to and
from the great monastic shrines, but gave shelter to a number
of persons of enfeebled minds belonging to the peasant class,
with whom the devout and kindly Aunt Alexandra spent many hours
daily in religious conversation and prayer.

In "Childhood" Tolstoy apostrophises with feeling one of those
"innocents," a man named Grisha, "whose faith was so strong
that you felt the nearness of God, your love so ardent that
the words flowed from your lips uncontrolled by your reason.
And how did you celebrate his Majesty when, words failing you,
you prostrated yourself on the ground, bathed in tears"
This picture of humble religious faith was amongst Tolstoy's
earliest memories, and it returned to comfort him and uplift
his soul when it was tossed and engulfed by seas of doubt.
But the affection he felt in boyhood towards the moujiks
became tinged with contempt when his attempts to improve
their condition--some of which are described in "Anna Karenina"
and in the "Landlord's Morning"--ended in failure,
owing to the ignorance and obstinacy of the people.
It was not till he passed through the ordeal of war in Turkey
and the Crimea that he discovered in the common soldier who
fought by his side an unconscious heroism, an unquestioning
faith in God, a kindliness and simplicity of heart rarely
possessed by his commanding officer.

The impressions made upon Tolstoy during this period of active
service gave vivid reality to the battle-scenes in "War and Peace,"
and are traceable in the reflections and conversation
of the two heroes, Prince Andre and Pierre Besukhov.
On the eve of the battle of Borodino, Prince Andre, talking with
Pierre in the presence of his devoted soldier-servant Timokhine,
says,--"'Success cannot possibly be, nor has it ever been,
the result of strategy or fire-arms or numbers.'

"'Then what does it result from?' said Pierre.

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

He then contrasts the different spirit animating the officers and the men.

"'The former,' he says, 'have nothing in view but their personal interests.
The critical moment for them is the moment at which they are able to
supplant a rival, to win a cross or a new order. I see only one thing.
To-morrow one hundred thousand Russians and one hundred thousand Frenchmen
will meet to fight; they who fight the hardest and spare themselves the least
will win the day.'

"'There's the truth, your Excellency, the real truth,'
murmurs Timokhine; 'it is not a time to spare oneself.
Would you believe it, the men of my battalion have not tasted brandy?
"It's not a day for that," they said.'"

During the momentous battle which followed, Pierre was struck
by the steadfastness under fire which has always distinguished
the Russian soldier.

"The fall of each man acted as an increasing stimulus.
The faces of the soldiers brightened more and more,
as if challenging the storm let loose on them."

In contrast with this picture of fine "morale" is that of the young
white-faced officer, looking nervously about him as he walks backwards
with lowered sword.

In other places Tolstoy does full justice to the courage and patriotism
of all grades in the Russian army, but it is constantly evident
that his sympathies are most heartily with the rank and file.
What genuine feeling and affection rings in this sketch of Plato,
a common soldier, in "War and Peace!"

"Plato Karataev was about fifty, judging by the number
of campaigns in which he had served; he could not
have told his exact age himself, and when he laughed,
as he often did, he showed two rows of strong, white teeth.
There was not a grey hair on his head or in his beard,
and his bearing wore the stamp of activity, resolution,
and above all, stoicism. His face, though much lined,
had a touching expression of simplicity, youth, and innocence.
When he spoke, in his soft sing-song voice, his speech flowed
as from a well-spring. He never thought about what he had said
or was going to say next, and the vivacity and the rhythmical
inflections of his voice gave it a penetrating persuasiveness.
Night and morning, when going to rest or getting up, he said,
'O God, let me sleep like a stone and rise up like a loaf.'
And, sure enough, he had no sooner lain down than he slept
like a lump of lead, and in the morning on waking he was bright
and lively, and ready for any work. He could do anything,
just not very well nor very ill; he cooked, sewed, planed wood,
cobbled his boots, and was always occupied with some job
or other, only allowing himself to chat and sing at night.
He sang, not like a singer who knows he has listeners,
but as the birds sing to God, the Father of all,
feeling it as necessary as walking or stretching himself.
His singing was tender, sweet, plaintive, almost feminine,
in keeping with his serious countenance. When, after some
weeks of captivity his beard had grown again, he seemed
to have got rid of all that was not his true self,
the borrowed face which his soldiering life had given him,
and to have become, as before, a peasant and a man of the people.
In the eyes of the other prisoners Plato was just a common soldier,
whom they chaffed at times and sent on all manner of errands;
but to Pierre he remained ever after the personification
of simplicity and truth, such as he had divined him to be
since the first night spent by his side."

This clearly is a study from life, a leaf from Tolstoy's "Crimean
Journal." It harmonises with the point of view revealed in the "Letters
from Sebastopol" (especially in the second and third series), and shows,
like them, the change effected by the realities of war in the intolerant
young aristocrat, who previously excluded all but the comme-il-faut
from his consideration. With widened outlook and new ideals
he returned to St. Petersburg at the close of the Crimean campaign,
to be welcomed by the elite of letters and courted by society.
A few years before he would have been delighted with such a reception.
Now it jarred on his awakened sense of the tragedy of existence.
He found himself entirely out of sympathy with the group of
literary men who gathered round him, with Turgenev at their head.
In Tolstoy's eyes they were false, paltry, and immoral, and he was at no
pains to disguise his opinions. Dissension, leading to violent scenes,
soon broke out between Turgenev and Tolstoy; and the latter,
completely disillusioned both in regard to his great contemporary
and to the literary world of St. Petersburg, shook off the dust
of the capital, and, after resigning his commission in the army,
went abroad on a tour through Germany, Switzerland, and France.

In France his growing aversion from capital punishment became
intensified by his witnessing a public execution, and the painful
thoughts aroused by the scene of the guillotine haunted his sensitive
spirit for long. He left France for Switzerland, and there,
among beautiful natural surroundings, and in the society of friends,
he enjoyed a respite from mental strain.

"A fresh, sweet-scented flower seemed to have blossomed in my spirit;
to the weariness and indifference to all things which before possessed
me had succeeded, without apparent transition, a thirst for love,
a confident hope, an inexplicable joy to feel myself alive."

Those halcyon days ushered in the dawn of an intimate friendship
between himself and a lady who in the correspondence which ensued
usually styled herself his aunt, but was in fact a second cousin.
This lady, the Countess Alexandra A. Tolstoy, a Maid of Honour
of the Bedchamber, moved exclusively in Court circles.
She was intelligent and sympathetic, but strictly orthodox
and mondaine, so that, while Tolstoy's view of life gradually
shifted from that of an aristocrat to that of a social reformer,
her own remained unaltered; with the result that at the end of
some forty years of frank and affectionate interchange of ideas,
they awoke to the painful consciousness that the last link
of mutual understanding had snapped and that their friendship
was at an end.

But the letters remain as a valuable and interesting
record of one of Tolstoy's rare friendships with women,
revealing in his unguarded confidences fine shades of his
many-sided nature, and throwing light on the impression he made
both on his intimates and on those to whom he was only known
as a writer, while his moral philosophy was yet in embryo.
They are now about to appear in book form under the auspices
of M. Stakhovich, to whose kindness in giving me free access
to the originals I am indebted for the extracts which follow.
From one of the countess's first letters we learn that the
feelings of affection, hope, and happiness which possessed
Tolstoy in Switzerland irresistibly communicated themselves
to those about him.

"You are good in a very uncommon way," she writes, "and that
is why it is difficult to feel unhappy in your company.
I have never seen you without wishing to be a better creature.
Your presence is a consoling idea. . . . know all the elements
in you that revive one's heart, possibly without your being
even aware of it."

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

"I owe you a small episode. Not long ago, when lunching
with the Emperor, I sat next our little Bismarck,
and in a spirit of mischief I began sounding him about you.
But I had hardly uttered your name when he went off at a gallop
with the greatest enthusiasm, firing off the list of your
perfections left and right, and so long as he declaimed your
praises with gesticulations, cut and thrust, powder and shot,
it was all very well and quite in character; but seeing that I
listened with interest and attention my man took the bit
in his teeth, and flung himself into a psychic apotheosis.
On reaching full pitch he began to get muddled, and floundered
so helplessly in his own phrases! all the while chewing
an excellent cutlet to the bone, that at last I realised
nothing but the tips of his ears--those two great ears of his.
What a pity I can't repeat it verbatim! but how?
There was nothing left but a jumble of confused sounds
and broken words."

Tolstoy on his side is equally expansive, and in the early
stages of the correspondence falls occasionally into the vein
of self-analysis which in later days became habitual.

"As a child I believed with passion and without any thought. Then at the age
of fourteen I began to think about life and preoccupied myself with religion,
but it did not adjust itself to my theories and so I broke with it.
Without it I was able to live quite contentedly for ten years . . . everything
in my life was evenly distributed, and there was no room for religion.
Then came a time when everything grew intelligible; there were no more secrets
in life, but life itself had lost its significance."

He goes on to tell of the two years that he spent in the Caucasus
before the Crimean War, when his mind, jaded by youthful excesses,
gradually regained its freshness, and he awoke to a sense of communion
with Nature which he retained to his life's end.

"I have my notes of that time, and now reading them
over I am not able to understand how a man could attain
to the state of mental exaltation which I arrived at.
It was a torturing but a happy time."

Further on he writes,--"In those two years of intellectual work,
I discovered a truth which is ancient and simple, but which yet I know
better than others do. I found out that immortal life is a reality,
that love is a reality, and that one must live for others if one would
be unceasingly happy."

At this point one realises the gulf which divides the Slavonic from
the English temperament. No average Englishman of seven-and-twenty
(as Tolstoy was then) would pursue reflections of this kind, or if he did,
he would in all probability keep them sedulously to himself.

To Tolstoy and his aunt, on the contrary, it seemed the most natural thing
in the world to indulge in egoistic abstractions and to expatiate on them;
for a Russian feels none of the Anglo-Saxon's mauvaise honte in describing
his spiritual condition, and is no more daunted by metaphysics than the latter
is by arguments on politics and sport.

To attune the Anglo-Saxon reader's mind to sympathy with a mentality
so alien to his own, requires that Tolstoy's environment should be
described more fully than most of his biographers have cared to do.
This prefatory note aims, therefore, at being less strictly
biographical than illustrative of the contributory elements
and circumstances which sub-consciously influenced Tolstoy's
spiritual evolution, since it is apparent that in order to judge
a man's actions justly one must be able to appreciate the motives
from which they spring; those motives in turn requiring the key
which lies in his temperament, his associations, his nationality.
Such a key is peculiarly necessary to English or American students
of Tolstoy, because of the marked contrast existing between
the Russian and the Englishman or American in these respects,
a contrast by which Tolstoy himself was forcibly struck during
the visit to Switzerland, of which mention has been already made.
It is difficult to restrain a smile at the poignant mental discomfort
endured by the sensitive Slav in the company of the frigid and silent
English frequenters of the Schweitzerhof ("Journal of Prince
D. Nekhludov," Lucerne, 1857), whose reserve, he realised, was "not
based on pride, but on the absence of any desire to draw nearer
to each other"; while he looked back regretfully to the pension
in Paris where the table d' hote was a scene of spontaneous gaiety.
The problem of British taciturnity passed his comprehension;
but for us the enigma of Tolstoy's temperament is half solved
if we see him not harshly silhouetted against a blank wall,
but suffused with his native atmosphere, amid his native surroundings.
Not till we understand the main outlines of the Russian
temperament can we realise the individuality of Tolstoy himself:
the personality that made him lovable, the universality that
made him great.

So vast an agglomeration of races as that which constitutes the Russian
empire cannot obviously be represented by a single type, but it will suffice
for our purposes to note the characteristics of the inhabitants of Great
Russia among whom Tolstoy spent the greater part of his lifetime and to whom
be belonged by birth and natural affinities.

It may be said of the average Russian that in exchange
for a precocious childhood he retains much of a child's
lightness of heart throughout his later years, alternating
with attacks of morbid despondency. He is usually very
susceptible to feminine charm, an ardent but unstable lover,
whose passions are apt to be as shortlived as they are violent.
Story-telling and long-winded discussions give him keen enjoyment,
for he is garrulous, metaphysical, and argumentative.
In money matters careless and extravagant, dilatory and
venal in affairs; fond, especially in the peasant class,
of singing, dancing, and carousing; but his irresponsible gaiety
and heedlessness of consequences balanced by a fatalistic
courage and endurance in the face of suffering and danger.
Capable, besides, of high flights of idealism, which result
in epics, but rarely in actions, owing to the Slavonic inaptitude
for sustained and organised effort. The Englishman by contrast
appears cold and calculating, incapable of rising above questions
of practical utility; neither interested in other men's
antecedents and experiences nor willing to retail his own.
The catechism which Plato puts Pierre through on their first encounter
("War and Peace") as to his family, possessions, and what not,
are precisely similar to those to which I have been subjected
over and over again by chance acquaintances in country-houses
or by fellow travellers on journeys by boat or train.
The naivete and kindliness of the questioner makes it impossible
to resent, though one may feebly try to parry his probing.
On the other hand he offers you free access to the inmost
recesses of his own soul, and stupefies you with the candour
of his revelations. This, of course, relates more to the landed
and professional classes than to the peasant, who is slower
to express himself, and combines in a curious way a firm
belief in the omnipotence and wisdom of his social superiors
with a rooted distrust of their intentions regarding himself.
He is like a beast of burden who flinches from every approach,
expecting always a kick or a blow. On the other hand,
his affection for the animals who share his daily work
is one of the most attractive points in his character,
and one which Tolstoy never wearied of emphasising--
describing, with the simple pathos of which he was master,
the moujik inured to his own privations but pitiful to
his horse, shielding him from the storm with his own coat,
or saving him from starvation with his own meagre ration;
and mindful of him even in his prayers, invoking, like Plato,
the blessings of Florus and Laura, patron saints of horses,
because "one mustn't forget the animals."

The characteristics of a people so embedded in the soil bear a closer
relation to their native landscape than our own migratory populations,
and patriotism with them has a deep and vital meaning, which is expressed
unconsciously in their lives.

This spirit of patriotism which Tolstoy repudiated is none
the less the animating power of the noble epic, "War and Peace,"
and of his peasant-tales, of his rare gift of reproducing
the expressive Slav vernacular, and of his magical art of
infusing his pictures of Russian scenery not merely with beauty,
but with spiritual significance. I can think of no prose writer,
unless it be Thoreau, so wholly under the spell of Nature
as Tolstoy; and while Thoreau was preoccupied with the normal
phenomena of plant and animal life, Tolstoy, coming near
to Pantheism, found responses to his moods in trees, and gained
spiritual expansion from the illimitable skies and plains.
He frequently brings his heroes into touch with Nature, and endows
them with all the innate mysticism of his own temperament,
for to him Nature was "a guide to God." So in the two-fold
incident of Prince Andre and the oak tree ("War and Peace")
the Prince, though a man of action rather than of sentiment
and habitually cynical, is ready to find in the aged oak
by the roadside, in early spring, an animate embodiment
of his own despondency.

"'Springtime, love, happiness?--are you still cherishing those
deceptive illusions?' the old oak seemed to say. 'Isn't it the same
fiction ever? There is neither spring, nor love, nor happiness!
Look at those poor weather-beaten firs, always the same . . . look
at the knotty arms issuing from all up my poor mutilated trunk--
here I am, such as they have made me, and I do not believe either
in your hopes or in your illusions.'"

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

"but the oak maintained its obstinate and sullen immovability
in the midst of the flowers and grass growing at its feet.
'Yes, that oak is right, right a thousand times over.
One must leave illusions to youth. But the rest of us know
what life is worth; it has nothing left to offer us.'"

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

"The day was hot, there was storm in the air; a slight shower watered
the dust on the road and the grass in the ditch; the left side
of the wood remained in the shade; the right side, lightly stirred
by the wind, glittered all wet in the sun; everything was in flower,
and from near and far the nightingales poured forth their song.
'I fancy there was an oak here that understood me,' said Prince
Andre to himself, looking to the left and attracted unawares
by the beauty of the very tree he sought. The transformed old
oak spread out in a dome of deep, luxuriant, blooming verdure,
which swayed in a light breeze in the rays of the setting sun.
There were no longer cloven branches nor rents to be seen;
its former aspect of bitter defiance and sullen grief had disappeared;
there were only the young leaves, full of sap that had pierced
through the centenarian bark, making the beholder question
with surprise if this patriarch had really given birth to them.
'Yes, it is he, indeed!' cried Prince Andre, and he felt his heart
suffused by the intense joy which the springtime and this new life
gave him . . . 'No, my life cannot end at thirty-one! . . . It is not
enough myself to feel what is within me, others must know it too!
Pierre and that "slip" of a girl, who would have fled into cloudland,
must learn to know me! My life must colour theirs, and their lives
must mingle with mine!'"

In letters to his wife, to intimate friends, and in his diary,
Tolstoy's love of Nature is often-times expressed. The hair shirt
of the ascetic and the prophet's mantle fall from his shoulders,
and all the poet in him wakes when, "with a feeling akin to ecstasy,"
he looks up from his smooth-running sledge at "the enchanting,
starry winter sky overhead," or in early spring feels on a ramble
"intoxicated by the beauty of the morning," while he notes that the buds
are swelling on the lilacs, and "the birds no longer sing at random,"
but have begun to converse.

But though such allusions abound in his diary and private correspondence,
we must turn to "The Cossacks," and "Conjugal Happiness"
for the exquisitely elaborated rural studies, which give those early
romances their fresh idyllic charm.

What is interesting to note is that this artistic freshness and joy in
Nature coexisted with acute intermittent attacks of spiritual lassitude.
In "The Cossacks," the doubts, the mental gropings of Olenine--
whose personality but thinly veils that of Tolstoy--haunt him betimes even
among the delights of the Caucasian woodland; Serge, the fatalistic hero
of "Conjugal Happiness," calmly acquiesces in the inevitableness of "love's
sad satiety" amid the scent of roses and the songs of nightingales.

Doubt and despondency, increased by the vexations and failures
attending his philanthropic endeavours, at length obsessed
Tolstoy to the verge of suicide.

"The disputes over arbitration had become so painful to me,
the schoolwork so vague, my doubts arising from the wish
to teach others, while dissembling my own ignorance of what
should be taught, were so heartrending that I fell ill.
I might then have reached the despair to which I all but
succumbed fifteen years later, if there had not been a side
of life as yet unknown to me which promised me salvation:
this was family life" ("My Confession").

In a word, his marriage with Mademoiselle Sophie Andreevna Bers (daughter of
Dr. Bers of Moscow) was consummated in the autumn of 1862--after a somewhat
protracted courtship, owing to her extreme youth--and Tolstoy entered
upon a period of happiness and mental peace such as he had never known.
His letters of this period to Countess A. A. Tolstoy, his friend Fet,
and others, ring with enraptured allusions to his new-found joy.
Lassitude and indecision, mysticism and altruism, all were swept aside
by the impetus of triumphant love and of all-sufficing conjugal happiness.
When in June of the following year a child was born, and the young wife,
her features suffused with "a supernatural beauty" lay trying to smile
at the husband who knelt sobbing beside her, Tolstoy must have realised
that for once his prophetic intuition had been unequal to its task.
If his imagination could have conceived in prenuptial days what depths of
emotion might be wakened by fatherhood, he would not have treated the birth
of Masha's first child in "Conjugal Happiness" as a trivial material event,
in no way affecting the mutual relations of the disillusioned pair.
He would have understood that at this supreme crisis, rather than
in the vernal hour of love's avowal, the heart is illumined with a joy
which is fated "never to return."

The parting of the ways, so soon reached by Serge and Masha, was in fact
delayed in Tolstoy's own life by his wife's intelligent assistance in his
literary work as an untiring amanuensis, and in the mutual anxieties
and pleasures attending the care of a large family of young children.
Wider horizons opened to his mental vision, his whole being was
quickened and invigorated. "War and Peace," "Anna Karenina,"
all the splendid fruit of the teeming years following upon his marriage,
bear witness to the stimulus which his genius had received.
His dawning recognition of the power and extent of female influence appears
incidentally in the sketches of high society in those two masterpieces
as well as in the eloquent closing passages of "What then must we do?"
(1886). Having affirmed that "it is women who form public opinion,
and in our day women are particularly powerful," he finally draws a picture
of the ideal wife who shall urge her husband and train her children
to self-sacrifice. "Such women rule men and are their guiding stars.
O women--mothers! The salvation of the world lies in your hands!"
In that appeal to the mothers of the world there lurks a protest which in
later writings developed into overwhelming condemnation. True, he chose
motherhood for the type of self-sacrificing love in the treatise "On Life,"
which appeared soon after "What then must we do?" but maternal love,
as exemplified in his own home and elsewhere, appeared to him as a noble
instinct perversely directed.

The roots of maternal love are sunk deep in conservatism.
The child's physical well-being is the first essential in the
mother's eyes--the growth of a vigorous body by which a vigorous
mind may be fitly tenanted--and this form of materialism which
Tolstoy as a father accepted, Tolstoy as idealist condemned;
while the penury he courted as a lightening of his soul's
burden was averted by the strenuous exertions of his wife.
So a rift grew without blame attaching to either, and Tolstoy
henceforward wandered solitary in spirit through a wilderness
of thought, seeking rest and finding none, coming perilously
near to suicide before he reached haven.

To many it will seem that the finest outcome of that period
of mental groping, internal struggle, and contending with
current ideas, lies in the above-mentioned "What then must we do?"
Certain it is that no human document ever revealed the soul of its
author with greater sincerity. Not for its practical suggestions,
but for its impassioned humanity, its infectious altruism, "What then
must we do?" takes its rank among the world's few living books.
It marks that stage of Tolstoy's evolution when he made
successive essays in practical philanthropy which filled him
with discouragement, yet were "of use to his soul" in teaching
him how far below the surface lie the seeds of human misery.
The slums of Moscow, crowded with beings sunk beyond redemption;
the famine-stricken plains of Samara where disease and starvation reigned,
notwithstanding the stream of charity set flowing by Tolstoy's
appeals and notwithstanding his untiring personal devotion,
strengthened further the conviction, so constantly affirmed
in his writings, of the impotence of money to alleviate distress.
Whatever negations of this dictum our own systems of charitable
organizations may appear to offer, there can be no question but
that in Russia it held and holds true.

The social condition of Russia is like a tideless sea,
whose sullen quiescence is broken from time to time by
terrific storms which spend themselves in unavailing fury.
Reaction follows upon every forward motion, and the advance
made by each succeeding generation is barely perceptible.

But in the period of peace following upon the close of the Crimean War
the soul of the Russian people was deeply stirred by the spirit of Progress,
and hope rose high on the accession of Alexander II.

The emancipation of the serfs was only one among a number of projected
reforms which engaged men's minds. The national conscience awoke
and echoed the cry of the exiled patriot Herzen, "Now or never!"
Educational enterprise was aroused, and some forty schools for peasant
children were started on the model of that opened by Tolstoy at
Yasnaya Polyana (1861). The literary world throbbed with new life,
and a brilliant company of young writers came to the surface,
counting among them names of European celebrity, such as Dostoevsky,
Nekrassov, and Saltykov. Unhappily the reign of Progress was short.
The bureaucratic circle hemming in the Czar took alarm, and made
haste to secure their ascendancy by fresh measures of oppression.
Many schools were closed, including that of Tolstoy, and the nascent
liberty of the Press was stifled by the most rigid censorship.

In this lamentable manner the history of Russia's internal misrule
and disorder has continued to repeat itself for the last sixty years,
revolving in the same vicious circle of fierce repression and
persecution and utter disregard of the rights of individuals,
followed by fierce reprisals on the part of the persecuted;
the voice of protest no sooner raised than silenced in a prison
cell or among Siberian snow-fields, yet rising again and again
with inextinguishable reiteration; appeals for political freedom,
for constitutional government, for better systems and wider
dissemination of education, for liberty of the Press, and for an
enlightened treatment of the masses, callously received and rejected.
The answer with which these appeals have been met by the rulers
of Russia is only too well known to the civilised world,
but the obduracy of Pharoah has called forth the plagues of Egypt.
Despite the unrivalled agrarian fertility of Russia, famines recur
with dire frequency, with disease and riot in their train, while the
ignominious termination of the RussoJapanese war showed that even
the magnificent morale of the Russian soldier had been undermined
and was tainted by the rottenness of the authorities set over him.
What in such circumstances as these can a handful of philanthropists
achieve, and what avails alms-giving or the scattering of largesse
to a people on the point of spiritual dissolution?

In these conditions Tolstoy's abhorrence of money, and his assertion
of its futility as a panacea for human suffering, appears not merely
comprehensible but inevitable, and his renunciation of personal property
the strictly logical outcome of his conclusions. The partition of his
estates between his wife and children, shortly before the outbreak
of the great famine in 1892, served to relieve his mind partially;
and the writings of Henry George, with which he became acquainted
at this critical time, were an additional incentive to concentrate
his thoughts on the land question. He began by reading the American
propagandist's "Social Problems," which arrested his attention by its
main principles and by the clearness and novelty of his arguments.
Deeply impressed by the study of this book, no sooner had he finished
it than he possessed himself of its forerunner, "Progress and Poverty,"
in which the essence of George's revolutionary doctrines is worked out.

The plan of land nationalisation there explained provided
Tolstoy with well thought-out and logical reasons for a
policy that was already more than sympathetic to him.
Here at last was a means of ensuring economic equality
for all, from the largest landowner to the humblest peasant--
a practical suggestion how to reduce the inequalities between
rich and poor.

Henry George's ideas and methods are easy of comprehension. The land
was made by God for every human creature that was born into the world,
and therefore to confine the ownership of land to the few is wrong.
If a man wants a piece of land, he ought to pay the rest of the community
for the enjoyment of it. This payment or rent should be the only tax
paid into the Treasury of the State. Taxation on men's own property
(the produce of their own labour) should be done away with, and a rent
graduated according to the site-value of the land should be substituted.
Monopolies would cease without violently and unjustly disturbing
society with confiscation and redistribution. No one would keep
land idle if he were taxed according to its value to the community,
and not according to the use to which he individually wished to put it.
A man would then readily obtain possession of land, and could turn it
to account and develop it without being taxed on his own industry.
All human beings would thus become free in their lives and in their labour.
They would no longer be forced to toil at demoralising work for low wages;
they would be independent producers instead of earning a living by providing
luxuries for the rich, who had enslaved them by monopolising the land.
The single tax thus created would ultimately overthrow the present
"civilisation" which is chiefly built up on wage-slavery.

Tolstoy gave his whole-hearted adhesion to this doctrine,
predicting a day of enlightenment when men would no
longer tolerate a form of slavery which he considered
as revolting as that which had so recently been abolished.
Some long conversations with Henry George, while he was on a
visit to Yasnaya Polyana, gave additional strength to Tolstoy's
conviction that in these theories lay the elements essential
to the transformation and rejuvenation of human nature,
going far towards the levelling of social inequalities.
But to inoculate the landed proprietors of Russia as a class
with those theories was a task which even his genius could
not hope to accomplish.

He recognised the necessity of proceeding from the particular
to the general, and that the perfecting of human institutions was
impossible without a corresponding perfection in the individual.
To this end therefore the remainder of his life was dedicated. He had
always held in aversion what he termed external epidemic influences:
he now endeavoured to free himself not only from all current conventions,
but from every association which he had formerly cherished.
Self-analysis and general observation had taught him that men are
sensual beings, and that sensualism must die for want of food if it were
not for sex instincts, if it were not for Art, and especially for Music.
This view of life he forcibly expressed in the "Kreutzer Sonata,"
in which Woman and Music, the two magnets of his youth,
were impeached as powers of evil. Already, in "War and Peace"
and in "Anna Karenina," his descriptions of female charms resembled
catalogues of weapons against which a man must arm himself or perish.
The beautiful Princess Helena, with her gleaming shoulders,
her faultless white bosom, and her eternal smile is evidently
an object of aversion to her creator; even as the Countess Betsy,
with her petty coquetries and devices for attracting attention
at the Opera and elsewhere, is a target for his contempt.
"Woman is a stumbling-block in a man's career," remarks a philosophical
husband in "Anna Karenina." "It is difficult to love a woman
and do any good work, and the only way to escape being reduced
to inaction is to marry."

Even in his correspondence with the Countess A. A. Tolstoy this
slighting tone prevails. "A woman has but one moral weapon instead
of the whole male arsenal. That is love, and only with this weapon
is feminine education successfully carried forward." Tolstoy, in fact,
betrayed a touch of orientalism in his attitude towards women.
In part no doubt as a result of his motherless youth, in part
to the fact that his idealism was never stimulated by any one woman
as it was by individual men, his views retained this colouring
on sex questions while they became widened and modified in almost
every other field of human philosophy. It was only that, with a
revulsion of feeling not seldom experienced by earnest thinkers,
attraction was succeeded by a repulsion which reached the high
note of exasperation when he wrote to a man friend, "A woman
in good health--why, she is a regular beast of prey!"

None the less, he showed great kindness and sympathy to the women
who sought his society, appealing to him for guidance. One of these
(an American, and herself a practical philanthropist), Miss Jane Addams,
expressed with feeling her sense of his personal influence.
"The glimpse of Tolstoy has made a profound impression on me, not so
much by what he said, as the life, the gentleness, the soul of him.
I am sure you will understand my saying that I got more of Tolstoy's
philosophy from our conversations than I had gotten from our books."
(Quoted by Aylmer Maude in his "Life of Tolstoy.")

As frequently happens in the lives of reformers, Tolstoy found
himself more often in affinity with strangers than with his own kin.
The estrangement of his ideals from those of his wife necessarily
affected their conjugal relations, and the decline of mutual sympathy
inevitably induced physical alienation. The stress of mental anguish
arising from these conditions found vent in pages of his diaries
(much of which I have been permitted to read), pages containing matter
too sacred and intimate to use. The diaries shed a flood of light
on Tolstoy's ideas, motives, and manner of life, and have modified
some of my opinions, explaining many hitherto obscure points,
while they have also enhanced my admiration for the man.
They not only touch on many delicate subjects--on his relations
to his wife and family--but they also give the true reasons for
leaving his home at last, and explain why he did not do so before.
The time, it seems to me, is not ripe for disclosures of this nature,
which so closely concern the living.

Despite a strong rein of restraint his mental distress permeates
the touching letter of farewell which he wrote some sixteen years
before his death. He, however, shrank from acting upon it,
being unable to satisfy himself that it was a right step.
This letter has already appeared in foreign publications,*
but it is quoted here because

* And in Birukov's short Life of Tolstoy, 1911. of the light
which it throws on the character and disposition of the writer,
the workings of his mind being of greater moment to us than
those impulsive actions by which he was too often judged.

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

"I cannot constrain you to alter your life or your accustomed ways.
Neither have I had the strength to leave you ere this, for I thought
my absence might deprive the little ones, still so young, of whatever
influence I may have over them, and above all that I should grieve you.
But I can no longer live as I have lived these last sixteen years,
sometimes battling with you and irritating you, sometimes myself giving way to
the influences and seductions to which I am accustomed and which surround me.
I have now resolved to do what I have long desired: to go away . . . Even
as the Hindoos, at the age of sixty, betake themselves to the jungle;
even as every aged and religious-minded man desires to consecrate
the last years of his life to God and not to idle talk, to making jokes,
to gossiping, to lawn-tennis; so I, having reached the age of seventy,
long with all my soul for calm and solitude, and if not perfect harmony,
at least a cessation from this horrible discord between my whole life
and my conscience.

"If I had gone away openly there would have been entreaties, discussions:
I should have wavered, and perhaps failed to act on my decision, whereas it
must be so. I pray of you to forgive me if my action grieves you.
And do you, Sophie, in particular let me go, neither seeking me out,
nor bearing me ill-will, nor blaming me . . . the fact that I have left
you does not mean that I have cause of complaint against you . . . I know
you were not able, you were incapable of thinking and seeing as I do,
and therefore you could not change your life and make sacrifices
to that which you did not accept. Besides, I do not blame you;
on the contrary, I remember with love and gratitude the thirty-five long
years of our life in common, and especially the first half of the time when,
with the courage and devotion of your maternal nature, you bravely bore
what you regarded as your mission. You have given largely of maternal
love and made some heavy sacrifices . . . but during the latter part
of our life together, during the last fifteen years, our ways have parted.
I cannot think myself the guilty one; I know that if I have changed it
is not owing to you, or to the world, but because I could not do otherwise;
nor can I judge you for not having followed me, and I thank you for what
you have given me and will ever remember it with affection.

"Adieu, my dear Sophie, I love you."

The personal isolation he craved was never to be his; but the isolation
of spirit essential to leadership, whether of thought or action,
grew year by year, so that in his own household he was veritably
"in it but not of it."

At times his loneliness weighed upon him, as when he wrote:
"You would find it difficult to imagine how isolated I am,
to what an extent my true self is despised by those who surround me."
But he must, none the less, have realised, as all prophets
and seers have done, that solitariness of soul and freedom
from the petty complexities of social life are necessary to
the mystic whose constant endeavour is to simplify and to winnow,
the transient from the eternal.

Notwithstanding the isolation of his inner life he remained--
or it might more accurately be said he became--the most
accessible of men.

Appeals for guidance came to him from all parts of the world--
America, France, China, Japan--while Yasnaya Polyana was the frequent
resort of those needing advice, sympathy, or practical assistance.
None appealed to him in vain; at the same time,
he was exceedingly chary of explicit rules of conduct.
It might be said of Tolstoy that he became a spiritual leader
in spite of himself, so averse was he from assuming authority.
His aim was ever to teach his followers themselves to hear
the inward monitory voice, and to obey it of their own accord.
"To know the meaning of Life, you must first know the meaning
of Love," he would say; "and then see that you do what love bids
you." His distrust of "epidemic ideas" extended to religious
communities and congregations.

"We must not go to meet each other, but go each of us to God.
You say it is easier to go all together? Why yes, to dig or to mow.
But one can only draw near to God in isolation . . . I picture the world
to myself as a vast temple, in which the light falls from above
in the very centre. To meet together all must go towards the light.
There we shall find ourselves, gathered from many quarters,
united with men we did not expect to see; therein is joy."

The humility which had so completely supplanted his youthful arrogance,
and which made him shrink from impelling others to follow in his steps,
endued him also with the teachableness of a child towards those whom
he accepted as his spiritual mentors. It was a peasant noncon-formist writer,
Soutaev, who by conversing with him on the revelations of the Gospels helped
him to regain his childhood's faith, and incidentally brought him into closer
relations with religious, but otherwise untaught, men of the people.
He saw how instead of railing against fate after the manner of their
social superiors, they endured sickness and misfortune with a calm
confidence that all was by the will of God, as it must be and should be.
From his peasant teachers he drew the watchwords Faith, Love, and Labour,
and by their light he established that concord in his own life without
which the concord of the universe remains impossible to realise.
The process of inward struggle--told with unsparing truth in "Confession"--
is finely painted in "Father Serge," whose life story points to the conclusion
at which Tolstoy ultimately arrived, namely, that not in withdrawal
from the common trials and temptations of men, but in sharing them,
lies our best fulfilment of our duty towards mankind and towards God.
Tolstoy gave practical effect to this principle, and to this long-felt
desire to be of use to the poor of the country, by editing and publishing,
aided by his friend Chertkov,* popular

* In Russia and out of it Mr. Chertkov has been the subject
of violent attack. Many of the misunderstandings of Tolstoy's
later years have also been attributed by critics, and by those
who hate or belittle his ideas, to the influence of this friend.
These attacks are very regrettable and require a word of protest.
From tales, suited to the means and intelligence of the humblest peasant.
The undertaking was initiated in 1885, and continued for
many years to occupy much of Tolstoy's time and energies.
He threw himself with ardour into his editorial duties;
reading and correcting manuscripts, returning them sometimes
to the authors with advice as to their reconstruction, and making
translations from foreign works--all this in addition to his own
original contributions, in which he carried out the principle which
he constantly laid down for his collaborators, that literary graces
must be set aside, and that the mental calibre of those for whom
the books were primarily intended must be constantly borne in mind.
He attained a splendid fulfilment of his own theories, employing the
moujik's expressive vernacular in portraying his homely wisdom,
religious faith, and goodness of nature. Sometimes the prevailing
simplicity of style and motive is tinged with a vague colouring
of oriental legend, but the personal accent is marked throughout.
No similar achievement in

the beginning Mr. Chertkov has striven to spread the ideas
of Tolstoy, and has won neither glory nor money from his
faithful and single-hearted devotion. He has carried on his
work with a rare love and sympathy in spite of difficulties.
No one appreciated or valued his friendship and self-sacrifice
more than Tolstoy himself, who was firmly attached to him from
the date of his first meeting, consulting him and confiding
in him at every moment, even during Mr. Chertkov's long exile.
modern literature has awakened so universal a sense of sympathy
and admiration, perhaps because none has been so entirely
a labour of love.

The series of educational primers which Tolstoy prepared
and published concurrently with the "Popular Tales" have had
an equally large, though exclusively Russian, circulation,
being admirably suited to their purpose--that of teaching young
children the rudiments of history, geography, and science.
Little leisure remained for the service of Art.

The history of Tolstoy as a man of letters forms a separate
page of his biography, and one into which it is not possible
to enter in the brief compass of this introduction.
It requires, however, a passing allusion. Tolstoy even in his early
days never seems to have approached near to that manner of life
which the literary man leads: neither to have shut himself up
in his study, nor to have barred the entrance to disturbing friends.
On the one hand, he was fond of society, and during his brief
residence in St. Petersburg was never so engrossed in authorship
as to forego the pleasure of a ball or evening entertainment.
Little wonder, when one looks back at the brilliant young
officer surrounded and petted by the great hostesses of Russia.
On the other hand, he was no devotee at the literary altar.
No patron of literature could claim him as his constant visitor;
no inner circle of men of letters monopolised his idle hours.
Afterwards, when he left the capital and settled in the country,
he was almost entirely cut off from the association of literary men,
and never seems to have sought their companionship.
Nevertheless, he had all through his life many fast friends,
among them such as the poet Fet, the novelist Chekhov,
and the great Russian librarian Stassov, who often came to him.
These visits always gave him pleasure. The discussions,
whether on the literary movements of the day or on
the merits of Goethe or the humour of Gogol, were welcome
interruptions to his ever-absorbing metaphysical studies.
In later life, also, though never in touch with the rising
generation of authors, we find him corresponding with them,
criticising their style and subject matter. When Andreev,
the most modern of all modern Russian writers, came to pay
his respects to Tolstoy some months before his death, he was
received with cordiality, although Tolstoy, as he expressed
himself afterwards, felt that there was a great gulf
fixed between them.

Literature, as literature, had lost its charm for him.
"You are perfectly right," he writes to a friend; "I care only
for the idea, and I pay no attention to my style." The idea was
the important thing to Tolstoy in everything that he read or wrote.
When his attention was drawn to an illuminating essay on the poet
Lermontov he was pleased with it, not because it demonstrated
Lermontov's position in the literary history of Russia,
but because it pointed out the moral aims which underlay the wild
Byronism of his works. He reproached the novelist Leskov,
who had sent him his latest novel, for the "exuberance"
of his flowers of speech and for his florid sentences--
beautiful in their way, he says, but inexpedient and unnecessary.
He even counselled the younger generation to give up
poetry as a form of expression and to use prose instead.
Poetry, he maintained, was always artificial and obscure.
His attitude towards the art of writing remained to the end
one of hostility. Whenever he caught himself working for art
he was wont to reproach himself, and his diaries contain many
recriminations against his own weakness in yielding to this
besetting temptation. Yet to these very lapses we are indebted
for this collection of fragments.

The greater number of stories and plays contained in these volumes
date from the years following upon Tolstoy's pedagogic activity.
Long intervals, however, elapsed in most cases between the original
synopsis and the final touches. Thus "Father Serge," of which
he sketched the outline to Mr. Chertkov in 1890, was so often put
aside to make way for purely ethical writings that not till 1898
does the entry occur in his diary, "To-day, quite unexpectedly,
I finished Serge." A year previously a dramatic incident had come
to his knowledge, which he elaborated in the play entitled "The
Man who was dead." It ran on the lines familiarised by Enoch Arden
and similar stories, of a wife deserted by her husband and supported
in his absence by a benefactor, whom she subsequently marries.
In this instance the supposed dead man was suddenly resuscitated
as the result of his own admissions in his cups, the wife and her
second husband being consequently arrested and condemned to a term
of imprisonment. Tolstoy seriously attacked the subject during
the summer of 1900, and having brought it within a measurable
distance of completion in a shorter time than was usual with him,
submitted it to the judgment of a circle of friends.
The drama made a deep impression on the privileged few who read it,
and some mention of it appeared in the newspapers.

Shortly afterwards a young man came to see Tolstoy in private.
He begged him to refrain from publishing "The Man who was dead,"
as it was the history of his mother's life, and would distress
her gravely, besides possibly occasioning further police intervention.
Tolstoy promptly consented, and the play remained, as it now appears,
in an unfinished condition. He had already felt doubtful whether
"it was a thing God would approve," Art for Art's sake having
in his eyes no right to existence. For this reason a didactic
tendency is increasingly evident in these later stories.
"After the Ball" gives a painful picture of Russian military cruelty;
"The Forged Coupon" traces the cancerous growth of evil,
and demonstrates with dramatic force the cumulative misery resulting
from one apparently trivial act of wrongdoing.

Of the three plays included in these volumes, "The Light
that shines in Darkness" has a special claim to our attention
as an example of autobiography in the guise of drama.
It is a specimen of Tolstoy's gift of seeing himself as others
saw him, and viewing a question in all its bearings.
It presents not actions but ideas, giving with entire
impartiality the opinions of his home circle, of his friends,
of the Church and of the State, in regard to his altruistic
propaganda and to the anarchism of which he has been accused.
The scene of the renunciation of the estates of the hero
may be taken as a literal version of what actually took place
in regard to Tolstoy himself, while the dialogues by which
the piece is carried forward are more like verbatim records
than imaginary conversations.

This play was, in addition, a medium by which Tolstoy emphasised
his abhorrence of military service, and probably for this reason its
production is absolutely forbidden in Russia. A word may be said here on
Tolstoy's so-called Anarchy, a term admitting of grave misconstruction.
In that he denied the benefit of existing governments to the people
over whom they ruled, and in that he stigmatised standing armies
as "collections of disciplined murderers," Tolstoy was an Anarchist;
but in that he reprobated the methods of violence, no matter
how righteous the cause at stake, and upheld by word and deed
the gospel of Love and submission, he cannot be judged guilty
of Anarchism in its full significance. He could not, however,
suppress the sympathy which he felt with those whose resistance
to oppression brought them into deadly conflict with autocracy.
He found in the Caucasian chieftain, Hadji Murat, a subject full
of human interest and dramatic possibilities; and though some eight
years passed before he corrected the manuscript for the last time
(in 1903), it is evident from the numbers of entries in his diary
that it had greatly occupied his thoughts so far back even as
the period which he spent in Tiflis prior to the Crimean war.
It was then that the final subjugation of the Caucasus took place,
and Shamil and his devoted band made their last struggle for freedom.
After the lapse of half a century, Tolstoy gave vent in "Hadji Murat"
to the resentment which the military despotism of Nicholas I. had
roused in his sensitive and fearless spirit.

Courage was the dominant note in Tolstoy's character, and none
have excelled him in portraying brave men. His own fearlessness
was of the rarest, in that it was both physical and moral.
The mettle tried and proved at Sebastopol sustained him when
he had drawn on himself the bitter animosity of "Holy Synod"
and the relentless anger of Czardom. In spite of his nonresistance
doctrine, Tolstoy's courage was not of the passive order.
It was his natural bent to rouse his foes to combat,
rather than wait for their attack, to put on the defensive
every falsehood and every wrong of which he was cognisant.
Truth in himself and in others was what he most desired,
and that to which he strove at all costs to attain.
He was his own severest critic, weighing his own actions,
analysing his own thoughts, and baring himself to the eyes of
the world with unflinching candour. Greatest of autobiographers,
he extenuates nothing: you see the whole man with his worst
faults and best qualities; weaknesses accentuated by the energy
with which they are charactered, apparent waste of mental forces
bent on solving the insoluble, inherited tastes and prejudices,
altruistic impulses and virile passions, egoism and idealism,
all strangely mingled and continually warring against each other,
until from the death-throes of spiritual conflict issued a new
birth and a new life. In the ancient Scripture "God is love"
Tolstoy discerned fresh meaning, and strove with superhuman
energy to bring home that meaning to the world at large.
His doctrine in fact appears less as a new light in the darkness than
as a revival of the pure flame of "the Mystic of the Galilean hills,"
whose teaching he accepted while denying His divinity.

Of Tolstoy's beliefs in regard to the Christian religion it may be
said that with advancing years he became more and more disposed to
regard religious truth as one continuous stream of spiritual thought
flowing through the ages of man's history, emanating principally
from the inspired prophets and seers of Israel, India, and China.
Finally, in 1909, in a letter to a friend he summed up his conviction
in the following words:--"For me the doctrine of Jesus is simply
one of those beautiful religious doctrines which we have received
from Egyptian, Jewish, Hindoo, Chinese, and Greek antiquity.
The two great principles of Jesus: love of God--in a word
absolute perfection--and love of one's neighbour, that is to say,
love of all men without distinction, have been preached by all
the sages of the world--Krishna, Buddha, Lao-tse, Confucius,
Socrates, Plato, Epictetus, Marcus Aurelius, and among the moderns,
Rousseau, Pascal, Kant, Emerson, Channing, and many others.
Religious and moral truth is everywhere and always the same.
I have no predilection whatever for Christianity. If I have been
particularly interested in the doctrine of Jesus it is, firstly,
because I was born in that religion and have lived among Christians;
secondly, because I have found a great spiritual joy in freeing
the doctrine in its purity from the astounding falsifications.
wrought by the Churches."

Tolstoy's life-work was indeed a splendid striving to free truth
from falsehood, to simplify the complexities of civilisation
and demonstrate their futility. Realists as gifted have
come and gone and left but little trace. It is conceivable
that the great trilogy of "Anna Karenina," "War and Peace,"
and "Resurrection" may one day be forgotten, but Tolstoy's teaching
stands on firmer foundations, and has stirred the hearts of thousands
who are indifferent to the finest display of psychic analysis.
He has taught men to venture beyond the limits set by reason,
to rise above the actual and to find the meaning of life in love.
It was his mission to probe our moral ulcers to the roots and to
raise moribund ideals from the dust, breathing his own vitality
into them, till they rose before our eyes as living aspirations.
The spiritual joy of which he wrote was no rhetorical hyperbole;
it was manifest in the man himself, and was the fount of the lofty
idealism which made him not only "the Conscience of Russia"
but of the civilised world.

Idealism is one of those large abstractions which are
invested by various minds with varying shades of meaning,
and which find expression in an infinite number of forms.
Ideals bred and fostered in the heart of man receive at birth
an impress from the life that engenders them, and when that life
is tempest-tossed the thought that springs from it must bear
a birth-mark of the storm. That birth-mark is stamped on all
Tolstoy's utterances, the simplest and the most metaphysical.
But though he did not pass scathless through the purging fires,
nor escape with eyes undimmed from the mystic light which
flooded his soul, his ideal is not thereby invalidated.
It was, he admitted, unattainable, but none the less
a state of perfection to which we must continually aspire,
undaunted by partial failure.

"There is nothing wrong in not living up to the ideal which you
have made for yourself, but what is wrong is, if on looking back,
you cannot see that you have made the least step nearer to your ideal."

How far Tolstoy's doctrines may influence succeeding
generations it is impossible to foretell; but when time has
extinguished what is merely personal or racial, the divine
spark which he received from his great spiritual forerunners
in other times and countries will undoubtedly be found alight.
His universality enabled him to unite himself closely with them
in mental sympathy; sometimes so closely, as in the case of
J. J. Rousseau, as to raise analogies and comparisons designed
to show that he merely followed in a well-worn pathway.
Yet the similarity of Tolstoy's ideas to those of the author
of the "Contrat Social" hardly goes beyond a mutual distrust
of Art and Science as aids to human happiness and virtue,
and a desire to establish among mankind a true sense of brotherhood.
For the rest, the appeals which they individually made to
Humanity were as dissimilar as the currents of their lives,
and equally dissimilar in effect.

The magic flute of Rousseau's eloquence breathed fanaticism into
his disciples, and a desire to mass themselves against the foes
of liberty. Tolstoy's trumpet-call sounds a deeper note.
It pierces the heart, summoning each man to the inquisition
of his own conscience, and to justify his existence by labour,
that he may thereafter sleep the sleep of peace.

The exaltation which he awakens owes nothing to rhythmical
language nor to subtle interpretations of sensuous emotion;
it proceeds from a perception of eternal truth, the truth that
has love, faith, courage, and self-sacrifice for the cornerstones
of its enduring edifice

NOTE--Owing to circumstances entirely outside the control of the editor
some of these translations have been done in haste and there has not been
sufficient time for revision.

The translators were chosen by an agent of the executor and not by the editor.


Father Serge. 1890-98.
Introduction to the History of a Mother. 1894.
Memoirs of a Mother. 1894.
The Young Czar. 1894.
Diary of a Lunatic. 1896.
Hadji Murat. 1896-1904.
The Light that shines in Darkness. 1898-1901.
The Man who was dead. 1900.
After the Ball. 1903.
The Forged Coupon. 1904.
Alexis. 1905.
Diary of Alexander I. 1905.
The Dream. 1906.
Father Vassily. 1906.
There are no Guilty People. 1909.
The Wisdom of Children. 1909.
The Cause of it All. 1910.
Chodynko. 1910.
Two Travellers. Date uncertain.





FEDOR MIHAILOVICH SMOKOVNIKOV, the president of the local Income
Tax Department, a man of unswerving honesty--and proud of it, too--
a gloomy Liberal, a free-thinker, and an enemy to every manifestation
of religious feeling, which he thought a relic of superstition,
came home from his office feeling very much annoyed. The Governor
of the province had sent him an extraordinarily stupid minute,
almost assuming that his dealings had been dishonest.

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

It was five minutes to five, and he expected the dinner to be served at once,
but he was told it was not ready. He banged the door and went to his study.
Somebody knocked at the door. "Who the devil is that?" he thought;
and shouted,--"Who is there?"

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

"What do you want?"

"It is the first of the month to-day, father."

"Well! You want your money?"

It had been arranged that the father should pay his son
a monthly allowance of three roubles as pocket money.
Fedor Mihailovich frowned, took out of his pocket-book a coupon
of two roubles fifty kopeks which he found among the bank-notes,
and added to it fifty kopeks in silver out of the loose change
in his purse. The boy kept silent, and did not take the money
his father proffered him.

"Father, please give me some more in advance."


"I would not ask for it, but I have borrowed a small sum from
a friend, and promised upon my word of honour to pay it off.
My honour is dear to me, and that is why I want another three roubles.
I don't like asking you; but, please, father, give me
another three roubles."

"I have told you--"

"I know, father, but just for once."

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

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

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

"What is there to mind? You never understand my position.
I shall be disgraced if I don't pay my debt. It is all very
well for you to speak as you do."

"Be off, you silly boy! Be off!"

Fedor Mihailovich jumped from his seat and pounced upon his son.
"Be off, I say!" he shouted. "You deserve a good thrashing,
all you boys!"

His son was at once frightened and embittered.
The bitterness was even greater than the fright.
With his head bent down he hastily turned to the door.
Fedor Mihailovich did not intend to strike him, but he was glad
to vent his wrath, and went on shouting and abusing the boy
till he had closed the door.

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

"At last!" he said. "I don't feel hungry any longer."

He went to the dining-room with a sullen face.
At table his wife made some remark, but he gave her such a short
and angry answer that she abstained from further speech.
The son also did not lift his eyes from his plate, and was silent
all the time. The trio finished their dinner in silence,
rose from the table and separated, without a word.

After dinner the boy went to his room, took the coupon and
the change out of his pocket, and threw the money on the table.
After that he took off his uniform and put on a jacket.

He sat down to work, and began to study Latin grammar out of a
dog's-eared book. After a while he rose, closed and bolted the door,
shifted the money into a drawer, took out some cigarette papers,
rolled one up, stuffed it with cotton wool, and began to smoke.

He spent nearly two hours over his grammar and writing books without
understanding a word of what he saw before him; then he rose
and began to stamp up and down the room, trying to recollect all
that his father had said to him. All the abuse showered upon him,
and worst of all his father's angry face, were as fresh in his
memory as if he saw and heard them all over again. "Silly boy!
You ought to get a good thrashing!" And the more he thought of it
the angrier be grew. He remembered also how his father said:
"I see what a scoundrel you will turn out. I know you will.
You are sure to become a cheat, if you go on like that.
"He had certainly forgotten how he felt when he was young!
"What crime have I committed, I wonder? I wanted to go to the theatre,
and having no money borrowed some from Petia Grouchetsky. Was that
so very wicked of me? Another father would have been sorry for me;
would have asked how it all happened; whereas he just called me names.
He never thinks of anything but himself. When it is he who has
not got something he wants--that is a different matter!
Then all the house is upset by his shouts. And I--I am a scoundrel,
a cheat, he says. No, I don't love him, although he is my father.
It may be wrong, but I hate him."

There was a knock at the door. The servant brought a letter--
a message from his friend. "They want an answer," said the servant.

The letter ran as follows: "I ask you now for the third time to pay
me back the six roubles you have borrowed; you are trying to avoid me.
That is not the way an honest man ought to behave. Will you please
send the amount by my messenger? I am myself in a frightful fix.
Can you not get the money somewhere?--Yours, according to whether you
send the money or not, with scorn, or love, Grouchetsky."

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

Mitia went to his mother. This was his last hope.
His mother was very kind, and hardly ever refused him anything.
She would probably have helped him this time also
out of his trouble, but she was in great anxiety:
her younger child, Petia, a boy of two, had fallen ill.
She got angry with Mitia for rushing so noisily into the nursery,
and refused him almost without listening to what he had to say.
Mitia muttered something to himself and turned to go.
The mother felt sorry for him. "Wait, Mitia," she said;
"I have not got the money you want now, but I will get it
for you to-morrow."

But Mitia was still raging against his father.

"What is the use of having it to-morrow, when I want it to-day? I
am going to see a friend. That is all I have got to say."

He went out, banging the door. . . .

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

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


MAHIN was his schoolfellow, his senior, a grown-up young man
with a moustache. He gambled, had a large feminine acquaintance,
and always had ready cash. He lived with his aunt. Mitia quite
realised that Mahin was not a respectable fellow, but when he was
in his company he could not help doing what he wished. Mahin was
in when Mitia called, and was just preparing to go to the theatre.
His untidy room smelt of scented soap and eau-de-Cologne.

"That's awful, old chap," said Mahin, when Mitia telling him
about his troubles, showed the coupon and the fifty kopeks,
and added that he wanted nine roubles more. "We might,
of course, go and pawn your watch. But we might do something
far better." And Mahin winked an eye.

"What's that?"

"Something quite simple." Mahin took the coupon in his hand.
" Put ONE before the 2.50 and it will be 12.50."

"But do such coupons exist?"

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

"You don't say so?"

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

"But it is wrong."


"Nonsense, indeed," thought Mitia, and again his father's hard
words came back to his memory. "Scoundrel! As you called
me that, I might as well be it." He looked into Mahin's face.
Mahin looked at him, smiling with perfect ease.

"Well?" he said.

"All right. I don't mind."

Mahin carefully wrote the unit in front of 2.50.

"Now let us go to the shop across the road; they sell photographers'
materials there. I just happen to want a frame--for this young person here
"He took out of his pocket a photograph of a young lady with large eyes,
luxuriant hair, and an uncommonly well-developed bust.

"Is she not sweet? Eh?"

"Yes, yes. . .of course. . ."

"Well, you see.--But let us go."

Mahin took his coat, and they left the house.


THE two boys, having rung the door-bell, entered the empty shop,
which had shelves along the walls and photographic appliances
on them, together with show-cases on the counters.
A plain woman, with a kind face, came through the inner door
and asked from behind the counter what they required.

"A nice frame, if you please, madam."

"At what price?" asked the woman; she wore mittens on her swollen fingers
with which she rapidly handled picture-frames of different shapes.

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

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

"We don't bargain in our shop," said the shopkeeper with a dignified air.

"Well, I will take it," said Mahin, and put the coupon on the counter.
"Wrap up the frame and give me change. But please be quick.
We must be off to the theatre, and it is getting late."

"You have plenty of time," said the shopkeeper, examining the coupon
very closely because of her shortsightedness.

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

"Have you no small change?" asked the shop-woman.

"I am sorry, I have not. My father gave me that, so I have to cash it."

"But surely you have one rouble twenty?"

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

"Oh, no; I don't mean anything of the sort."

"You had better give it to me back. We will cash it somewhere else."

"How much have I to pay you back? Eleven and something."

She made a calculation on the counter, opened the desk,
took out a ten-roubles note, looked for change and added
to the sum six twenty-kopeks coins and two five-kopek pieces.

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

"Yes, sir." She made a parcel and tied it with a string.

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

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

Mahin went off to the theatre, and Mitia called on Grouchetsky to repay
the money he had borrowed from him.


AN hour after the boys were gone Eugene Mihailovich, the owner of the shop,
came home, and began to count his receipts.

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

"But I have often seen you, Eugene, accepting coupons in payment,
and precisely twelve rouble ones," retorted his wife,
very humiliated, grieved, and all but bursting into tears.
"I really don't know how they contrived to cheat me,"
she went on. "They were pupils of the school, in uniform.
One of them was quite a handsome boy, and looked so comme il faut."

"A comme il faut fool, that is what you are!"
The husband went on scolding her, while he counted the cash.
. . . When I accept coupons, I see what is written on them.
And you probably looked only at the boys' pretty faces.
"You had better behave yourself in your old age."

His wife could not stand this, and got into a fury.

"That is just like you men! Blaming everybody around you.
But when it is you who lose fifty-four roubles at cards--
that is of no consequence in your eyes."

"That is a different matter

"I don't want to talk to you," said his wife, and went to her room.
There she began to remind herself that her family was opposed
to her marriage, thinking her present husband far below her in
social rank, and that it was she who insisted on marrying him.
Then she went on thinking of the child she had lost,
and how indifferent her husband had been to their loss.
She hated him so intensely at that moment that she wished for
his death. Her wish frightened her, however, and she hurriedly
began to dress and left the house. When her husband came
from the shop to the inner rooms of their flat she was gone.
Without waiting for him she had dressed and gone off to friends--
a teacher of French in the school, a Russified Pole, and his wife--
who had invited her and her husband to a party in their
house that evening.


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

The partners of Eugene Mihailovich's wife were the host himself,
an officer, and an old and very stupid lady in a wig, a widow who owned
a music-shop; she loved playing cards and played remarkably well.
But it was Eugene Mihailovich's wife who was the winner all the time.
The best cards were continually in her hands. At her side she had a plate
with grapes and a pear and was in the best of spirits.

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

"Probably busy settling accounts," said Eugene Mihailovich's wife.
"He has to pay off the tradesmen, to get in firewood." The quarrel
she had with her husband revived in her memory; she frowned,
and her hands, from which she had not taken off the mittens,
shook with fury against him.

"Oh, there he is.--We have just been speaking of you," said the
hostess to Eugene Mihailovich, who came in at that very moment.
"Why are you so late?"

"I was busy," answered Eugene Mihailovich, in a gay voice, rubbing his hands.
And to his wife's surprise he came to her side and said,--"You know,
I managed to get rid of the coupon."

"No! You don't say so!"

"Yes, I used it to pay for a cartload of firewood I bought from a peasant."

And Eugene Mihailovich related with great indignation to the company present--
his wife adding more details to his narrative--how his wife had been cheated
by two unscrupulous schoolboys.

"Well, and now let us sit down to work," he said, taking his place at one
of the whist-tables when his turn came, and beginning to shuffle the cards.


EUGENE MIHAILOVICH had actually used the coupon to buy firewood
from the peasant Ivan Mironov, who had thought of setting
up in business on the seventeen roubles he possessed.
He hoped in this way to earn another eight roubles,
and with the twenty-five roubles thus amassed he intended
to buy a good strong horse, which he would want in the spring
for work in the fields and for driving on the roads, as his old
horse was almost played out.

Ivan Mironov's commercial method consisted in buying from
the stores a cord of wood and dividing it into five cartloads,
and then driving about the town, selling each of these at
the price the stores charged for a quarter of a cord.
That unfortunate day Ivan Mironov drove out very early
with half a cartload, which he soon sold. He loaded
up again with another cartload which he hoped to sell,
but he looked in vain for a customer; no one would buy it.
It was his bad luck all that day to come across experienced
towns-people, who knew all the tricks of the peasants in
selling firewood, and would not believe that he had actually
brought the wood from the country as he assured them.
He got hungry, and felt cold in his ragged woollen coat.
It was nearly below zero when evening came on;
his horse which he had treated without mercy, hoping soon
to sell it to the knacker's yard, refused to move a step.
So Ivan Mironov was quite ready to sell his firewood at a loss
when he met Eugene Mihailovich, who was on his way home
from the tobacconist.

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

"Where do you come from?"

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

"Good wood indeed! I know your tricks. Well, what is your price?"

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

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

Eugene Mihailovich did not bargain very much.
He did not mind paying a little more, because he was delighted
to think he could make use of the coupon and get rid of it.
With great difficulty Ivan Mironov managed at last, by pulling
the shafts himself, to drag his cart into the courtyard,
where he was obliged to unload the firewood unaided
and pile it up in the shed. The yard-porter was out.
Ivan Mironov hesitated at first to accept the coupon, but Eugene
Mihailovich insisted, and as he looked a very important person
the peasant at last agreed.

He went by the backstairs to the servants' room, crossed himself
before the ikon, wiped his beard which was covered with icicles,
turned up the skirts of his coat, took out of his pocket
a leather purse, and out of the purse eight roubles and
fifty kopeks, and handed the change to Eugene Mihailovich.
Carefully folding the coupon, he put it in the purse.
Then, according to custom, he thanked the gentleman for
his kindness, and, using the whip-handle instead of the lash,
he belaboured the half-frozen horse that he had doomed to an
early death, and betook himself to a public-house.

Arriving there, Ivan Mironov called for vodka and tea for which he paid
eight kopeks. Comfortable and warm after the tea, he chatted in the very
best of spirits with a yard-porter who was sitting at his table.
Soon he grew communicative and told his companion all about the conditions
of his life. He told him he came from the village Vassilievsky,
twelve miles from town, and also that he had his allotment of land
given to him by his family, as he wanted to live apart from his
father and his brothers; that he had a wife and two children;
the elder boy went to school, and did not yet help him in his work.
He also said he lived in lodgings and intended going to the horse-fair
the next day to look for a good horse, and, may be, to buy one.
He went on to state that he had now nearly twenty-five roubles--
only one rouble short--and that half of it was a coupon.
He took the coupon out of his purse to show to his new friend.
The yard-porter was an illiterate man, but he said he had had
such coupons given him by lodgers to change; that they were good;
but that one might also chance on forged ones; so he advised the peasant,
for the sake of security, to change it at once at the counter.
Ivan Mironov gave the coupon to the waiter and asked for change.
The waiter, however, did not bring the change, but came back with
the manager, a bald-headed man with a shining face, who was holding
the coupon in his fat hand.

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

"The coupon must be all right. I got it from a gentleman."

"It is bad, I tell you. The coupon is forged."

"Forged? Give it back to me."

"I will not. You fellows have got to be punished for such tricks.
Of course, you did it yourself--you and some of your rascally friends."

"Give me the money. What right have you--"

"Sidor! Call a policeman," said the barman to the waiter.
Ivan Mironov was rather drunk, and in that condition was hard to manage.
He seized the manager by the collar and began to shout.

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

The manager had to struggle with all his force to get loose from
Ivan Mironov, and his shirt was torn,--"Oh, that's the way you behave!
Get hold of him."

The waiter took hold of Ivan Mironov; at that moment the policeman arrived.
Looking very important, he inquired what had happened, and unhesitatingly
gave his orders:

"Take him to the police-station."

As to the coupon, the policeman put it in his pocket; Ivan Mironov,
together with his horse, was brought to the nearest station.


IVAN MIRONOV had to spend the night in the police-station, in the company
of drunkards and thieves. It was noon of the next day when he was
summoned to the police officer; put through a close examination,
and sent in the care of a policeman to Eugene Mihailovich's shop.
Ivan Mironov remembered the street and the house.

The policeman asked for the shopkeeper, showed him the coupon
and confronted him with Ivan Mironov, who declared that he had
received the coupon in that very place. Eugene Mihailovich
at once assumed a very severe and astonished air.

"You are mad, my good fellow," he said. "I have never seen this
man before in my life," he added, addressing the policeman.

"It is a sin, sir," said Ivan Mironov." Think of the hour
when you will die."

"Why, you must be dreaming I You have sold your firewood to some
one else," said Eugene Mihailovich. "But wait a minute. I will go
and ask my wife whether she bought any firewood yesterday." Eugene
Mihailovich left them and immediately called the yard-porter Vassily,
a strong, handsome, quick, cheerful, well-dressed man.

He told Vassily that if any one should inquire where the last supply
of firewood was bought, he was to say they'd got it from the stores,
and not from a peasant in the street.

"A peasant has come," he said to Vassily, "who has
declared to the police that I gave him a forged coupon.
He is a fool and talks nonsense, but you, are a clever man.
Mind you say that we always get the firewood from the stores.
And, by the way, I've been thinking some time of giving
you money to buy a new jacket," added Eugene Mihailovich,
and gave the man five roubles. Vassily looking with pleasure
first at the five rouble note, then at Eugene Mihailovich's face,
shook his head and smiled.

"I know, those peasant folks have no brains. Ignorance, of course.
Don't you be uneasy. I know what I have to say."

Ivan Mironov, with tears in his eyes, implored Eugene Mihailovich
over and over again to acknowledge the coupon he had given him,
and the yard-porter to believe what he said, but it proved quite useless;
they both insisted that they had never bought firewood from a
peasant in the street. The policeman brought Ivan Mironov back
to the police-station, and he was charged with forging the coupon.
Only after taking the advice of a drunken office clerk in the same
cell with him, and bribing the police officer with five roubles,
did Ivan Mironov get out of jail, without the coupon, and with only
seven roubles left out of the twenty-five he had the day before.

Of these seven roubles he spent three in the public-house and came
home to his wife dead drunk, with a bruised and swollen face.

His wife was expecting a child, and felt very ill. She began
to scold her husband; he pushed her away, and she struck him.
Without answering a word he lay down on the plank and began
to weep bitterly.

Not till the next day did he tell his wife what had actually happened.
She believed him at once, and thoroughly cursed the dastardly rich man
who had cheated Ivan. He was sobered now, and remembering the advice
a workman had given him, with whom he had many a drink the day before,
decided to go to a lawyer and tell him of the wrong the owner of the
photograph shop had done him.


THE lawyer consented to take proceedings on behalf of Ivan Mironov,
not so much for the sake of the fee, as because he believed the peasant,
and was revolted by the wrong done to him.

Both parties appeared in the court when the case was tried,
and the yard-porter Vassily was summoned as witness. They repeated
in the court all they had said before to the police officials.
Ivan Mironov again called to his aid the name of the Divinity,
and reminded the shopkeeper of the hour of death.
Eugene Mihailovich, although quite aware of his wickedness,
and the risks he was running, despite the rebukes of his conscience,
could not now change his testimony, and went on calmly to deny
all the allegations made against him.

The yard-porter Vassily had received another ten roubles
from his master, and, quite unperturbed, asserted with a
smile that he did not know anything about Ivan Mironov.
And when he was called upon to take the oath, he overcame his
inner qualms, and repeated with assumed ease the terms of the oath,
read to him by the old priest appointed to the court.
By the holy Cross and the Gospel, he swore that he spoke
the whole truth.

The case was decided against Ivan Mironov, who was sentenced to pay five
roubles for expenses. This sum Eugene Mihailovich generously paid for him.
Before dismissing Ivan Mironov, the judge severely admonished him,
saying he ought to take care in the future not to accuse respectable people,
and that he also ought to be thankful that he was not forced to pay the costs,
and that he had escaped a prosecution for slander, for which he would have
been condemned to three months' imprisonment.

"I offer my humble thanks," said Ivan Mironov; and, shaking his head,
left the court with a heavy sigh.

The whole thing seemed to have ended well for Eugene Mihailovich
and the yard-porter Vassily. But only in appearance.
Something had happened which was not noticed by any one,
but which was much more important than all that had been
exposed to view.

Vassily had left his village and settled in town over two years ago.
As time went on he sent less and less money to his father,
and he did not ask his wife, who remained at home, to join him.
He was in no need of her; he could in town have as many wives
as he wished, and much better ones too than that clumsy,
village-bred woman. Vassily, with each recurring year,
became more and more familiar with the ways of the town people,
forgetting the conventions of a country life. There everything
was so vulgar, so grey, so poor and untidy. Here, in town,
all seemed on the contrary so refined, nice, clean, and rich;
so orderly too. And he became more and more convinced that
people in the country live just like wild beasts, having no
idea of what life is, and that only life in town is real.
He read books written by clever writers, and went to the performances
in the Peoples' Palace. In the country, people would not see
such wonders even in dreams. In the country old men say:
"Obey the law, and live with your wife; work; don't eat
too much; don't care for finery," while here, in town,
all the clever and learned people--those, of course, who know
what in reality the law is--only pursue their own pleasures.
And they are the better for it.

Previous to the incident of the forged coupon, Vassily could not
actually believe that rich people lived without any moral law.
But after that, still more after having perjured himself,
and not being the worse for it in spite of his fears--
on the contrary, he had gained ten roubles out of it--
Vassily became firmly convinced that no moral laws whatever exist,
and that the only thing to do is to pursue one's own
interests and pleasures. This he now made his rule in life.
He accordingly got as much profit as he could out of purchasing
goods for lodgers. But this did not pay all his expenses.
Then he took to stealing, whenever chance offered--
money and all sorts of valuables. One day he stole a purse
full of money from Eugene Mihailovich, but was found out.
Eugene Mihailovich did not hand him over to the police,
but dismissed him on the spot.

Vassily had no wish whatever to return home to his village,
and remained in Moscow with his sweetheart, looking out for a new job.
He got one as yard-porter at a grocer's, but with only small wages.
The next day after he had entered that service he was caught
stealing bags. The grocer did not call in the police, but gave him
a good thrashing and turned him out. After that he could not find work.
The money he had left was soon gone; he had to sell all his
clothes and went about nearly in rags. His sweetheart left him.
But notwithstanding, he kept up his high spirits, and when the spring
came he started to walk home.


PETER NIKOLAEVICH SVENTIZKY, a short man in black spectacles
(he had weak eyes, and was threatened with complete blindness),
got up, as was his custom, at dawn of day, had a cup of tea,
and putting on his short fur coat trimmed with astrachan,
went to look after the work on his estate.

Peter Nikolaevich had been an official in the Customs, and had
gained eighteen thousand roubles during his service. About twelve
years ago he quitted the service--not quite of his own accord:
as a matter of fact he had been compelled to leave--and bought
an estate from a young landowner who had dissipated his fortune.
Peter Nikolaevich had married at an earlier period, while still
an official in the Customs. His wife, who belonged to an old
noble family, was an orphan, and was left without money.
She was a tall, stoutish, good-looking woman. They had no children.
Peter Nikolaevich had considerable practical talents
and a strong will. He was the son of a Polish gentleman,
and knew nothing about agriculture and land management;
but when he acquired an estate of his own, he managed it
so well that after fifteen years the waste piece of land,
consisting of three hundred acres, became a model estate.
All the buildings, from the dwelling-house to the corn
stores and the shed for the fire engine were solidly built,
had iron roofs, and were painted at the right time.
In the tool house carts, ploughs, harrows, stood in
perfect order, the harness was well cleaned and oiled.
The horses were not very big, but all home-bred, grey, well fed,
strong and devoid of blemish.

The threshing machine worked in a roofed barn, the forage was kept
in a separate shed, and a paved drain was made from the stables.
The cows were home-bred, not very large, but giving plenty of milk;
fowls were also kept in the poultry yard, and the hens were of a special kind,
laying a great quantity of eggs. In the orchard the fruit trees were
well whitewashed and propped on poles to enable them to grow straight.
Everything was looked after--solid, clean, and in perfect order.
Peter Nikolaevich rejoiced in the perfect condition of his estate,
and was proud to have achieved it--not by oppressing the peasants, but,
on the contrary, by the extreme fairness of his dealings with them.

Among the nobles of his province he belonged to the advanced party,
and was more inclined to liberal than conservative views, always taking
the side of the peasants against those who were still in favour of serfdom.
"Treat them well, and they will be fair to you," he used to say.
Of course, he did not overlook any carelessness on the part of those who
worked on his estate, and he urged them on to work if they were lazy;
but then he gave them good lodging, with plenty of good food, paid their
wages without any delay, and gave them drinks on days of festival.

Walking cautiously on the melting snow--for the time of
the year was February--Peter Nikolaevich passed the stables,
and made his way to the cottage where his workmen were lodged.
It was still dark, the darker because of the dense fog;
but the windows of the cottage were lighted. The men had
already got up. His intention was to urge them to begin work.
He had arranged that they should drive out to the forest and bring
back the last supply of firewood he needed before spring.

"What is that?" he thought, seeing the door of the stable wide open.
"Hallo, who is there?"

No answer. Peter Nikolaevich stepped into the stable.
It was dark; the ground was soft under his feet, and the air
smelt of dung; on the right side of the door were two loose

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